A Random Short Story Draft...

Alice walked by the bakery every day. On this particular Wednesday in January, it was shrouded in snow, its' eaves dripping with icicles and its' walkway coated in frost. Alice peeked into the window, thick glass with a Help Wanted sign taped to it; it was nearly empty, with just an employee, a mother and daughter, and a heavy man with a cup of coffee.

"Mommy, Mommy, can I have this one?" said the little girl, pointing at a thick piece of fudge.

"Oh, Willa, we'll be having dinner soon! Would you like some hot chocolate?" proposed the mother.

The man behind the counter handed Willa a cup of hot chocolate and the mother, a tea. Mother helped daughter put on her coat, a gaudy thing with a fake-fur hood. Alice scooted to the side as they walked out of the little shop.

Alice drew her coat closer around herself, not wanting to go home. But she put one boot in front of the other, slowly crossing Main Street. She had crossed Main Street hundreds, even thousands, of times, without her mother, but the memories came flooding back.

There was her mother, listening to Alice's teacher at Parent Night, her hair smoothed into a bun and her skirt long, taking the role of Alice's Mom. There was her mother, hustling around the kitchen, throwing spices into pots, taking the role of Chef For The Whipple Family. Alice couldn't quite place this memory, as it happened nearly every night. Then, finally, there was her mother as Alice had last seen her, at the Christmas Eve party: her face freshly painted on, hair spilling down her back, handing an frosted cocktail glass to Angeline from down the street, taking the role of Charlene, The Pretty Hostess.

Before she knew it, Alice was standing in front of her house. It was dark except for the blue glow of television, and a laugh track blared. She knew it was a laugh track only because her father never laughed.

She creaked open the door, dashed for upstairs before Mr. Whipple could notice her. Not that he would, because his rerun of All In The Family was so loud. Did they even still play reruns of that, wondered Alice. Her English assignment seemed to glare at her from her backpack, but instead she flopped onto her bed and pulled something from under her pillow.

Dear Alice,

I'm sorry. I don't want to leave on these terms, but you know your father...always better to slip away when he's too wasted to notice. I wish I could take you, but I don't know where I'm going.

The bakery...the only reason I lasted here this long. I hate Iowa, I hate this town of Jop-lin, the dot on the map. But how much I loved Joplin Bakery. By this point, I can sit down–they'll always bring me a Colombian roast, medium size, and a slice of lemon pound cake. It's sweet. The only place where Daniel your dad, sorry, won't go. Too much happiness and warmth, too many fathers taking happy children for a bite to eat. Also maybe the lack of tequila. It's the only place to go to be free of him. 

Go in, have a coffee and some cake. For me. But after that, try to stay off of caffeine.

–Mom

Alice had not had even a sip of Coke since that. It was the least she could do for her mother. But she had never been able to step over the threshold of the bakery. Something had always held her back. She had been twelve the last time she'd seen her mother. She was sixteen now, and she had never been the same. Before, she had been one of the most popular and well-liked girls at Joplin Middle. Now she was quiet and reserved, sitting at a back desk and getting fair grades at Joplin High School.  

Alice heard the ominous click of the TV turning off and her father thundering up the stairs.

"Just sitting here, you?" he asked her. "When I was sixteen, I was always working or out with my friends"–Alice doubted that–"but all you do is lumber around, missing Charlene! You know what you need?" he asked, getting louder. "A job! Do something productive, get some money so you don't come whining to me!"

Alice nodded like she often did when her father acted this way. She averted her gaze, staring at the Sam Adams in his hand. 

Having tired himself out, Mr. Whipple stomped into his room, turning the radio to a Brewers game.

Alice stood up, taking one last look at her mother's old note. Her father may have been completely drunk, temperamental to say the least, but for once he was right. 

The walk to the bakery seemed to take a very short time. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside, enveloped by warm air and the aroma of freshly baked cookies and coffee. She stepped up the counter and ordered a medium-sized Colombian roast coffee and a slice of lemon pound cake.

With a glint of challenge in her eye that had not been there for four years, she said to the man behind the counter, "I'd have to fit it around school, but I heard you're hiring. Would you be interested in me?"