Free Alive by Chandler Baker Page A

window.
    “If you spit up on my leather, I swear I’ll leave you here to rot,” I warn my sister, who throws her sippy cup onto the car floor in response.
    I study the stroller. Who are these designed for, rocket scientists? Peering underneath the carriage, I think I spot the problem and kick at its back to try to unlock the folding mechanism.
Eventually, it comes loose and the stroller snaps open.
    “You make that look so easy,” comes a sarcastic voice from behind me. “Didn’t know you were bringing a friend.”
    I wipe my forehead, pushing the stroller around to the other side of the car. Brynn sips a Frappuccino.
    “My parents have an interview at some fancy preschool they’re trying to get Elsie on the waiting list for. Good thing they have a free babysitter on speed dial.” I unhook Elsie
from her car seat and straddle her over my hip. She’s sporting a newly laundered ladybug dress, given that she managed to slobber all over the jumper Mom had her in beforehand. Elsie’s
the reason we’re running late. Brynn better keep this quick.
    Brynn shudders. “Thank God
my
parents never get it on anymore.”
    I lower Elsie into the stroller. “I’m sure you’re all the birth control they need.”
    The streets are crowded as Brynn and I start to trudge up the steep hill toward the giant golden hog statue with red lettering that reads PIKE PLACE MARKET . A salty
breeze carries the smell of the ocean off Elliott Bay.
    “You know where we’re going?” I ask. The wheels of the stroller bounce off burgundy bricks.
    “We have to make a stop here every year before my mom’s birthday. She goes crazy for these pistachio macarons at Le Panier. Seriously, it’s like soccer mom crack.” Brynn
smirks.
    Poor Mrs. McDaniel. She’s got all the components of a grade-A soccer mom. The cream cable-knit, the pearls, the perfectly symmetrical orange slices. Only problem? Her daughter is
Brynn.
    I chase after Brynn, who’s walking too fast. A group of tourists snap photos outside the market, and all around, vendors dart in and out of the covered arcades selling fresh produce,
pencil sketches, and I ♥ SEATTLE T-shirts. We thread our way through the crowd and I try not to mow over the backs of anyone’s heels with the Elsie Mobile.
    “One year my dad couldn’t get off work in time to get them and, no joke, she almost bit his entire head off,” Brynn explains.
    “Well, she didn’t have a macaron,” I point out.
    “Apparently, the South Beach Diet has a very narrow exception for small, ridiculous-looking cookies.”
    She guides us past the seafood stalls where tattooed men in grimy aprons sling fish over the counters, and I narrowly miss getting slapped across the face by a flying silver-finned tuna.
    I’m relieved when we find ourselves walking alongside the glassy storefronts. We pass a half dozen or so before Brynn spots the black-and-yellow sign marking Le Panier Very French
Bakery.
    A tiny bell jingles above the door as we enter. Turns out we’re not the only ones with this idea—the tiny bakery’s stuffed fuller than a jelly doughnut. And no wonder. The
aroma’s nothing short of heavenly, a mixture of the scent of freshly baked croissants, sugar glaze, and a wood-burning oven.
    Brynn wedges her way in between a fat man in a suit and a woman yelling into a cell phone on her way up to the counter, while I wield the stroller as a bumper car. Brynn waves her arm
erratically, trying to get the clerk’s attention. “McDaniel,” she shouts over the bakery’s hustle and bustle. “Order for McDaniel. Over here!” I maneuver next to
her. “I called ahead,” she says. “Shouldn’t take long.”
    “Cookie,” Elsie says, pointing up from her stroller at the broad assortment of pastries and, yes, cookies in the display case. Her fingers smudge the glass over a waistline-busting
moon pie.
    “No, Elsie,” I tell her firmly, pushing down her chubby arm. “Not before dinner.” The thought of a