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Chiarelli’s Bakery

1

Walking along the narrow brick pavement, Aram imagined that Italy looked just like this, with flower boxes outside the windows and aproned shopkeepers greeting each other in lilting Italian. He took a deep breath. The air smelled of lemons and baked bread and coffee, and he instantly longed for an espresso. He wondered if Ms Chiarelli served espresso at the bakery.

2

A vision floated into his mind: Ms Chiarelli, old and wise, teaching him to make espresso the ‘secret Italian way’. He saw himself pouring perfect espresso into a tiny cup, Ms Chiarelli nodding in approval and customers clapping.

Whoops! Aram nearly collided with a man in a suit. Aram had noticed and stepped aside just in time to avoid a crash. The man rushed past, and Aram glanced down at the map on his phone. He was almost there. 

Aram still couldn’t believe his luck. All his friends were working tedious summer jobs—clearing tables and babysitting and collecting film tickets. And here he was, an actual baker’s assistant, right in the heart of Little Italy. It was all thanks to his Aunt Rona. She knew Ms Chiarelli’s daughter, and the two of them had cooked up a plan to get Ms Chiarelli some help at the bakery. Aram had jumped at the chance; it was the perfect apprenticeship for his future career. Chiarelli’s Bakery, he was sure, would one day be known as the place where he got his start.

Ah, here he was—the bakery. A faded wooden sign over the door read ‘Chiarelli’s World-Famous Pastry’. Aram straightened his shoulders and reached for the handle, just as the door was yanked open from the inside. Ms Chiarelli, Aram was thrilled to see, really did look wise. 

‘Rona’s nephew?’ the old woman asked.

‘That’s right. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms Chiarelli.’ Aram stuck out his hand. Ms Chiarelli looked at it for a second before turning around and beckoning him inside.

‘Let’s get started,’ she said.

‘I’m ready to learn everything,’ Aram said. 

‘Great. Let’s start with the till,’ Ms Chiarelli said, ‘because that’s what you’ll be doing.’ She showed him how to use the till. It wasn’t hard. The pastry trays were all marked by price, and there weren’t that many choices anyway.

‘That’s basically it,’ she said when she was done.

‘That’s it?’ Aram said, his heart sinking.

‘Well,’ Ms Chiarelli pointed at the ceiling, ‘my flat’s up there. If you need me, just come and get me. My daughter tells me to rest. But how much rest does a person need?’ She shook her head and muttered something in Italian.

‘Okay. When do we bake?’

‘Bake?’ Ms Chiarelli stared at Aram as if he had picked up the till and tried to stuff it in his pocket. 

‘I thought . . .’ Aram looked at the pastries on the racks, then at the darkened kitchen behind Ms Chiarelli. 

Ms Chiarelli frowned. ‘I order wholesale now. No more baking.’

Now it was Aram who stared. ‘Wholesale?’

Ms Chiarelli nodded, then silently held up her hands. Aram took in her knotted, swollen fingers, and he understood. A wave of disappointment engulfed him. Sadness overwhelmed him so suddenly that he couldn’t think of a word to say. He sighed, and Ms Chiarelli sighed, too.

‘I used to bake it all,’ she said. ‘Cassatelle, babas, cannoli.’

‘Was your cannoli baked or fried? I tried out this recipe for baked the other day, but—’

‘Baked?’ Ms Chiarelli gaped at him, then she suddenly came alive, waving her arthritic hands as if banishing the image. ‘Never! Fried, always fried. People used to line up around the corner. Everyone wanted my cannoli.’ 

A thought occurred to Aram, and then, of course, it immediately tumbled out of his mouth. ‘Maybe you can tell me how to make fried cannoli! I’ll do it exactly how you say, so really it would be like you were doing it.’ He pulled out his wallet. ‘I’ll buy the ingredients! See? I have money.’

Ms Chiarelli was silent. Aram felt his face get hot; why did he have to blurt out his ridiculous ideas? He slid his wallet back into his pocket and stepped behind the dusty till. It was going to be a long summer. 

‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ 

Aram looked up. Ms Chiarelli was standing by the door, handbag slung over her shoulder. ‘We’ll go together, so you don’t buy the wrong stuff.’ She shook her head and muttered, ‘Baked cannoli. Ridicolo.’ 

‘Really?’

Ms Chiarelli nodded impatiently. ‘Come on! If we hurry, we can make cassatelle too.’

🔥Based on the fourth paragraph, what is Aram’s attitude about his future career?

• He is sure that he will fail, but he wants to try.
• He is uncertain how things will turn out.
• He is confident that he will achieve success.

🔥Read the story.

Time Capsule

1

I’m standing behind him, crunching an apple from Grandpa’s tree. I’m going to miss these apples. This is our last visit here, ever, because Grandpa is moving in with us. We have one week to get the house cleared out. 

2

I lean over Dad’s shoulder and try the switch myself. 

3

‘Michael, don’t crunch in my ear,’ says Dad, but I’m already turning towards the door.

4

‘I’ll grab a screwdriver,’ I say over my shoulder. ‘We can take the shredder apart and reassemble it.’

‘What? No!’ Dad snaps. Then he sighs, and I know the exact three words he’s going to say next. ‘Michael, be realistic.’ (Yep, I was right.)

‘But—’

‘First, Grandpa’s napping. It’s hardly the time for construction. And second, it’s a shredder that cost 1,500 rupees and was barely functional to begin with. There’s no point fixing something that hardly works. I’ll just buy a heavy-duty one tomorrow.’ Dad’s eyes travel wearily over the papers piled on the table, and he massages his temples.

I shrug, walk back over and poke through the piles. ‘Hey, what’s this?’ I pluck out a grainy photograph of my dad as a kid. He’s standing in the garden, spraying a hose at whoever is holding the camera, and he has this big, loopy smile on his face. He looks like a different person.

I glance over at him. He’s scrutinising an old income tax statement, his brow furrowed intently as he studies the tiny print. I wonder if something weird happened in the past. Like maybe the carefree boy in the picture and some bookish boy down the street decided to switch lives or something. Okay, no. That’s not realistic.

‘Michael,’ Dad says. ‘Why don’t you start cleaning out the shed?’

‘Okay.’ I like the shed.

But when I go in, I’m overwhelmed. How am I supposed to ‘clean it out’? It’s crammed with junk. There’s a broken lawnmower and a million cans of old paint, and some weird thing that actually looks like a scythe. I wander over to the galvanised steel pegboard mounted on the wall. I’ve always loved this thing. Then I get an idea: I’ll bring it home and hang it up in my room. It will look great—sort of industrial-cool. I push against the side of the board, and it wiggles a little. I’ll probably need a screwdriver, but just for kicks, I push it again, and suddenly I notice a little triangle of plastic peeking out from the bottom. There’s something between the pegboard and the wall.

Well, this gets my attention. Carefully, I pull on the plastic, and it slithers out. It’s a sandwich bag with a folded paper inside. Wild! I’m thinking it’s a treasure map, maybe, or the answer to some long-unsolved murder. 

Ha. I end up being well wide of the mark. 

Dear Future People, 

I am from long ago in the past. We don’t have flying cars. And we don’t have robots, so we have to do everything ourselves, like take out the rubbish and load the dishwasher. No one has ever been to Mars. I bet you go there all the time on holiday. I made you a time capsule. Tell your robot to dig under the poplar tree. 

From, Earl

Earl. As in my dad. Okay, this is beyond awesome. 

I race to the house. ‘Dad!’ I yell, banging into the kitchen. 

Dad jumps, then rubs his temples. ‘What, Michael?’

I drop the letter onto the pile of papers in front of him and say, ‘Why don’t you just have your robot go through Grandpa’s papers!’ Breathlessly, I continue, ‘And how could people go on holiday to Mars? They’d freeze the instant they got there. I mean—’ By now, I’m laughing so hard I can barely talk—’I mean, Earl, be realistic!‘

Dad looks utterly confused. Then he reads the letter. ‘Jeez,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I’d forgotten all about this.’ He starts laughing, and suddenly I see it! The boy with the hose is right in front of me.

Dad stands up. His chair falls over, but he doesn’t notice. ‘Come on,’ he says, with a loopy smile. ‘Let’s dig up the time capsule.’

🔥Based on the seventh and eighth paragraphs, how does Michael’s father feel about sorting through the old papers?

• He feels excited.
• He feels sentimental.
• He feels stressed.