Anne Ursu - The Shadow Thieves

But on this day when Zee walked in the door of his grandmother's house, the whole place smelled as if it, too, had been baked, from the overstuffed furniture to the flowery wallpaper to the bright, thick carpet. His nose led him to the kitchen, where he found Grandmother Winter and not a cake, but cakes. Many, many cakes. He saw ten cooling cake rounds of various shapes, sizes, and colors waiting to be assembled into something extremely delicious, and judging from the heat in the kitchen, he knew there were more baking in the oven. He saw bowls everywhere, dripping with batter, and open canisters of flour and various and sundry sugars, empty boxes of cream, and several chickens' worth of eggshells in the sink. As for Gran, she stood at the stove working at a saucepan filled with a creamy substance that Zee knew was a few squares of chocolate, some egg whites, and a splash of rum away from becoming Grandmother Winter's inimitable chocolate icing.

When Gran looked up and saw him, a magnificent smile broke out on her face, the kind of smile that reminds you what a wonderful thing it is that there are grandmothers in the world, and she put down her saucepan and hurried to him.

"Zachary! You're early!" she said, giving him a flour-covered hug. "Everything's such a mess. You weren't supposed to see this!"

Zee hugged her back, then gestured toward the mess in the kitchen. "Gran! You've gone mad!"

She laughed, "Perhaps."

"Are you having the whole town over?"

She winked. "I couldn't help it. I was just so excited to see you. I couldn't decide which kind to make, so I made them all."

"I can see that!"

"Come help me with the icing. Make yourself useful."

And so within moments Zee found himself wearing one of Gran Winter's most grandmotherly aprons, whipping sugar and cracking eggs into the gooey mess while his grandmother looked on approvingly, for she had personally taught him to crack and divide an egg properly, and there were not many thirteen-year-old boys in all of England who could do so with such skill and grace.

In fact, Grandmother Winter had not gone out of her baking mind; the cakes were not all for Zachary alone. Somewhere around dusk the doorbell began to ring, and one by one his friends from the summer team appeared on her doorstep. Every one gave Zee an enthusiastic handshake or a man hug or a slap on the back, and every one was given a large piece of cake, and as they all talked and laughed through the evening into the night, Grandmother Winter never mentioned that her grandson had made the raspberry icing himself.

The first weeks of summer passed quickly for Zee. He woke up early in the mornings to find his grandmother making sausages or omelets, or sometimes working in her garden, or sometimes curled up on her big green easy chair with the paper or a mystery. She saw him off to training during the days and welcomed him home at night. Some nights he went out with the team, but mostly he came home to be with his gran. Some nights they cooked together. Zee learned to make Bolognese sauce, which made the whole neighborhood smell of spices; poached fish with the texture of cream; curry thick with potatoes. Some nights they sat down together to watch the sort of television shows eighty-two-year-old grandmothers were supposed to love and thirteen-year-old boys were never ever, ever supposed to admit to watching, much less enjoying, and certainly not gossiping with their grans about afterward.

Then, on the weekends, Grandmother Winter took him to some absurd tourist destination, the type of thing they had done together when he was six and hadn't done since. The first week, when she suggested they go to the cathedral and take the tour, he thought she was kidding. But they did it; they even had tea in Tinley Tearoom. Zee ate his fill of scones with Devonshire clotted cream, and they pretended to be Americans. They went to Rougemont Gardens, they went to the House That Moved, they went to the moors and to the quayside. They watched the swans, they ate ice cream, and they rented a pedal boat and went out on the river. Zee told his grandmother that they had tourist things in London as well, and she told him firmly to keep pedaling, smarty-pants.

Zee felt relaxed, happy, and for a few weeks he was able to keep his mind off Samantha. He could put her away, like the rest of London. He would know when she arrived, and he could deal with it then. For the twenty-minute walk from Gran Winter's house to training took him right past the university fields. Really, it was the most direct route.

The summer camps were well on their way by the time Zee arrived in Exeter. His first week of training, the university fields were filled with young kids – ten-and-unders scrimmaging on makeshift half-size pitches. The third week the kids got a little bigger, the eleven-and twelve-year-olds practicing headers or passing the ball back and forth endlessly up and down the pitch.

And then one day in early July, on his daily trek home, Zee found that the children had been replaced by girls. Beautiful, wonderful girls, with muddy cleats, fierce footwork, and indomitable insteps. And in the middle of them all, executing a dribbling drill with delicious precision, was Samantha Golton, the muddiest, fiercest, most indomitable of them all.

Zee froze at the sight of her. He had known all along that one day he would see her there, but knowing Samantha Golton is going to be in a place and actually seeing Samantha Golton in that place are entirely different phenomena. He wanted desperately to flee, but since he was frozen, there would be no fleeing. There would be no moving at all. Ever. He was going to stay planted next to the bleachers on the lower football pitch of the University of Exeter athletic fields while the sun slowly set in the hills. The girls would end training, they would head to the locker room, then home for the night, and Zee would be there, still and watchful, and by the next morning, when the sun came up again, he would be covered in fresh dew.

Or he would have been, had someone sitting in the bleachers not suddenly blown a whistle, and had every single one of the beautiful, wonderful, fierce girls not turned her head in his direction, and had Samantha's gaze not fallen directly on him.

Zee unfroze. His feet popped awake and carried him swiftly behind the bleachers, where he caught his breath, began to blush furiously, then proceeded to head home, shaking his head and muttering to himself the entire way.

After that Zee considered changing his route. This one was obviously fraught with peril.

But it was the most direct way home. Zee decided simply to keep his eyes straight ahead when he walked by the lower pitch. If he didn't see Samantha, he would be much less inclined to humiliate himself in some way or another. He could ignore her all summer and wait to humiliate himself in London. Zee stuck to his plan-he never let his eyes waver, and he was proud of his determination and focus. These were qualities a good football player should cultivate.

On the last Saturday before his parents were to come join them in Exeter, Zee and Gran Winter spent their day walking around High Street. Grandmother Winter kept trying to buy Zee things-new cleats, a new coat, even some CDs with decidedly ungrandmotherly content.

Zee was busily trying to explain to his grandmother why he didn't need anything and why she shouldn't be spending money on him and just what exactly that one album title meant, when Zee heard it.

Her voice.

Directed at him?

He looked around wildly. There, walking right past him, so close he could-oh, better not to think about it- there she was, arm in arm with two girls. She was smiling at him. His jaw dropped. And then she said the most beautiful word he'd ever heard:

"Hi."

Hi!

The other girls nodded at him in greeting, and the trio walked on, whispering to one another. Zee stood in the middle of High Street with his mouth open.