Twisted Valentine

Frayed

✽ Mandy ✽

I barely slept because I was so paranoid. And when I heard a sound in the hallway, I sat on my bed with my phone in hand as I listened for any other noises. Another scrape. Another footstep. Another breath. Another sound that someone was outside of my door. But nothing happened. The building settled with pipes clicking and distant doors closing. By morning, I felt wrung out and embarrassed. There had been no broken lock. No forced window. No missing money. If someone had been in my apartment, they had left it almost the same. Almost. I couldn’t prove anything, but I couldn’t forget the small signs that told me someone had been inside of my apartment.

“Get a grip,” I told myself as I boarded the bus to Blackthorne Institute of Pastry Arts. My shoulders were tight, and I kept looking around me as if someone was following me or watching me. I couldn’t stop myself, and that alone was driving me crazy. Everything around me was normal, but I kept overthinking every single thing. If someone looked at me for too long or suddenly disappeared, I convinced myself that they were after me. By the time I got to the institute, I was rung out, exhausted, and on edge. The institute’s kitchen classrooms were bright and loud. Stainless steel counters lined up the room, and the air carried warm sugar and sanitizer. Chef Marron stood at the front in a crisp coat with her arms folded.

“Today,” she announced as soon as we all got settled. “We are making pâte à choux. We are making éclairs. If you rush, you will regret it,” I had claimed a station near the middle. My partner, Lila, was a quiet girl with neat braids and a habit of measuring everything twice. On my other side was Nico, the class clown. Lila glanced at me and frowned.

“You look tired,” she said softly.

“I am…rough night,” I told her. Nico opened his mouth to make a comment, but I quickly shot him a warning look. He shrugged as he pushed the recipe toward me. The three of us got to work as we laid out all the ingredients. Water, milk, butter, sugar, salt, flour, and eggs. Lila got out a piping bag while I lined the tray. Chef Marron walked us through it step by step.

“Boil the liquids with butter,” she said, and the sound of action surrounded me. It comforted me. And I put all my effort into what we were doing. “Add the flour all at once and stir hard,”

“f*****g hell,” I muttered under my breath as I stirred in the flour. Lila struggled but kept going. Nico, on the other hand, seemed to be at ease.

“Workout at the gym,” he said.

“Dry the dough and add the eggs gradually,” Chef Marron went on as she weaved her way through the room, checking everyone’s progress. I followed the recipe and her instructions as perfectly as I could. But in the back of my mind, I couldn’t stop thinking about the potential stalker I had on my hands. I cracked the first egg into a small bowl and made sure there were no shells. Then I added it to the dough. I stirred, and the dough separated, slick and strange, before it smoothed as I stirred. I added the next egg and stirred. Fold. Press. Repeat. Nico leaned over.

“If you blink, it will turn into glue,” he whispered.

“Right,”

“Are you ok?” he suddenly asked, and when I glanced at him, he was staring at me in concern.

“Just tired,” I answered. He nodded once and went back to work. Maybe I was just being paranoid? Maybe I just needed to get out more.

“Now, into the piping bag and remember…pipe with control,” Chef Marron said.

“Control,” Lila repeated softly to herself. My hands trembled, but I managed to pipe out the dough into almost perfect lines. I glanced over at Lila’s, and of course, hers looked amazing. Nico’s looked a bit uneven, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. Much.

“And then into the oven. Remember, no peeking,” Chef Marron reminded. I carefully put my tray into the oven and set my timer. Now we wait. While we waited, the room was filled with the sounds of everyone cleaning up. Chef Marron wouldn’t let any of us continue if the kitchen wasn’t sparkling. Once that was done, we started on the pastry cream. I whisked the egg yolks with sugar until it was a lovely pale color. Then I heated the milk with the vanilla. I then slowly added the pale egg, sugar mixture to the heated milk and whisked until the cream thickened and cooked. The smell was comforting. Rich and sweet, almost like a promise that things could be normal.

“Why does yours look better than mine?” Nice asked, and I smiled. Mine did look better than his. Thicker. Creamier. “Give me yours,” he added loudly. Someone laughed, but it soon died when oven timers started going off.

“They should be hollow, they should be dry,” Chef Marron announced loudly as we all took out our trays. “If they collapse, well…that means you didn’t respect the process,” I took out my tray and smiled. They were golden and firm. They weren’t perfect, not as perfect as Lila’s, but they kept their shape. Relief loosened something in my chest.

“Nicely done,” Lila remarked as she checked mine and Nico’s. I couldn’t help but chuckle softly. Nico’s looked good as well, except some were longer than others. The room was alive with chatter and utensils as we once again piped the cream into piping bags. As soon as the pastry had cooled, we piped the cream inside before we dipped the one side into the melted chocolate. They looked good. Delicious, and I was proud of myself. Chef Marron then came around to score and taste. The rest we got to take home with us. I packed mine into the container and left as soon as we were dismissed. I was still annoyed with myself and still paranoid. But as I headed home, I tried to tell myself that everything was ok. But was it?

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