Confectionately Yours #3: Sugar and Spice Page 2

  There doesn’t seem to be any reason to rush to bed. My mind is spinning, and I’m sure Chloe’s still is, too, and right now, I’m really glad we share this room, so that we can be here together. So we just stay on the window seat for a while, looking out at the busy restaurants and dark art galleries, and up at the sky.

  Sometimes, insomnia’s not so bad.

  It has been over a year since our father moved out. It has been six months since we moved out of our old house and in with Gran. And this is the first time Chloe has seemed worried that Dad might forget us.

  It’s a little odd. After all, Dad introduced us to his new girlfriend, Annie, in the fall. I wasn’t that impressed, but Chloe liked Annie right away — a lot, which was lucky for Annie. For a while there, it was a little like Anniepalooza. We never saw Dad without her. We even had to spend Thanksgiving with Annie and her parents at a restaurant, which turned into a hideous spectacle when I barfed paella into the bread basket, but that’s another story.

  But lately, Dad has been spending more time with just us. We still hang with Annie once in a while, but we’ve managed to have Dad all to ourselves for movie nights, bowling, and a concert.

  And even the time we do spend with Annie has been more fun. She took us out for Thai food. She held a long conversation in Thai with the waiter, and when he returned, he heaped our table with all sorts of delicious-smelling things that I’d never heard of. It was one of the best meals I’ve ever had. We also all went to laser tag together, and it turns out that Annie has a crazy competitive streak and killer aim. She was taking down everyone — she had no problem blasting at an entire birthday party full of nine-year-old boys — which made it way fun. At the end, Chloe was laughing so hard that I was worried she might pass out.

  So, why would Chloe be worried about Dad?

  Maybe she wonders whether Dad and Annie might get married. Maybe she’s worried about what that could mean … like, would they want to have kids? Would Dad start a whole new family and forget about us? Would we just be these little add-ons, the kids that show up every other weekend, while the other kids are Dad’s “permanent kids”?

  Wait.

  Now I’m worried.

  Great.

  I guess Chloe has good reasons to freak out.

  Baklava Cupcakes

  (makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

  When the weather gets cold, I love flavors like cinnamon and allspice. They make you feel warm from the inside out.

  INGREDIENTS FOR NUT MIX:

  1/2 cup pistachio nuts

  1/2 cup walnuts

  1/2 cup almonds

  1/4 cup granulated sugar

  INGREDIENTS FOR SYRUP:

  1/4 cup granulated sugar

  1/2 cup honey

  1/2 cup water

  A pinch of whole cloves (3–4 pieces)

  1/8 teaspoon allspice

  1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  INGREDIENTS FOR CUPCAKES:

  1/2 cup milk

  1/2 cup yogurt

  1/3 cup canola oil

  3/4 cup granulated sugar

  1/2 teaspoon almond extract

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour

  3/4 teaspoon baking powder

  1/2 teaspoon baking soda

  1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  1/4 teaspoon allspice

  1/8 teaspoon ground cloves

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with aluminum cupcake liners, NOT paper ones. (Trust me!)

  To prepare the nut mix, place the nuts on a baking sheet and lightly toast them in the oven, approximately 15 minutes. Remove and allow them to cool before stirring them together with the sugar and chopping them up. Divide the nut mix equally among the cupcake liners.

  In a small saucepan, combine all of the syrup ingredients and heat on medium, stirring until the sugar is completely dissolved. Turn off the heat and set aside.

  In a large bowl, whisk together the milk, yogurt, oil, sugar, almond extract, and vanilla extract, and set aside.

  In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, allspice, cloves, and salt, and mix.

  Add the dry ingredients to the wet ones a little bit at a time, and combine using a whisk or handheld mixer, stopping to scrape the sides of the bowl a few times, until no lumps remain.

  Fill the cupcake liners two-thirds of the way with batter, pouring it right onto the nut mix, and bake for 22–24 minutes, until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Use the toothpick to poke several holes into the tops of each cupcake. Rewarm the syrup in the saucepan and then remove it from stove; discard the whole cloves. Then spoon equal amounts on top of each cupcake while they’re still warm, allowing the syrup to soak into the cupcake before serving. Frosting, or a sprinkle of confectioners’ sugar, on top is optional, but should be added after the cupcakes have completely cooled.

  I peer through the little window on the oven and see that the domes of my cupcakes have turned golden brown. This is a trial batch. I’m testing a new flavor, code-named: Reassurance.

  The sweet smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafts through the café as I pull the hot baking tin from the oven. I sneak a peek at the table by the window, where Chloe and Rupert are busy reading together. She doesn’t look up from her novel, and I wonder if the scent of the cupcakes has reached her yet. I wonder if the smell alone is enough to ease her mind.

  I figure that if the Victorians can have a language of flowers, I can have my own language of cupcakes. The first message is for my sister.

  The bell over the door jingles and a cheery-faced Mr. Malik steps in. “Where is she?” he demands.

  “Who?”

  “My grandmother! Where is she? I can smell the aroma of her famous Victoria sponge cake.” His dark eyes twinkle, and his face creases from his eyes to his chin. Mr. Malik must be seventy years old. He owns the flower shop next door, and he’s my gran’s good friend. “It smells like my childhood in here, like sitting on Grandmummy’s lap at teatime.”

  “I’m just making cupcakes.”

  “Well, I must have one immediately!”

  “I haven’t frosted them yet.”

  “Even better. Frosting is an abomination.”

  I lift one of the cupcakes from the tin, careful not to burn my fingertips. I place it on a plate and pass it to Mr. Malik. “No charge.”

  “You’ll never make money that way.” He tries and utterly fails to look disapproving.

  “It’s a test batch.”

  Mr. Malik takes a bite and smiles. “You have passed the test, my dear Hayley. Your granddaughter has created another masterpiece, Mrs. Wilson,” he says to Gran, who has just appeared behind the counter.

  “I can’t say that I’m surprised, Mr. Malik,” she replies. “Ah, it smells like Easter morning in here.”

  Gran is British and Mr. Malik is Pakistani, and they’re a little formal with each other, even though they’ve been good friends for years.

  “May I have one?” Chloe appears at the counter and eyes the cupcakes. I smile at her, glad that the warm smell has drawn her over.

  “Only one?” Gran asks. “Wouldn’t Rupert like one?”

  Chloe blushes. “I don’t want to take too many. I thought we could share.”

  “I made them for you,” I say.

  Chloe beams as I hand over two plates. “Thanks!” She starts to turn away but pauses. “I love you,” she says, and then moves to join her friend.

  “How lovely,” Mr. Malik says.

  “These girls are wonderful together,” Gran agrees.

  I feel warm all over. My language of cupcakes works!

  The door bangs open and a cold breeze blows across the café. A large figure wrapped in a black shawl blocks the winter light. My warm, fuzzy feeling disappears.

  “Hello, Ms. Malik,” Gran says. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  Mr.
Malik’s sister glowers at my grandmother as she steps inside the warm café. Uzma and Gran have kind of been in a fight for years. Here’s what happened: I picked a dead leaf off a plant in Mr. Malik’s flower shop. Uzma yelled at me. Gran defended me. Uzma called her an imperialist. Gran stormed out. Mr. Malik came by later with apology flowers. The end.

  That was five years ago, and Uzma is still scowling. She ignores Gran. “Mamoo is being perfectly unreasonable,” she says to Mr. Malik. “Now he’s refusing to speak to Rana at all, and she can’t get him to apologize to Mrs. Azbahi!”

  Mr. Malik thinks this over. “So?”

  “So? So? Our uncle has offended a dear family friend, and he won’t even listen to his own daughter!” Uzma looks outraged.

  “Mamoo has always been unreasonable.”

  “But — but —” Uzma’s face has turned red. She looks like she might explode. “You should phone him!”

  “My dear sister, I am not getting involved in this affair, and I suggest that you don’t, either. You know Mamoo. He’ll apologize to Mrs. Azbahi when he is ready, and not before.”

  Uzma sputters. She gapes at me, as if she thinks I might stand up for her. I have no idea what to say, so I just shrug. “Cupcake?” I ask.

  She lets out something that sounds like a growl and turns to blast out of the café.

  Gran looks at Mr. Malik. “What a pleasant visit,” she says.

  He sighs. “My sister is a brilliant woman, but she’s restless. Our extended family is in Pakistan, and her dearest friends have families of their own…. She needs something to occupy her attention. Otherwise she’ll drive herself — and everyone else — crazy.”

  Gran purses her lips and looks out the window, toward the empty space where Uzma Malik blew past in a tornado of black fabric. “Perhaps I should get to know your sister,” she says thoughtfully.

  “She really is a wonderful person,” Mr. Malik says. He brushes cupcake crumbs from his fingertips and bows toward me. “Thank you for the delicious treat, and the delightful company. Mrs. Wilson, I will return on Thursday with your flowers.”

  “I look forward to it, Mr. Malik,” Gran replies.

  “Me, too,” I put in.

  Mr. Malik’s eyes crinkle in a smile. It’s so amazing to think that he and Uzma have the same blood, the same parents, and a shared history. How can two people have so much in common, and yet be so completely different?

  I look over at Chloe, happily reading with quiet Rupert by the window.

  I guess people could ask the same thing about us.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “The members of the girls’ lacrosse team will be dismissed early today, at 1:30. Auditions for the Crazy Flapper Improv Group will be held Wednesday during lunch, in the auditorium. This is a reminder that anyone found chewing gum …”

  I doodle a cupcake on the cover of my notebook and stare at the clock. It’s homeroom, and there are five more minutes of announcements to go.

  Marco trains his video camera on the cover of my notebook. “As you can see,” he narrates quietly as he leans over from the desk beside mine, “Hayley thinks about cupcakes even during off-hours.”

  I draw a cross-eyed goofy face, and he zooms in on it.

  A folded paper triangle pings my toe. Subtly, I lean over and pick it up, then smooth it out against my notebook. It’s from the desk on the other side of mine: Meghan’s.

  What’s with the evil look that

  Artie is giving you?

  I glance over at Artie, who looks like she’s trying to bore a hole in my skull with her eyes. Meghan leans toward me and waves at Artie. Then she gives her a little Call me sign. I stifle a giggle, but Artie looks like she’s about to scream. She looks away, at her new dramarama buddy Chang Xiao. But Chang is chatting with Kelley. Artie laughs along with something they say, but neither one of them seems to notice her.

  I watch my Ex-Best as she opens a book and starts to read.

  Wow. That’s weird. I guess making Ms. Lang mad comes with a cost.

  I look over at Meghan, who lifts an eyebrow. She’s noticed the same weirdness I have. She rolls her eyes. Translation: Detention is gonna be fun.

  “… and anyone interested in volunteering —”

  There’s a brief scuffling sound, then a whine of feedback on the PA system. I hear some muffled banging, like someone is trying to get in a door at the other end of the school. I glance over at Meghan, whose eyes are wide.

  “Yo, Adams Middle School! It’s Omar —”

  “— and Jamil!”

  “— and we’re keepin’ it real! Yo, here’s a little rap for all my sisters and brothers —”

  “— and even the others —”

  “— hope you’re dealin’ with the feelin’ that this school’s kinda whack —”

  “— and your teachers are freakin’ like they’re ’bout to attack —”

  “— well, don’t let it get ugly and don’t let life get hairy —”

  “— just try to keep your cool like Ben and Jerry!”

  “Peace out, yo!”

  At that moment, the bell rings, and our class erupts. Everyone’s talking and laughing, and nobody is paying attention to Ms. Anderson, who keeps shouting, “Passing period is supposed to be quiet, people! Quiet!”

  Marco swings his video camera around, capturing the mayhem.

  “Did you get the whole rap on video?” I ask him.

  He nods. “Lucky I didn’t shut if off before they started. What was that?”

  “A rap bomb,” Meghan explains. “They just busted in and took over the announcements.”

  “Aren’t they going to get into trouble?” I ask.

  Meghan laughs. “Oh, yeah.” Then she looks at Marco. “Please delete that laugh from your video.”

  Marco turns it off. “Done.”

  “Worried Omar and Jamil might get mad?” I ask.

  “I just don’t want them to rap bomb my next oral report,” Meghan says.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Marco agrees. He stuffs the video camera into his backpack.

  I have no clue what he’s going to do with all of the stuff he’s taping.

  I have a framed photo of me and Artie on my bedside table. It’s from last year. We were at the park, and you can see that the leaves on the trees behind us are turning red and orange. Artie has her arm around my neck, and I’m laughing. Artie is looking straight at the camera with this little smile on her face, like she’s feeling kind of smug because she just said something hilarious. My mouth is wide open, and you can only see half of my face. It’s not the most flattering shot, but I love that photo.

  I love it so much that I haven’t taken it down, even though I don’t really love Artie anymore.

  There’s something about it — it really captures how I was feeling at that moment. I was just … happy. It wasn’t complicated. Being with Artie was easy. The park was beautiful. The word I think of when I see that photo is radiant.

  Marco took the photo.

  He’s always been into photography. Even when we were little kids, he would wander around with an old digital camera, snapping photos of everyone on the playground. I remember in fifth grade, Marco found out about this photography camp. He was dying to go. It was run by a local photographer, and he would’ve learned all about composition and lighting, and he even would’ve gotten to develop his own film in a darkroom, old-school style. He was so excited; he talked about it for a week before he got up the nerve to ask his parents about it.

  But when he did, Marco’s dad told him that he’d already signed him up for soccer camp. Soccer players can get college scholarships, his dad had said. Photography is a waste of time, he’d said. Forget about it, he’d said.

  Well, Marco never mentioned the photography camp again … but I’m not sure he ever forgot about it.

  It’s weird how things work out. Like, now Marco’s been kicked off the soccer team … but he’s picked up a video camera. So that might end up being a cool thing. He’s good wi
th pictures, that’s all I know.

  I can’t wait to see what he does with it.

  Meghan dashes through the door to the costume shop, her pink bangs plastered to her forehead.

  Ms. Lang flares her nostrils and purses her lips into a frown. “You’re late.”

  “I know.” Meghan gulps some air and perches on a stool. “Someone had a question about the elections for class rep next year, and so I started explaining —”

  I make a cutting motion across my throat. Ms. Lang is not in a good mood. The first thing she said to me when I walked through the door was, “I guess you think it’s pretty hilarious to take an expensive item from the drama department and use it for your own amusement, don’t you?”

  “I really don’t,” I told her.

  “I’m not done speaking!” she shouted, and when Artie made a little hmm noise like she agreed with what Ms. Lang was saying, the drama teacher screamed at her, too.

  Ms. Lang is a small person. Like, I could probably use her as a toothpick. She dresses in natural fiber, hippie-chick clothes and has these orange rectangular glasses. She wears her hair in a French twist, and she might even be pretty … if she weren’t so scary.

  As Meghan continues to babble away, I notice Ms. Lang’s eyebrows creeping up so far that they’re threatening to become part of her scalp. I intensify my Cut motion and shake my head.

  Meghan finally clues in. “And that’s why I can stop talking now,” she says. “Sorry.”

  Ms. Lang narrows her eyes like a dangerous iguana. Then she sucks in a breath. “I’m not here to babysit you three. What I want you to do is to sort through the costumes. Separate anything that is torn or soiled so that it can be repaired. I want everything in top shape for the Spring Spectacular.”

  “That sounds fun!” Meghan says, and Ms. Lang gives her a look that could vaporize her.

  “It’s not meant to be fun,” Ms. Lang says. “When you’ve completed that task, you can get busy cleaning the floors and organizing the small props. I’ll be back to check on your progress in half an hour.” And she swoops out the door.