Creampuffs

By Victoria Feistner

After spending her 20s and 30s coasting from job to job, geeky Michelle has finally found her calling. She’s teaming up with her out-going jock brother Bryan to create “Creampuffs”, a gym for ultra-beginners and introverts. They’ll need to renovate their sleazy uncle’s old warehouse and figure out how to teach fitness lessons with no budget for equipment, but Michelle thinks that’s all part of the fun. And is it just her, or is the cafe owner next door kinda cute?

But while they learn to manage their dream business, the siblings must also learn to relate to each other as adults without their parents interfering—a task made all the harder when the warehouse is seized by the police. Too soon, the gym and Michelle’s savings are gone, and Bryan is no longer speaking to her. Can she come up with a plan to reboot Creampuffs, or will she be forced back into her old, ill-fitting life, this time without her brother to rely on?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Feistner
• Release date: Jun 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999173005

Victoria Feistner

Victoria Feistner is a writer, a graphic designer, and an artisan in equal parts, although some of those parts are more equal than others. Writing speculative fiction for over twenty years, and finishing her first novel at age 18, she has been published in Salt&Syntax, Speculative North, and GigaNotoSaurus, among other magazines and anthologies. Victoria spent the '03 blackout cooking pork dumplings on a propane barbeque and wandering North York in search of a cool breeze. She still lives in Toronto with her partner and two /jerks/ cats; more of her work can be found at victoriafeistner.com.

Book preview

Creampuffs

by

Victoria Feistner

Smashwords Edition

www.victoriafeistner.com

Creampuffs copyright 2019 Victoria Feistner. All rights reserved.

All places, events and persons herein, living, dead, or otherwise, are fictional. Any resemblance to anything real is coincidence. I made it all up. Trust me.

Proudly Canadian. No butter tarts or ice caps were harmed in the making of this book.

978-1-9991730-0-5

Contents

chapter 1

chapter 2

interlude

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

interlude 2

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

interlude 3

chapter 21

chapter 22

about the author

chapter 1

The notification for the meeting bounced maliciously on Michelle’s desktop. Well? Sarah asked, sotto voce, from the opposite desk.

Michelle blinked rapidly, then closed her mouth, and swallowed. Across the open plan of the office, peeping over monitors, sets of eyes surreptitiously watched her reaction, except for five or six others who, she guessed, had similarly unexpected 9.15am meetings.

She still had her jacket on. Her coffee sat by her keyboard, steam curling into the air. Usually Sarah waited in the second-floor kitchen until Michelle arrived; they would get their coffees together, catch up, and take the stairs to the third floor. The kitchen had been empty, but no suspicions penetrated Michelle’s still-sleeping brain; she’d simply moved through the motions on her own. Sarah came to find her on the stairs, her co-worker breathlessly urging her to check for any unexpected meetings!.

Nothing else needed to be said. Everyone in the office knew what the dancing notification invoked. She stared at her cooling coffee mug. The only regret that surfaced was that she had bothered to rush to arrive on time.

What a waste.

Michelle sat on the curb opposite of Pixelimited, her box of belongings beside her, staring at the building that had been her focus for the past three years. Her phone buzzed and she fished it from her pocket: another emotional text from Sarah. She swiped the notification, but left the phone on her knee, heaving a sigh, letting her shoulders relax.

The sky behind the red-brick building was bright blue, filled with clouds of the fluffiest white; behind her birds chirruped from the shrubs, fighting over dropped bagel crumbs. Across the street three more of her former co-workers straggled out, clutching boxes, their hastily-composed masks of taking-it-on-the-chin slipping into upset or bewilderment.

She waved; one waved back.

Ay, I don’t know. Dolores stood on the sidewalk as though she wasn’t sure how she’d arrived there. I just wasn’t expecting anything like this, you know?

I know, Michelle replied, leaning back on her hands, head tilted up. Dolores had worked in Accounting, one floor down, and normally departments didn’t socialize; but she had been the one to talk to about missed timesheets so everyone knew Dolores. Michelle had often seen her at the subway stop in the morning, listening to her phone, shuffling in the crowd. Hey, you live in my neighbourhood, don’t you?

Dolores, startled by the non-sequitor, considered. Yes, same stop as you, I think.

Michelle nodded to herself, pleased by her own observations. My brother’s on his way to pick me up. We can give you a ride home, if you want.

Oh, thank you, Dolores replied, reflexively. Then she stopped, frowning. You live with your brother?

Michelle laughed, her mood slipping into giddiness as she processed the delightful notion that she could sleep in from now on. No, but he’s off today. I texted him when I saw the notification and he said he’d pick me up, save me the subway trip with my box of knickknacks.

Ay, so nice. Nice to be so close with your brother, Dolores said with a sigh, shifting in her stance, straightening her back only to re-slump, frowning in dejection at her own box of desk clutter.

Any family here?

No, still back in Brasil. But even there, I don’t know if my brother would be the first person I’d tell. Dolores smiled at the idea, before giving way to another sigh. What to do now? I guess we have to figure it out.

Not today, Michelle corrected, getting to her feet. Worries can start tomorrow. I haven’t even had a first full coffee yet. She bent to pick up her box. He’s here. My brother.

Dolores, frowning, peered around but there was no traffic on the industrial little side street. A faint rumble in the distance resolved into a muffled, thumping beat as a red Toyota turned the corner, pulling towards the curb.

Michelle waved. There he is.

Dolores regarded the car with furrowed brows; speech was unnecessary, and also difficult over the bass, as the Toyota stopped in front of them.

Don’t worry! I’ll tell him to turn it down, Michelle shouted, in understanding.

Dolores, emitting a steady stream of mumbled gratitudes, heaved herself into the cramped back seat of the Corolla, trying to avoid the Red Bull cans and binders piled into the footwell. Bryan smiled a hello and apologetically tried to scoop most of the mess out of her way.

Thanks for picking me up. Michelle manoeuvred herself into the front seat, the box on her lap. This is Dolores. She lives near me.

Bryan waved in the rear view mirror, already focusing on pulling out into traffic, despite the chirping alarm indicating that his sister still fumbled with her seat belt. No worries! Least I could do.

I—we’ve—could’ve taken the subway, Michelle reminded him, succeeding with her seatbelt. But I do appreciate it. I feel a bit...

Dazed? Bryan suggested, adjusting the stereo up.

Michelle adjusted it back down. I guess. Half-asleep? I didn’t get a chance to drink my coffee. Her brother glanced over, appalled.

Dolores leaned in between the two seats. Did The Crawfish not offer you a coffee?

Michelle giggled. I didn’t know that nickname reached downstairs!

Dolores nodded vigorously, sincerity glowing from her face. Oh yes! I can’t stand that woman, no one can.

Who’s this? Bryan asked.

One of the company’s general managers. Michelle made snapping claws out of her fingers. Everyone hates her. I was warned about her when I showed up for training on the first day. She shifted to address Dolores. Did she have a bunch of HR with her when you saw her too?

Yes, Dolores agreed, her eyes wide as Bryan propelled the Corolla through a busy intersection with well-honed video game manoeuvres, I was friends with one of the HR women. They offered us coffee and muffins but no one took one. I asked what I had done, why they were letting me go, but nothing. Just budgets, they said.

Michelle frowned in sympathy. Not surprised.

What did they tell you?

I didn’t bother asking, she admitted. I knew from the randomness of other people in my studio who had the ‘meeting’— she gestured with air quotes —that it wasn’t personal, just a round of layoffs.

I’ve been there seven years, Dolores admitted glumly, and they couldn’t tell me why they had to fire me...

Seven years! Bryan exclaimed, twisting in his seat to address her directly, which caused both women to yelp in alarm before he returned his incredulous attention to the road. In the same job?!

Yes. Dolores looked from his face to Michelle’s. Yes, it was a good job. I was lucky to have it.

"Seven years," Bryan muttered.

You’re not sad?

Michelle shrugged. It was just a job. Good people, but I didn’t care much about it. I’ll get another one.

Dolores settled back, frowning, her eyebrows knitted. Michelle stared out the passenger window. It was just a job. She’d miss her coworkers, for sure. But there were other jobs. She wasn’t worried.

The door pleasantly jingled as Bryan shouldered it open, bearing the tray of coffees. Michelle and Dolores leaned against the Corolla, enjoying the sunshine. Visible through the big plate window—Java Jones scrawled across it in a hand-painted old-timey script—the barista was wiping down the machines. He noticed and waved; Michelle returned the wave awkwardly, feeling silly at being caught watching.

Bryan handed her a latte, and a cappuccino to Dolores, dismissing offerings of change. Don’t worry about it. He walked to the driver’s side. Everyone good?

The two women nodded.

We didn’t have to stop, Michelle repeated, then she sipped and sighed.

Bryan opened the driver’s door. You’ve had a shitty start to a day, the least I can do is buy you a coffee.

But you already are giving us a ride home, Dolores murmured, as she wedged herself into the crowded backseat.

Bryan laughed as though she made a hilarious come-back. Nice, nice.

Dolores leaned back, puzzled. Michelle paused in her seatbelt ministrations to catch her eye in the rear-view mirror and gave a little smile.

I’ve never been in this part of the neighbourhood, Dolores admitted, to change the topic, as they pulled away from the Java Jones. I stay around the subway stop, where the shops are.

Actually, yeah... Michelle paid more attention to the scenery whizzing by. Where are we going? We’ve gone past— She tilted her head to regard her brother, and he had a small secret smile.

I’ve got something to show you. Bryan winked. I was on my way out the door to do a drive-by when you texted me. I thought you might like to come along.

Blinking, Michelle peered over her shoulder at Dolores, who shrugged, sipping from her paper cup. It wasn’t as though they had anywhere pressing to be. She settled back into her seat, taking a long draft of her latte. So where are we going?

Dolores was the first to find her words. It’s... a very nice building, she said, politely, staring at the peeling paint on the large garage door.

Michelle, for her part, fixated in the sign on the stained metal siding:

for sale or lease by gary haley.

Bryan rolled his eyes. Whatever. It’s a just an old warehouse. It’s what’s in it!

Michelle cleared her throat and pointed at the sign. Um. Is this Uncle Gary’s property?

Yeah. Bryan investigated the padlocked human-sized door with consternation. I thought there was supposed to be a key...

Bryan, Michelle continued, raising her voice slightly, "What’s inside?"

What? Nothing.

Nothing. Nothing was usually a codeword with Uncle Gary, indicating something of vital concern to him—and perhaps certain parties, who may or may not have contained police—and of absolutely no business of anyone else’s. Michelle linked her arm through Dolores, gently leading her away from the building and back to the sidewalk. I don’t know if we want to go in there.

Oh, no?

No, maybe not. Sometimes it’s better not to know, you know? Less awkward questions later on—

Got it! Bryan cried, triumphantly, getting the padlock free and swinging open the creaky door, immediately disappearing inside.

Michelle grumbled. I’m sorry about this. I didn’t know he’d be doing a detour to a skeezy warehouse.

Oh, that’s okay, Dolores replied, smiling, patting Michelle’s hand. You know, if I had just gone home, I would be sitting on my sofa, feeling sorry for myself. This is better.

They both laughed.

True, Michelle agreed. Me too, probably.

I thought it was just a job?

It was. But there’s still a shock, I guess.

Hey! Are you guys going to come and see or what? Bryan held the door open, grinning. Come on!

He’s like a little boy, Dolores remarked, as the pair headed towards the door. Michelle privately agreed. She released Dolores’s arm to step over the threshold to the interior.

Her eyes adjusting to the darkness, Michelle peered around, secretly disappointed no mysterious package waited for pick-up, but also relieved. ...it’s a warehouse.

Bryan tilted his head, puzzled. Well, yeah. What did you think it was?

I... She trailed off, holding out her hands. Uncle Gary?

Oh. Bryan had his fists on his hips, surveying—the dusty beams of light from the upper windows, the dilapidated old staircase to the small second-floor office, the rusty pair of barrels in one corner—as though beholding lush and unexplored jungle. Yeah, I could see why you’d be worried. But nothing like that here. Just a warehouse.

Super. Michelle did her own 360 slow-twirl, taking in the dusty and tetanus-laden details. So why are we here?

Because I’m going to buy it, Bryan replied, grin sliding onto his face. I’m going to open my own gym.

chapter 2

Michelle trailed the fork through her rice, stopping only at her mother’s slight huff of disapproval. Of all the things she had not wanted to do the first night of being unemployed, having a dinner with her family while they alternated cloying sympathy and bristling reproach made top of the list.

Bryan sat across from her, happily discussing his business plans, and digging in. I mean, I haven’t talked to him officially, yet, but when we chatted about the idea—

Wait, their mother interrupted, half-way serving herself more vegetables. She put down the bowl. I thought you said you had a business plan.

Bryan blinked. I do.

How can you have a business plan if you haven’t spoken to this Dwayne person yet? their father asked, setting down his fork, giving his wife a Significant Glance.

Michelle stared down at her cooling food.

Derek, Bryan corrected, his grin fading.

Whatever. If you haven’t spoken to him, then... he trailed off. You do have a business plan, don’t you?

Of course, Bryan replied quickly, sounding wounded, but Michelle caught his expression—a quick flash of confusion—that she recognized as his sign of overconfidence: Bryan did not have a business plan, not the way their father meant. Not a capital bee-pee Business Plan. (Mr. Haley liked to speak in Capital Letters. It denoted Importance.)

A comment was on her lips but she concentrated on her food instead as the usual routine played out around her: brother being cornered; finally admitting he didn’t the details of what he was talking about; father’s standard lecture on Preparation and Ambition; mother’s silent, frowning reproach.

Well?

She blinked, startled. Sorry?

Her mother pursed her lips. "I asked you what your plans are."

Eat dinner, go home, watch TV, maybe have a bath, Michelle admitted, but the second the words slipped from her mouth she realized she’d misjudged the situation.

Her mother sighed, and put down her fork.

Damn.

I don’t know if that’s the right attitude to take, Michelle, her mother chided. Don’t roll your eyes at me—it’s a very tough economy right now. I just want what’s best for you. How long were you at this job?

Three years. Ish.

Only three years!

Her father shook her head. When I was your age...

She felt herself de-aging: her hair growing out into a shapeless ponytail, her glasses reappearing, her clothes morphing into shapeless tees and baggy jeans. Dad, things are different now. Three years is a long time in one job, especially in my field.

That just makes it more important that you have an Exit Strategy. He was huffy at being interrupted mid-lecture.

Exit strategy? She fought to keep her voice from squeaking. "Exit—I was laid off. Not retreating from a battlefield. Laid off. With no warning. Today! So no, I don’t have a plan. I’m going to go home tonight, throw my desk junk in a drawer, watch Netflix, and go to bed. That’s my exit strategy."

There’s no need to raise your voice at the dinner table, her mother replied, very prim, even more pursed. Dinner table etiquette was strictly enforced in the Haley household, which meant retorts only flowed the one way.

With heavy clink, Michelle deposited her knife and fork on her plate, and pushed her chair away from the table.

You’re not eating? her mother asked, surprised.

I’m not very hungry. Mostly true: she’d spent the day following around after Bryan and eating fast food. Thank you for dinner.

I don’t know what we’re going to do about you, Michelle, her father gave a deep, heavy sigh while he chased down remaining peas. I did think you were settled at that Pixelimited place.

She paused, half-way to the kitchen. I was—

It gets harder to find a job the older you get, you know. All these young things out of work are cheaper and hungrier. Something to keep in mind. It’s hard out there in your 30s.

She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.

"Especially for single women," her mother added, before taking a dainty bite from her fork.

There it was. She winced, the dagger in her back inscribed spinster, and continued on to the kitchen. Over her shoulder her mother urged her brother to eat up.

In the backyard, under the willow tree, sat the same