Chloe and the Mysterious Allergies

    The sticky smell of lemon rind and tart raspberries trapped in every corner of the town can only mean one thing: spring is coming.

    But while the promise of this season is typically composed of year old jean shorts and children frolicking in newly born fields of sweet grass, in Larson, Massachusetts, it only means that our dark gray skies turn into a slightly lighter dark gray, and those of us who once lived anywhere else in the world long for the refreshing sight of blooming daffodils and exploding pink sunrises. Why we never just take up our bags and move away from this depressing excuse of a city, I can’t tell you, since Larson is about as dull of a town as you can get. Seriously; the brightest color here is the red of the brick they used to pave the sidewalks back in the 1800s, and even then it's said that city hall practically held a court hearing to allow the construction to start because dirty red, apparently, was too daring a color for their innocent public to see. And since a neutral colored stone was enough to send the town chairs into an uproar, blooming flowers in spring are definitely out of the question. So the only upside about spring here—and I mean, the only upside—is Dosey’s Bakery.

    And I’m not talking about just any bakery. Sure, you might have a quaint little coffee shop near your neighborhood with a menu composed of freshly made croissants stuffed with oozing chocolate and lates that have more sugar than actual coffee in them, but that’s all it is: a coffee shop. I’m talking about a bakery; a bakery with no competing chains, no vegan or grain free short cuts, and definitely no set menu. Except when it comes to the lemon-raspberry cookies. The tart, sweet, amazing lemon-raspberry cookies that are the only slightly colorful thing that this town gets to kick off spring time. But the thing is, the entire town is just as color starved as me, and therefore it is essential that I get to the bakery at the crack of dawn to even have the smallest chance of getting my hands on the warm treat.

    Which is why karma must finally be coming around since today, of all days, is when my nose decides to be congested, leaving me with no ability to know that tart scent is in the air.

    In my naïve and icky state, I run through the possible culprits of my unwanted snot as I make my way through the sleepy town. It’s early Saturday morning, so most of the townsfolk are still curled up in their warm beds, leaving the dreary streets empty and perfect for contemplation. The most obvious culprit would be the cold, since even though the year’s snow has been reduced to grimy slush pushed up against the gutters, the bitter wind is still ripping through the streets, making it feel cooler now in freaking March than it did when winter was in full throng. But I’ve never had any cold-induced illnesses before, so unless it’s a new thing that comes with being twenty, that suspect is out.

I hug my arms tighter around my chest as the breeze spits in my face again, and I pick up my pace. The only other thing my sluggish morning brain can think of are seasonal allergies, which sounds crazy considering this place’s religious rejection of flowers, but the thought drifts away as I turn onto Main Street. A crowd—no, at least half the town—has gathered outside of Dosey’s. I don’t bother to check if the coast is clear—it always is anyway—before I stride across the street. The chatter from the group jumbles together in the air, so there’s no true way of knowing what’s going on. You could catch a snit-bit about how old man Clark needs to “just ask Amelie out already, she has been eyeing him for weeks,” while someone that’s apart of the more senile population of town claims that “the news said the Martians are coming. Yes, they are, and they’re sure to target a small place like this to test out their bio weapons.” Okay, that second one might have been an exaggeration, but my point is you can never rely on a group conversation to be about why there actually is a group conversation going on in the first place, so you gotta scope out the most straightforward person in the crowd and prod.

    When I reach the storefront (or as close as I can get without mashing myself into other people), I tap Mrs. Gregory’s big shoulder. The tapping quickly turns into more of a slapping motion since her body is hidden under a pile of scarves, and when she finally feels the pressure, she turns her round face towards me, poorly red painted lips pursed.

    “Hi Mrs. Gregory,” I say as politely as I can manage, but it still comes out a little grumpy judging by the way she narrows her small eyes at me. I do my best not to engage in morning conversations before I’ve eaten something, but seeing as the closest food source is blocked by a mound of bodies, I have no other options but to break my rule.

    “Good morning, Chloe,” she replies, sugary voice like sand going into my ears. “Darling, you sound terrible this morning. Are you feeling alright?” I attempt a smile that ends up looking more like I’m baring my teeth, so I quickly drop it.

    “I’m fine, just allergies.” I plunge onward before Mrs. Gregory can question my diagnosis like she questions everything. “Um, do you know why everyone is so…” I gesture in front of us in a vague motion in hopes that she’ll understand since my brain is too sluggish to form the right words. When she just stares at me blankly, I grimace and try again. “Why is everyone already here? Did I miss something?”

She blinks slowly before asking, “Do you not smell it?”

“No,” I reply flatly, politeness momentarily forgotten by frustration. Mrs. Gregory shakes her head, dyed red curls bouncing on their pinned perch atop her head.

“Dear, Dosey made the first batch of lemon cookies this morning.” My eyes widen, and I look between Mrs. Gregory, the bakery, and back again.

“Really?”

“How can you not smell it? It woke me up at four in the morning! I’ve been bustling around trying to keep myself busy for hours to pass the time until she opens.” Mrs. Gregory shakes her head, curls threatening to break free, before turning back towards the store. I crane my neck, annoyance bubbling in my chest, because why the hell do I have to have random allergies on lemon cookie day?

My stomach growls, and the wind practically tugs my beanie from my head, so with nothing but selfish intentions I attempt to push my way towards the front of the crowd. Dosey may know her cookies are a hit, but no matter how early she started baking this morning, there is no way there are enough for all of us. My pushing is useless, though, since everybody else in the town has come to the same conclusion, and no cracks have been left between the chattering bodies. Sighing, I step onto the curb, tapping my sneaker against the brick sidewalk. I feel my spirits turning as gloomy as the sky above me, and the only thing that can outshine the bummer of my stuffy head and uneventful spring kick-off is currently being blocked from me by the entire town. Wait, that’s it.

As the idea comes into full focus, I slowly make my way down the front of the building like a hunter trying not to scare off its prey. If anyone catches onto what I’m doing, this whole plan is toast, and I’ll be back to square one. Determination sets in as I successfully make it to the end of the shop, and, taking one last glance at the crowd, I slip between the side of the building. It’s a narrow alley, only big enough for trash cans to be rolled out from the back, and for once I’m grateful for my clogged nose when I pass an insect-ridden bin. Quickly looking away, my eyes rove over the stone wall before settling on the small side door nestled into the dreary building like a secret. A true grin breaks lose across my face as I leap the last few steps to the door, yanking the brass knob hard enough to pull the door off its hinges. To my relief, it swings open without complaint, and I silently thank Dosey for being an idiot and make a note to remind her about locking her doors. Later. For now, those cookies are all mine.

I can tell she’s been baking by how much hotter it is in here than outside, and I slowly pull off my hat and stuff it in my back pocket as I feel my face begin to thaw. Shutting the door behind me, I step through the short hallway before coming to a full stop in the kitchen.

Well, it’s usually a kitchen, but I can’t see any of the typical stoves or ovens over the rows and rows of flowers covering every inch of counter space. Colors from orange to pink to blue boast their beauty so brightly I have to squint against their intensity. There are big fluffy flowers that stretch up on thick stalks, and tiny three petal ones that look like flecks of paint against their moss-like leaves. Buds on vines drape down so far they caress the floor, stems curling up at their bottoms. There are sunflowers, roses, jasmine, and I don’t even know what's, and it occurs to me that this place isn’t warm because of running ovens but because Dosey turned her bakery into a nursery.

That has lots and lots of yellow pollen dusting the floor.

A sudden tickling in my nose makes my face screw up, and just as I’m about to let all hell rain into my elbow I glimpse movement on the other side of the room, turning my allergy attack into a half-scream, half sneeze. It can’t be a pretty sight. The figure lets out a shout at the noise, and Dosey’s dark face turns towards me with wide eyes.

    “Chloe! How the hell did you get in here?” she yelps, grabbing a handful of paper towels from the sink before making her way to me. She’s in her typical white apron, though it’s already smeared with a shiny pink residue and peppered in flakes of flour. Her dark hair is pulled back and twisted up into a knot at the crown of her head, making her dark eyes look even bigger against her smooth skin. Although she’s only a few years older than me, she still looks about my age; fresh out of college and not ready to have to start paying taxes.

    “Back door,” I sniffle, taking the rough tissues gratefully.

    “I thought I locked that…” Dosey trails off, and I take the pause to blow my nose quite loudly and unattractively. The baker sighs. “Oh well, secrets out, I guess.”

    “Where did you get all of these? They’ve been making my allergies go crazy today. I thought my nose was going insane with phantom pollen,” I say, walking towards a pot with a thousand tiny pink buds speckled down its stem.

    “Got the shipment in early this morning. Thought the town could use a little color this year,” Dosey grins, disappearing back to the other side of the kitchen. I hear a pot clatter to the floor, followed by a quite colorful curse, and I smile to myself. Although she has never burned down anything, Dosey has alway had a tendency to make a mess of things, which is one of the reasons why she had to open her own restaurant in the first place. No matter how good her creations were, no owner in their right mind would want to hire someone more likely to destroy their thousand dollar appliances within their first day of working there.

    Straightening, I start to follow her, painfully aware that this room has more color than I’ve seen in years. Something else falls, farther away this time, so I quicken my pace and make my way to the register. As Mrs. Gregory promised, trays of yellow and pink cookies are waiting for me, displayed under the glass fridge set up next to the daily chalkboard. I look out through the storefront window to find horrified and extremely jealous faces of my fellow townsfolk staring at me, mouths moving a thousand words per minute, no doubt spinning up the latest rumors starring yours truly. I give them an award winning smile, momentarily forgetting about my hunger at the reminder of my victory.

    “Good, you’re here.” I turn around to find Dosy with two more armfuls of lemon cookies, towels shoved under the hot metal to keep it from burning her skin. I quickly reach to help her, then instantly pull away as the hot metal kisses my fingers. Dosey lets out a laugh and sets the trays down on the counter before brushing her hands against her apron.

    “Hey, can I go ahead and buy a cookie?” I ask slowly, though I’m realizing now that breaking into her shop might not have been the best bargaining tactic.

    “Of course,” Dosey replies, not bothering to look up. Excitement swells in my chest, but before I can thank her profusely, she adds, “But I get to choose the payment.” My joy falters.

    “What?”

Finally finishing cleaning her hands, she meets my eyes and says, “You man the register while I bring out the last of the batch and flowers.” When I don’t respond, she sighs. “I’m going to need more help today, considering the crowd and the fact that this town is about to see what the color orange looks like for the first time in their lives. Also, you broke into my store, so it’s either this or I call Paul.” I let out a groan at the mention of our town sheriff's name, making Dosey let out a laugh. I would make up an excuse about how I promised someone to help them with their thing-a-majig, but it’s either spend my Saturday morning as free labor or I’ll have to wait another year for these particular treats. Seeing my turmoil, Dosey kindly adds, “I’ll let you have extra cookies.” I light up and nod my head feverishly, making her let out another giggle. “Okay then, go let them in.”

🌸🌸🌸

We don’t close for her mid afternoon break that day. In fact, we physically can’t close until ten at night since customers just keep shoving their way back through the door. I’ve never seen so many people eager to buy a bowl full of dirt, but then again, I’ve never seen this town with flowers either. Although Dosey scolded me multiple times throughout the day whenever she caught me stealing a cookie, she keeps her promise, and when we finally do close up shop, she hands me a warm paper bag stuffed with as many cookies that she could physically fit. When I thank her, she merely waves a hand at me.

“I needed the help today.”

“You blackmailed me, you didn’t need to pay me too,” I only half joke, and she grins back. But as I make my way out the door—the front one, this time—Dosey shouts at me in a panic.

“Wait, I forgot!” By the time I turn back around, she’s already vanished from behind the counter, but it only takes her seconds to reappear at me side, presenting the pot of tiny pink flowers I was admiring earlier. Gingerly, I slide my hand under the clay container, marveling at the flecks of color glowing up at me. A little circle of color, just for me.

“Thank you, Dosey,” I say, and she winks.

“Happy spring, Chloe.”