Donut Go Breaking My Heart Read online

  Kiri’s eyes didn’t move from the limo. “I’d recognize that glorious mane of hair anywhere. Don’t you know who he is?” she squealed. “That’s Cabe Sadler!”

  I looked back to the limo. There was a brief flash of aquamarine eyes, shadeless now, meeting mine. His eyes surprised me. They seemed hard and soft all at once, like they were robins’ eggs sheltering something sweet and vulnerable inside. My heart gave a funny leap, and then the limo’s dark window rolled up.

  “Wait.” Kiri frowned. “Did you say you dumped donuts on him?” I gave an innocent shrug, and before she had time to become properly horrified by the idea, I scooted away.

  “Call you later!” I said with a wave. Then I pulled on my hat, forcing myself to focus on the sidewalk as I hurried past the limo. I wasn’t about to give Cabe Sadler the satisfaction of thinking I was gawking at him. Not for a second.

  * * *

  I recognized the familiar fragrance of dinner as soon as I entered my building. Khoresh Fesenjan—chicken and pomegranate stew. Yum. It was a dish whose aroma wafted from our third-floor walk-up apartment all the way to the downstairs foyer. Our neighbors didn’t mind. In fact, they loved taking leftovers whenever we had them. Our building was small, and it was home to our family, a family from Soweto, South Africa, one from Moscow, and a couple from Caracas, Venezuela. We all happily embraced one another’s cooking; in a building as compact as ours, it would’ve been tough to avoid it. I smiled now, thinking about the delicious meal ahead. Maybe before dinner I could steal some alone time to work on my application.

  I heard the tense voices echoing into the stairwell as I reached our landing. I sighed and stuck the key in our door. So much for peace and quiet. They were at it again.

  “You are the strictest parents on the planet!” my older sister, Mina, cried as I stepped into the narrow hallway off the kitchen.

  When it wasn’t loud with fighting, I loved our apartment. It was the apartment that Mâdarbozorg, my grandma, had moved into when she’d emigrated from Iran as a young woman. The apartment where she and my grandpa had married and raised my mother. It was still decorated with their things: a crimson couch, hand-woven Persian rugs, ornate lanterns, and cinnamon-colored walls. Dad’s parents lived in Florida, first generation Persian Americans, and we visited them a few times a year (I loved seeing them, even if Grandpa still pinched my cheek and declared, “Moosh bokhoratet,” which means, “A mouse could eat you!” It was Grandpa’s way of saying “cute” in Farsi, and I was so glad no one outside my family knew the literal translation.) Yes, I loved my dad’s family, but Mom’s parents’ had died before I was born. Living here made me feel like I knew a part of them, their tastes, the family photos that they’d loved, the books they’d read. I wondered what they would make of the yelling echoing off the walls of their home right now.

  I hung up my coat, then tiptoed toward my bedroom, but Mina’s eyes lasered in on me. “Sheyda, will you back me up on this? Tell them how ridiculous they’re being.”

  I blinked. No way was I getting dragged into an argument between Mina and my parents. “Um, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  Mina threw up her hands, her flushed cheeks matching the neon-red streak in her pixie-cut hair. “Doesn’t anyone in this family ever hear a word I say?” She slumped down in her chair at the kitchen table, then glared at me. “The ski trip to Vermont with Rehann and Josh? Remember?”

  “Oh … that.”

  Mina had been whispering about the trip to me for weeks, plotting ways to convince Mom and Dad to let her go. Rehann was Mina’s best friend, and Josh was Mina’s latest crush at East Village High. It was Rehann who’d had the idea for a ski trip, since her parents owned a condo in Vermont. I’d watched Mina’s fantasy blossoming as she gleefully texted Rehann and Josh, making plans to go the first weekend in February. The whole time I knew that her chance of going on the trip was as low as the chance that New Yorkers would give up bagels.

  Now I could see the vein on the side of Dad’s temple pulsing, and Mom was wearing her classic disapproval face. I didn’t like seeing them stressed, but Mina had this effect on them. She’d been dealt the rebel card from birth. The list of her “achievements” had grown into a kind of legend in the Nazari family. At age three she’d poured dishwashing detergent into her preschool’s toilets to give bubble baths to the classroom’s dolls. At age five she’d tried “running away” to live in Tompkins Square Park. Luckily, Mr. Giovanni, the owner of the corner bodega, caught sight of her toting her pillow and backpack before she could even cross Sixth Street. Last year, she’d cut off her beautiful long locks before dyeing the remaining jagged hair red. The last few months, she’d taken her renegade act up a notch.

  “You’re not going,” Dad said firmly to Mina. “That’s the end of it.”

  “But Rehann’s and Josh’s parents will all go as chaperones! I’ll be safer on the slopes of Killington than I am riding the subway! You can’t say no!” She jabbed a finger at me, and I pressed my back against the wall, wanting to disappear. “Sheyda, tell them! You think I should be able to go, don’t you?”

  Mom glanced at me, her eyes sending me a silent, Please don’t. Ugh. I hated it when Mina put me in the middle.

  “I have some work to do,” I muttered, then hurried down the hall.

  “Way to throw me under the bus!” Mina called after me. As I shut the bedroom door, I heard the arguing resume. I wished I was back at Doughlicious. It was impossible to think straight while listening to angry voices.

  I’d only just finished setting up my set-building materials on the desk when I heard the front door slam. A minute later, Mom stuck her head into my bedroom, looking like she’d just escaped combat.

  “Was that Mina leaving?” I asked.

  She sighed. “She went for a run.” She pressed her forehead against the doorframe, closing her eyes. “I hate being the enemy.”

  “You’re not, Mom,” I said, getting up to give her a quick hug.

  She surveyed the desk. “Working on your application?” she asked, and before I could answer she added absently, “Looks great.”

  I glanced at the blank sketch pad. Sure. It looked great. Like a great, big nothing.

  Mom turned toward the kitchen. “I’m going to finish up dinner. Too bad this isn’t our takeout night.”

  “I know, but it smells great.” Living in the city wasn’t cheap, especially on Mom and Dad’s salaries (they were both pro bono lawyers). We were always careful with money, so our family rule was takeout once a month. “I can help with dinner,” I offered, hoping to cheer her up.

  Mom hesitated. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  “It can wait,” I said. I took one last look at my desk, my stomach sinking. I’d get back to work later.

  But if I didn’t come up with an idea by February, what was I going to do?

  The next morning, what was left of yesterday’s snow had turned gray with city soot. I skirted the slushy piles on my walk to school. East Village Middle School was only four blocks from our apartment building, and thankfully Kiri’s building was on the way.

  Kiri was waiting for me on her stoop, as usual. I gaped at her bulging tote bag. Its weight, in combination with her backpack, was making her list to one side.

  “What’s that for?” I asked as she fell into step beside me.

  “Potential outfits for the audition,” Kiri said. “I need your help deciding what to wear. I have to make just the right impression.” She held her mittened hand aloft, like a Shakespearean performer poised to recite a soliloquy. “Every great actress has an unforgettable presence. She leaves it like a fragrance, even after she’s left the stage.” I laughed, and Kiri raised a scolding eyebrow. “You’re mocking me. Fine. Be that way. You can’t possibly understand the suffering of an aspiring actress.”

  “What about the suffering of an aspiring set designer, huh?” I peered at the mock seriousness of her face, then elbowed her as we cracked up. “Well. No one could ev
er doubt your flair for the dramatic. And of course I’ll help you pick an outfit, even though you look glam no matter what.”

  “Aw …” She tipped her head against mine in a BFF cuddle, then stopped, staring ahead.

  “Kiri?” I followed her gaze.

  A swarm of camera-wielding press crowded around our school. News vans were lined up in the street, surrounding a limo.

  I gasped. “Wow. What’s with the paparazzi?”

  “I don’t know.” Kiri’s whisper was high with excitement. “It’s gotta be good. Come on, before we miss something!” Kiri ducked and shoved us through arms and cameras until Principal Gomez appeared before us, holding up his palms as a barrier to the crowd.

  “Please,” he told the reporters. He ushered me and Kiri up the school steps to join dozens of other lingering, curious kids. “This is an educational establishment. Students have to be able to get in the door.”

  Suddenly, a commotion rose up from the kids on the steps. One girl shrieked, “Omigod, it’s him! Cabe Sadler!”

  There was Cabe, fighting his way out of the limo alongside people I guessed might either be his bodyguards or his parents. There was something tender and protective about the way the woman wrapped her arm around him, so I was leaning toward parents. Today Cabe wore a camel-colored leather blazer, a cream V-neck sweater, and torn jeans. He looked every part the trendy celeb, and I couldn’t stop myself from staring (just a little). He was cute. Cuter even than he was in photos. There was something off in his expression, though. His smile was too tight, his eyes holding a hint of exasperation.

  Of course, I thought. He thinks he’s above his adoring fans.

  He gave a brief wave to the press before his parents whisked him through the school doors and out of sight.

  “All of you inside before the bell sounds,” Principal Gomez ordered. “I won’t excuse a single tardy for this racket.”

  There was a rush for the door. Everyone was fighting for a good view of Cabe walking down the hall. Kiri and I were crushed into the mix, but by the time we wrenched free, Cabe was gone.

  “Darn it.” Kiri’s face fell. “I wanted to say hi. He might need help finding his classes, or opening his locker, or—”

  “He’s filming a movie at your donut shop.” I offered her a calming smile. “You’re going to see him again. Promise.” I glanced at my watch. “We’ve got to get to class.”

  Kiri gave one longing look down the hallway, sighed, and then turned toward the stairs.

  “See you at lunch,” I called after her. As I passed the main office window, I saw Cabe and his parents filling out paperwork at the counter. Cabe lifted his head and our eyes met. Surprise flickered across his features, then annoyance. He’d recognized me, and one thing was obvious: He wasn’t happy to see me.

  * * *

  When Principal Gomez gave the morning announcements, he made a special speech about respecting Cabe’s privacy. About being friendly to him but treating him like any other run-of-the-mill new student. Yeah … right.

  In the hallways, mobs of kids rushed to wherever Cabe was, following him to his locker, his classes, even to the bathroom (at least none of the girls actually went in!). Most of the boys seemed to be jostling for dibs on Cabe’s friendship, while the girls were either starstruck, crushing, or both. I overheard Trinity, the most popular girl in school, whispering to her besties, “He’s so delish. Heath better step it up a notch, or Cabe might give him some competition.” Heath was Trinity’s boyfriend, but it wasn’t hard to imagine Trinity dumping him for a celeb of Cabe’s magnitude.

  Cabe acted polite, giving out autographs to everyone who asked. Still, he was aloof, tucking his head deeper into the collar of his jacket and avoiding direct eye contact.

  By the time the bell rang for lunch, I was sick of being jostled around by stampeding kids dying to take selfies with our resident celeb. Our school was feeling uncomfortably claustrophobic. So I headed for my special hiding spot.

  As soon as I stepped into the dimly lit auditorium, my breathing slowed. Thanks to donations from alumni, our auditorium was a proper theater with tiered rows of cushioned seats, state-of-the-art acoustics, and a Broadway-sized stage.

  I headed down the aisle and onto the stage, then dipped into the left wing, enjoying the cool quiet. I stuck my head into Ms. Feld’s office, which she’d converted from a one-time dressing room. She was at her computer, and notes from an opera aria wafted through the air.

  She gave me a smile. “Come for a breather, bubala?”

  I nodded. Ms. Feld got that about me. That sometimes I needed to escape the loudness and chaos of the school day. “It’s crazy out there.”

  “I heard.” She waved her hand. “Between you and me, I’m not entirely certain his talent lives up to the hype.” I giggled as she pressed a conspiring finger to her lips. “Are you coming by after school to chat about your application?”

  My heart sank. “Oh, I’m so sorry, but can we do it another day?” I explained about Kiri’s audition. “I really don’t want to postpone, but—”

  “Of course you should go with Kiri. The application can wait. Knowing you, you’ll have it done long before the deadline anyway. You’ve never let me down before.” She smiled. “I still remember when that enormous hair dryer broke halfway through the opening night of Grease. I feared the ‘Beauty School Dropout’ song would be a disaster, and then you came in with—”

  “—the janitor’s floor fan.” I grinned, remembering.

  “Brilliant improv.” Ms. Feld applauded me. “So. We can meet next Monday morning, before school. Yes?” I nodded, and she shooed me away. “Go on then. Before you run out of time.”

  I waved, then climbed the stairs up to the catwalk far above the stage. I loved to sit up here. Ms. Feld was the only one who knew my secret. She’d discovered my hiding spot last year. I’d thought she’d lecture me on safety or something, but she never did. Instead, she told me I could visit the catwalk whenever I needed to, as long as I checked in with her first.

  When the drama club put on its shows, I had the advantage of seeing the sets with a hawk’s-eye view. And it was peaceful up above—a world of its own where I could just “be” without anyone expecting me to speak or be spoken to. It was basically a shy person’s heaven.

  I took a few steps along the dark catwalk, using my cell phone’s flashlight for guidance. Just as I was about to sit down, a shadow moved on the other end of the walk. My heart jumped.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  The shadow took a few steps in my direction, and my flashlight illuminated Cabe’s face.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  My cheeks blazed with anger. “What do you mean? This is my—” I was about to say “hiding spot” but caught myself. That could sound babyish, and besides, why should I tell him that, when he’d likely just smirk? “I work on sets for drama club, so …” My voice died as I registered the disinterest on his face. “Never mind,” I mumbled.

  “I didn’t think anyone else would be up here,” he said flatly.

  “No one usually is.” I stiffened. Of all the people to trespass on my secret spot, it had to be him.

  His gaze swept the sea of empty seats beyond the stage. “It’s so small. No legroom in the rows.”

  “It’s New York. No theater here has legroom.”

  “Huh. It’s not Shrine Auditorium. That’s for sure.”

  I frowned. “I guess not,” I snapped, “but since we’re not planning on hosting the Oscars, we’re happy with it.” I made a show of checking the time on my phone. “I’m, uh, I should go—”

  “No!” Cabe’s voice echoed louder across the stage than we both expected, and I jumped a little. “Look, if you’re going to snap a pic of me, a heads-up would be cool …”

  “What?” I asked blankly. “I wasn’t—”

  “Your phone,” he interrupted. “Weren’t you just using the camera?”

  “Um … no,” I stammered.

 
; “Sure you weren’t.” Cabe’s sarcasm stunned me. “Just like you didn’t dump those donuts on me on purpose.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He scoffed. “Fans get crazy. You’ll do anything to get my attention or start some trend on Instagram. You probably followed me in here.”

  He wasn’t just being rude. He was being obnoxiously rude. I wanted to tell him exactly what I thought, but when it came to confrontation, I was like the Cowardly Lion, tongue-tied with my tail tucked between my legs. My heart pounded out what I wanted to say, but try as I might, no words would come.

  Then Cabe’s cell lit up in his hand. He glanced at the screen, and in its blue glow his expression hardened. “My manager,” he said abruptly. “He’s probably calling about the premiere of Very Valentine. So let me just beat you to the punch. It’s hitting theaters Valentine’s weekend and they’re doing the big premiere here in Manhattan. There’ll be plenty of photo ops. Go ahead, tell all your friends.”

  He turned to leave, answering his cell. He didn’t bother looking back. His shadow was already melding into the staircase.

  I stood there for a minute shaking with fury. I didn’t care how much Kiri gushed about Cabe Sadler. He might be okay at acting like a nice guy on-screen, but that was all it would ever be. One big, enormous act.

  * * *

  “Where were you?” Kiri asked when I got to the cafeteria. She was sitting with Phoebe and Val. “We finished eating ages ago, and you promised you’d help me with outfits for the audition.”

  “Sorry.” I was on the verge of telling her that I ran into Cabe, but instinct told me not to. Cabe’s snob routine had already soured my mood, and rehashing it would only make it worse. “I had to tell Ms. Feld about canceling our meeting and it took longer than I thought it would.”

  “Like the whole lunch period!” Kiri cried. Then her expression softened. “It’s okay. Phoebe helped me decide on the clothes.”