From the Desk of Zoe Washington

by Janae Marks

She had a pretty good voice, but she always said it was because of the bathroom acoustics. That was wrong, because my stepdad sometimes sang in the shower, and the acoustics didn’t stop him from sounding like a dying coyote.

I was like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz when he needed to be oiled. My arms and legs felt stiff, like they’d weigh a million pounds if I tried to move them.

(a) he didn’t want to be there either, and (b)

he was still confused about why I was mad at him. Well, I wasn’t about to tell him. He should be able to figure it out for himself.

One time he was so desperate, he sucked the coating off chocolate-covered raisins, even though he hated raisins. “Just eat the whole thing,” I’d told him before popping a chocolate-covered raisin into my mouth. “They’re good.” “They’re shriveled-up grapes. Like mini grape corpses. Disgusting.”

Ruby was on the cover wearing a white chef’s coat and hat, with her blond hair in her signature side braid. She had the biggest smile, and held up a plate with three fruit tarts on it. The strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries looked so fresh, the vibrant colors popped off the page. I wished I could reach into the picture to taste them.

If I won, I’d be just like Ruby Willow! It would be a dream come true. I never saw many Black pastry chefs on the shows I watched, or in the cookbook section of the library, but I was still determined to be one when I grew up.

details,” I said. “You always say you can’t make an informed decision until you know all the facts, right?” “That’s true,” Mom said.

“In the meantime, it’s not a no, right?” “It’s not a no,” Dad said. “But it’s not a yes either,” Mom added. It was a maybe. I could work with that.

Ariana brought me to the back. It was less hectic than the front, but not by much. There were fewer people back there, but they were all bustling around, getting work done. The kitchen smelled amazing—like cake batter and chocolate. I’d bottle it up if I could. “This is our busiest day of the summer,” Ariana told me. “Everyone wants cupcakes for their Independence Day barbecues.”

can count the number of times I’ve cried as an adult on one hand. Getting your letter was one of them. Want to know another time? When I first found out your mother was pregnant with you. When she told me, I burst into tears and actually fell down to my knees. I always wanted to be a father, since my dad was always such a great one to me. I wish I’d had the chance to be a better dad to you. When I found out I was going to prison, well, that was another time I cried. I hate that I’m missing out on your life, and so many other things.

My gym class teacher once had us do this relaxation exercise where we had to lie on the floor, tense up all of our muscles one at a time, and then relax each muscle one at a time. I thought it was pointless, and the mats we were lying on smelled like a hundred sweaty armpits. But by the end of the exercise, I actually did feel better. Looser. Reading that letter, it was like I’d been tensing my whole body for all of my twelve years, and now I could finally relax. At least a little bit.

I’d downloaded “Hang On Little Tomato” to listen to as I wrote. It was totally different from the Stevie Wonder song. The first half was instrumental, with only a horn playing the melody, and then a woman started singing along in the second half. She had a really pretty voice, and she sang about hanging on when you felt sad or alone. If you hung on, everything would be all right. I wasn’t completely sure what you were supposed to hang on to, but I liked the message—the idea that things would get better eventually.

don’t think so. This order is very important, and we can’t afford to start over because a kid messed something up.”

“You know, there are multiple sides to everyone. People aren’t so black-and-white. Sometimes good people do bad things, and bad people do good things.”

You’re the one holding all this pain inside of you, which hurts you more than it hurts Trevor. If you can forgive him, it might help you let go of the pain. And you’ll get your friend back. It’s a win-win.” Then Mom added, “That doesn’t mean you have to forget what he did. There’s a difference.”

I assumed that if you committed a crime, you got the punishment you deserved, and innocent people would always be proven innocent. Apparently not.

“Since when are you a rebel?”

“I’m not,” I said, though when I thought about it, it was sort of true. It was so unlike me—lying to my parents, sneaking around doing something they wouldn’t approve of. I never lied to them this much about anything, and I felt a little guilty. But now that I knew Marcus might be innocent, there was no way I could stop.

I still couldn’t believe how unfair it was. What was the point of a legal system if it didn’t work a lot of the time? And what about all the people who didn’t know to ask for the Innocence Project’s help?

“I like hanging out with you. A lot. The summer is always my favorite. You’re my best friend. I’m really sorry.” “If that’s true, why would you let those guys say that stuff about me?” I asked. “I don’t know.” Trevor paused and glanced down at his sneakers. “I wanted to fit in, I guess. It was wrong.”

But it was like when you drew something in pencil and then tried to erase it—the pencil lines would mostly go away, but sometimes the indent would still be there, so you could still sort of see what had been erased. That’s how Trevor’s apology felt—like he was trying to erase my pain by saying he was sorry, but he couldn’t make it all disappear.

Maybe the pencil marks couldn’t be erased, but at some point, you could decide to turn to a new page.

For the longest time, I didn’t care whether or not I knew my birth father. I had my parents, and they were all I needed. But his letters were making me realize that there had always been a piece of me missing, like a chunk of my heart. I was finally filling in that hole. Marcus seemed to care about me.

“There’s this quote from Maya Angelou,” Grandma said. “‘When someone shows you who they are, believe them.’

That quote usually refers to when someone shows you their bad side, but I think it’s also true when someone shows you how good they are.

“People look at someone like Marcus—a tall, strong, dark-skinned boy—and they make assumptions about him. Even if it isn’t right. The jury, the judge, the public, even his own lawyer—they all assumed Marcus must be guilty because he’s Black. It’s all part of systemic racism.”

“She was so mad at Marcus,” Grandma said. “For spending time with that girl in the first place. For getting arrested and leaving her alone, when she was already scared about having a baby so young. The whole mess broke her heart. Then he was convicted, and I think she decided it was easier to believe he did it, let him go, and move on.”

“If Marcus really didn’t do it,” I said, my voice solemn, “then it means somebody else did. That person should be in prison, not Marcus.”

“You’re right. This isn’t only about Marcus. It’s also about justice for Lucy. That poor girl’s family deserves to see her actual murderer behind bars.”

“I don’t want Marcus to be guilty. I don’t want him to be a murderer. He doesn’t have to be my dad—Paul’s my dad—but I still want him to be my friend. But not if he’s really a lying monster.”

stood up, and by the time I took a couple steps to Mom, my eyes were watering for real. “Thank you,” I told her. Then I took one more step closer and tightly wrapped my arms around her middle. Mom didn’t say anything, but squeezed me back and swayed with me for a couple seconds. Her hug felt so familiar and comforting. I’d missed this. I’d missed her so much. I cried into her blouse.

“Do you think you can forgive Marcus now?” “Oh, honey,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “If Marcus really is innocent, I hope you will forgive me for keeping him from you all these years. I hope you understand why I did it, that I was only trying to protect you. I still am, the best way I know how.” I leaned over and wrapped my arms around Mom’s waist, and we gave each other a big squeeze. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

I didn’t care anymore that I didn’t get to audition for Kids Bake Challenge! How many kids got to say their cupcake recipe was for sale in a real bakery? Not even Ruby Willow had done that. Forget about becoming a pastry chef when I grew up. I already was one.

“It’s about time she got to see you.” Mom teared up. “I’m sorry it took this long.” “It’s okay. I understand.” Marcus looked at Dad and said, “Paul. Thank you for stepping in and being such a great father to Zoe when I couldn’t. I’m so grateful.” Dad shook his head. “I’m the one who’s grateful. Zoe’s an amazing kid.”