19. She liked to bake.
Yumi remembers bright Sunday afternoons with her mother's sister, the taste of melonpan sweet on her tongue. It was a Sunday treat, being able to visit with her mother's side of the family. "Is Yumi bothering you, Akari?" her mother would ask each time she caught Yumi in the kitchen.
"Nonsense, Akiko," her aunt would laugh, voice bright and melodic. "It is nice to have a girl in the house and not just boys." Her aunt would smile at her then, a mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes. "Yumi is a great help in the kitchen."
"My Yumi? You must be mistaken, my Yumi can't make rice properly."
Yumi would flush and protest, and her mother and her aunt would just laugh. "Ah, then she takes after you, imouto." Her aunt would turn to Yumi then, face full of mischief. "Your mother once caught the pot of rice on fire."
"I was twelve."
"And should've known better," her aunt replies. "We'll make a cook out of you yet, Yumi. Now, leave us be, Akiko. There is little hope for you, but still some for your daughter."
/
"You are not beating the dough, Yumi. You are kneading it, you are making it your friend," her aunt instructed.
Yumi hissed a breath through her teeth and used her shoulder to brush the hair off her forehead. "I'm trying, Oba."
Her aunt made a tsking sound, clucking her tongue against the back of her teeth, and covered Yumi's pale hands with her own gnarled ones. "Like this, child." She pressed Yumi's hands into the dough, keeping the motion even and simple. "You must learn to control your strength, Yumi. If you go too hard you make the dough tough and inedible. If you go too soft, the dough is sticky and not obey you. You will learn, with time and practice."
"Control?" Yumi scoffed. "Isn't baking just making pretty things you can eat?"
Akari laughed and wiped her hands on her apron. "If only it were that easy! It is a science. Your ingredients must always be in balance, the temperature must be right, and you must have the knowledge to make the dough work for you. You can have the prettiest pastry, but if it doesn't taste good then what was the point?"
Yumi frowned and her aunt picked up a quartz rock sitting on the shelf over the kitchen sink. "Look at this, Yumi. I could frost it and make it look like the prettiest cake, but it is still a rock. You couldn't eat it. The same goes for baking. Now, come on, knead it properly."
Four hours and two bouts of frustrated crying later, Yumi set the finished melonpans on the table, smiling. They weren't as perfect as her aunt's were, but they came out smelling good, crisp on the outside and sweet on the inside. Hiroki grabbed two and her mother had to pry one out of his hands. He wailed as she carried him away from the sweet bread.
"Yumi made these?" her father asked. He smiled at her from across the table. "You did a good job."
. . … . .
France didn't have melonpans. Instead, the pâtisseries were filled with croissants and napoleons, éclairs and macarons, cannelés and brioche… Their father came home with two large boxes filled with the different pastries their first week there. Hiroki dived head-first into the sugary treats while Yumi was more scientific, carefully evaluating each bite she took.
"They aren't like the food from home," her mother stated, "but they are good." She took another chocolate éclair from the box and smiled at their father. "Thank you, Takeyo."
It was the first hint that maybe things would be better in France.
/
"What are you doing?" Hiroki questions, eyeing the cluttered kitchen counters. "It looks like the fridge and pantry threw up."
"Don't distract me," Yumi snaps. She runs her finger along the recipe she had printed at school and frowns at it. She feels Hiroki come up and look around her shoulder to read the recipe as well.
"Pain au chocolat?" Hiroki reads. "Isn't that a bit advanced for you? You barely mastered the ikinari dango before we moved." Yumi ignores him. "Why don't you try making imagawayaki if you feel like baking."
"It's mom's birthday tomorrow," Yumi replies. "She likes chocolate."
"She likes nerikiri too, I don't see you attempting that," Hiroki grumbles.
"Go away, Hiroki," Yumi snaps. "I need to concentrate."
Hiroki scowls but retreats to the living room. Yumi sighs, it hadn't looked that hard initially, but she's feeling a bit overwhelmed now. French dough isn't the same as Japanese dough, she realizes. "Don't burn the house down!" Hiroki yells from the next room. She glares and rolls up her sleeves, ties back her hair, and gets to work.
In the end she needs to use all the counters and the kitchen table to make the pain au chocolat. Her mother comes in, eyebrows raised when she sees the make-shift proofing boxes Yumi assembled out of garbage bags and inverted glasses.
"Do I want to ask?" she questions.
"It's a surprise, don't peek."
Her mother looks skeptical and Hiroki follows her in. "They still aren't done?" he asks. "You've been at it for hours."
"They're rising," Yumi replies. "They'll be ready tomorrow."
Despite Hiroki's disbelief, he follows Yumi into the kitchen early the next morning. Their mother is still asleep, but their father is seated at the table, eating toast and flipping through the business section of the newspaper. There's a bouquet of fresh daffodils and roses sitting on the table, a bright bow wrapped around the vase. He looks up at them in surprise when they enter the kitchen.
"You two are up early."
"Mom's birthday," Hiroki replies. "And I wanted to see if Yumi's experiment exploded."
Yumi ignores him and sets about getting the oven ready and removing the trays of pastries from the garbage bags. Hiroki makes tea while they wait for the pastries to turn a deep golden color. The kitchen fills with the smell of baking pastry and melted chocolate. Yumi pulls them from the oven and arranges them on one of her mother's good plates, setting them on the table as she hears footsteps on the stairs.
"What do I smell?" their mother questions. She enters the kitchen in her robe and slippers.
"Happy birthday, Mom!" Hiroki exclaims. He hugs her quickly. "Yumi didn't burn down the kitchen!"
"That's good," their mother laughs. She pulls Yumi into a hug as well. "These smell delicious, Yumi."
"Yeah, even if they look weird," Hiroki replies.
"Hiroki," their father warns. He gets up, kisses their mother on her cheek and ruffles Yumi's hair. "Happy birthday, Akiko. Yumi, these look wonderful."
Yumi flushes and ducks her head, busies herself with making the next tray.
. . … . .
Yumi is a disaster when it comes to art class, to music lessons, to vocal coaching. She doesn't have the patience to sit and practice and judge what would make something good. Sitting in class and watching Emily paint from across the table she's aware of her shortcomings. Technically, she knows about complementary colors and shading and perspective, but no matter what she tries, everything comes out looking lifeless.
"You could try focusing on one detail to make it seem more lively," Emily suggests one day. They're working on a fruit still life and while Emily's looks like fresh produce, Yumi's looks wax-like. "Everything has a flaw or some defining characteristic."
"Thanks, I was listening to Madame Bisset as well," Yumi replies.
Emily shrugs and adjusts her glasses. "Forget I said anything," she replies. She refocuses on her own canvas and Yumi wonders what flaw she found.
/
Yumi's brush with music lasts one month and thankfully isn't school-related, so no one knows how truly terrible she was. Her parents sign her up for piano lessons when she's fourteen. She never has the time to practice though so it switches to an even briefer stint with the flute before ending with the violin. The less said about the violin, the better.
Not even Hiroki mentions the violin.
/
She gives up art classes at fifteen and switches to choir instead. Shannon takes choir and is always singing its praises. Yumi's voice isn't bad, she's a solid mezzo-soprano which Shannon assures her is the most common.
It isn't bad, at first. Odd takes to calling her their singing lark, which is to be expected. "At least Yumi's voice is better than yours," Ulrich replies.
"I have an excellent voice!" Odd protests.
"Sure, if you're howling with dogs," Jeremie replies. Odd sputters in protest and Yumi laughs as the boys tussle.
And singing isn't bad, not really. She enjoys spending time practicing with Shannon and creating harmonies…but it's also not that exciting. Sure, she gets to create a melody or harmony, but there's nothing to show for it. She finds herself zoning out when it isn't her turn to sing and then rushing to catch up when she realizes she missed her cue.
"Singing isn't for everyone," Shannon tells her. "Chorale singing, I mean. You're good at singing, but maybe theater would be better?"
"Maybe," Yumi agrees, "I'll try it."
/
Theater is somehow better and worse. She's only in one play and though she enjoys shedding her own skin for someone else's temporarily, it's enough to put her off the whole endeavor. Partly from XANA attacks and returns, partly because she doesn't click with the rest of the cast.
. . … . .
"I figured it out," Will states, licking the whisk she hands him.
"Figured what out?" she replies. She's working on a bûche de noël and the rolling part is the hardest so that the cake doesn't crack.
Will continues licking the fresh whipped cream, humming at the taste of cognac in the cream. "Why you like baking so much."
"Really?" she asks. She inverts the tray on the confectioner sugar-dusted towel, carefully peeling the paper off the back of the chocolate cake. "Please, enlighten me." Carefully, she begins rolling the warm cake into a log shape.
"Controlled creativity," Will announces. Yumi pauses, looking up at him with arched eyebrows. "You," he states, gesturing toward her with the whisk, "like to be in control. Baking lets you do that."
"Please," she snorts. She sticks the rolled cake into the refrigerator to set and repeats the process with the second tray.
"You laugh, but you know it's true." She rolls her eyes as he jumps off the stool and wraps an arm around her waist. "You know it's true," he repeats, voice warm against her ear.
"Will, not now," she protests.
"See, my point exactly." He tosses the whisk into the sink and resumes his perch, watching her work. "Anytime you feel like control is slipping, you're in here baking something delectable. What was it today, hm?" he asks.
"I don't know what you're talking about." She finishes wrapping the cake and adds it to the refrigerator. "Everyone needs a creative outlet."
"Sure," he agrees easily. "But this isn't just about creativity, is it? You like being able to force ingredients to work together and create something else. You like being able to decide on the outcome. And the more upset you are the more fabulous your creations."
"Will-"
"Look, you're making meringue mushrooms now. Who even does that anymore?"
"Will."
"What happened?" Will asks. His voice is soft, his hands gentle when he turns her away from the counter to face him. "Come on, you only pull out the meringue when something big happens," he coaxes.
She laughs softly, presses a kiss to his mouth and tastes sweet buttercream. Will presses back, fingers looped around her wrist. She can feel his thumb rubbing circles over the black ink on her wrist. He presses her against the counter, coats them both in powdered sugar and flour. She feels herself relax, muscles uncoiling, and loses herself in the distraction.
. . … . .
She applies for a job at La Pâtisserie au Oiseaux on a whim. The manager doesn't seem impressed, looking over her application critically. "You have never baked professionally?" he questions. He has the abrupt, almost nasal-sounding quality that she's come to associate with Parisian French. She hasn't decided if she likes it or not.
"No," she agrees. "But I've been baking since I was seven."
"But not on a grand scale," he states. He taps a pen to his lip and studies her. "I will give you a trial," he says. "Your qualifications are not good, but there is something about you." He gestures to her face. "You might prove me wrong."
"I intend to," she retorts. He smiles at her then, instantly removing a decade of lines from around his face.
"Good," he replies. "Georges will show you what to do." He points to a boy around her age with dark blonde hair and a wide smile. She feels a pang, suddenly reminded of Odd. "You will be his problem. Come back tomorrow morning, six o'clock, you will start at the counter."
/
She had shown up at a quarter to six and the manager had given a shake of his head when he saw her. "You are punctual at least. Georges!"
Georges was busy hefting flour sacks from the back into the baking room. Yumi joined him and he gave her a bright smile. "Bonjour," he greeted.
"Good morning," she replied. "I'm Yumi. The manager says I am to be your problem."
Georges laughed and dusted his floured hands on his apron, held out a clean-ish one to her to shake, and kissed her on each cheek. "Ah, that is Maurice's way. He thinks if he cracks a smile no one will take him serious. He says problem, I say pleasure."
Georges wore a grin that whole first morning, and while he was constantly teasing his humor had a drier quality to it, more akin to Ulrich's or Jeremie's than to Odd's. He showed her how to stock the shelves and run the old fashioned till at the front of shop.
At the end of her shift he gave her a box of fresh pastries and an over-the-top wink. "I was right, it's been a pleasure, Yumi. You'll fit in nicely here, I think."
"I think so too," she replied, smiling.