Confectionately Yours #3: Sugar and Spice Page 3

  Meghan stares at the empty door frame for a moment. “Okay, well, that’s cool,” she says.

  “Could you please just stop talking for thirty seconds?” Artie snaps. “You drive everyone nuts!”

  Meghan folds her arms across her chest, and I can tell that something unpleasant is about to happen, so I jump in with, “Hey, why don’t I start on this rack of guy stuff, Artie, and maybe you can do gowns? Meg, why don’t you take a look at accessories?”

  Meghan looks at me, then back at Artie, like she’s considering whether it’s worth her while to say something nasty. I guess it isn’t, because she says, “Okay, Hayley. Good plan.”

  Artie huffs out a sigh. “Fine,” she says. “Everything from the fall musical is messed up, so I’ll start with those things.” She makes her way over to a rack of clothes.

  The costume shop is small and narrow, a long room in the basement of the building. It’s got two doors and is crammed with clothes, boxes, props, hats, shoes, scarves, and a million other accessories. Every surface is crammed with stuff. There’s a musty, old-clothes smell, but I don’t mind it. It’s messy but cozy, almost nest-like, down here.

  I start by looking over suit jackets. Most of these seem to be in good shape. I notice a pinstripe with a frayed cuff, and place it aside. Cream linen with an ink stain — to the side. Then there are a few things that just need to be cleaned. I make space for them and put them in a neat little section. This kind of work calls out to my inner organizer, and after a while, I find I’m actually enjoying it.

  “Hmm,” Meghan says from across the room. When I look over, I see she’s wearing a pair of severe glasses and has draped herself in a poncho. “I suppose you think it’s amusing to organize the clothes for our Spring Spectacular?” she asks, pursing her lips into a frown. She looks freakishly like Ms. Lang.

  “Cut it out,” Artie tells her.

  Meghan grumbles. “If I want your opinion, Artemis Steele, believe me, I’ll ask for it.”

  I can’t help giggling, and Artie shoots me a glare.

  “Oh, good work, Artemis,” Meghan says in her best Ms. Lang voice. “Excellent Stare of Doom!”

  Before Artie can reply, I grab a sparkly headband and pop it onto my hair. “Um, hey, Ms. Lang — I have a great idea! Is it okay if the seventh-grade class council borrows the drama department van so we can go out for ice cream? Hayley can work the brakes while I turn the steering wheel!” Then I give a crazy, goofy smile that’s very Meghan.

  Meghan laughs.

  “Would you guys knock it off?” Artie says. “We’re supposed to be organizing this stuff, not hosting a talent show.”

  Meghan’s eyes light up in a way I know well. Too well. It’s that terrifying I have an idea look that she gets sometimes.

  Ms. Lang chooses that moment to check on us. She stops in the doorway and looks Meghan up and down. “Why are you wearing a poncho?” she asks.

  “Just … uh … checking the size.” Meghan bites her lip and pulls it off over her head.

  Ms. Lang looks at me, and I feel my blood curdle like old milk. I yank the headband off my head.

  “You girls are supposed to be organizing, not joking around,” Ms. Lang says.

  “That’s what I said,” Artie puts in.

  “If I want your opinion, Artemis, I’ll ask for it,” Ms. Lang says, and she sounds so much like Meghan did a minute ago that I have to pretend to sneeze in order to hide my giggle. Ms. Lang turns to me. “You and Ms. Markerson may move on to scrubbing the floor,” she says. “The cleaning supplies are in the closet. And if I hear any more noise coming from this room, believe me, I can find work for all three of you for next week, too.”

  She stomps off, like a teeny tiny Godzilla.

  Artie doesn’t actually say “I told you,” but she makes a little three-pitch hum, like hmm-HMM-hmm, that sounds exactly the same. I can read her mind, anyway, and I know that’s what she’s thinking.

  Meghan sighs and pulls off her fake glasses.

  “Come on,” I say, and we go get the bucket and rags from the closet. Meghan fills the bucket while I move furniture from the far corner.

  “So, okay, here’s the idea,” Meghan whispers as she dips a rag into the soapy water.

  “No.”

  “You don’t even know what it is!”

  “Shh!” This is from Artie.

  Meghan rolls her eyes at Artie, then turns back to me. “Hayley — it’s awesome! We’ll hold a talent show!”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because people at this school have talent, that’s why!” Meghan insists. “Like Ava, with her capoeira. And Elmo Jackson’s crazy puppets — have you seen them? And Julian Descartes — he can do, like, five hula hoops at a time! Oh, and Maria Chatzopolous’s juggling act! Seriously, why should the dramaramas be the only ones who appear onstage at Adams Middle?”

  I sigh. Here is the problem with Meghan’s ideas: They do sound fun. That’s where all the trouble starts.

  I scrub some disgusting brown crust from a baseboard. “But … we’d have to use the stage. Which means we’d have to get Ms. Lang to say yes.”

  “That’s true….”

  Meghan and I peek over at Artie, who doesn’t look up from the gowns she’s sorting. “Forget it,” she says. “There’s no way I’m helping you two.”

  Meghan shrugs and smiles at me. It’s a conspiratorial smile, like she thinks Artie will come around. But I shake my head.

  I’ve known Artie for years. I know how stubborn she can be.

  When she says no way, she means it.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “How was your prison term?” Gran asks as she hands me a dripping plate. “Were you forced into hard labor?”

  “Kind of. We had to clean out the costume department.” I wipe the plate with a towel and place it in the cabinet. Yes, we have a dishwasher, but Gran hardly ever uses it. She hates to waste water, she says, and goes old-school with a bucket of soapy water in the sink and then a quick rinse. But I know the truth — Gran just loves washing dishes. You can tell by the way she hums old show tunes while she does it.

  I don’t mind it, either. Especially since it was just the two of us for dinner tonight. Mom is out on a date with Police Officer Ramon, and Chloe is over at Rupert’s house. It’s not like there’s a huge stack of plates to deal with.

  “Hah! Your mother will be glad to hear that you spent the day sorting. She’ll probably want you to clean out your closet, now that you have so much experience.”

  “You mean she’ll want me to clean out her closet. It’s a disaster in there — someone should do an intervention.”

  “I wouldn’t interfere with that, my dear, or you just may find yourself buried under twenty years’ worth of old coats.”

  She has a point. Mom has never been good at getting rid of stuff. Even when we moved, she just packed it all into these huge stand-up wardrobe boxes. She said she couldn’t deal with getting rid of everything. It’s funny, because Mom is really organized … just not about clothes.

  There’s a rattle in the lock, and a moment later, Mom comes through the door followed by Ramon. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and her dark curls are wild beneath her red watch cap. “Hayley!” She beams. “How was dinner?”

  “Great,” I told her. “Gran made fish.”

  “Not shellfish, I hope,” Ramon says with a wincing smile.

  “No, my dear, I do try to avoid poisoning my granddaughter.” Gran gives him a wink and hands me the last platter.

  “Ah, I’ll never live that day down!” Ramon jokes. “I still feel so awful about that, Hayley,” he apologizes, sticking his hands deep into his coat pockets.

  This past Thanksgiving, we had two celebrations. First, Ramon came over and brought paella, which had lobster in it. I gobbled it up … not knowing that I’m allergic to lobster. A few hours later, it was Barf City meets Hivetown in full view of a country club full of elegant rich people. Luckily, we were with my dad, Annie, and her parents,
and her mom is a doctor. She took me back to her office for a shot.

  “That was, like, months ago,” I tell him. “Seriously, you don’t have to apologize every time you see me. It’s not like you did it on purpose.”

  “Or did he?” Gran says with a playful cackle.

  “Maybe you should find out if my mother is allergic to anything,” Mom suggests to Ramon, who laughs.

  “Would you like tea?” Gran asks. “You two must be cold. I’ll just put a pot on.”

  “I’d love some,” Mom says, and Gran fills the kettle.

  Ramon shakes his head. “I’ve got to get going.”

  “Well — thanks for a lovely evening.” Mom smiles up at Ramon. He takes a step forward, like he’s about to hug her, but she sticks out a hand for a shake. Then she sees her mistake and tries to give him a hug, but he’s already got his hand out, so they end up doing this awkward little handshake-slap-on-the-back thing.

  “Okay,” Mom says brightly, and lets Ramon out the door.

  “I’ll call tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Sounds good.” Mom closes the door and covers her face in her hands. Then she giggles, and when she takes her fingers from her cheeks, they’re pink again. “Oh, I’m so bad at this!”

  Gran looks at me and smiles. I have to admit that Mom’s pretty cute.

  “He thinks you’re adorable, darling,” Gran says. “And you are.” The kettle whistles and Gran pours boiling water over the tea. “I’ll just let this steep for a few moments while I gather my laundry together.”

  “I’ve got some things in the dryer,” Mom calls after her.

  “I’ll take care of it!”

  With a sigh, Mom pulls off her cap and her coat and hangs them on the peg by the door. Then she kicks off her heavy boots and pads over to me in thick wool socks. “How was your day, sweetie?” she asks as she gives me a hug.

  “Hmm … B plus, I guess. It was pretty good, except for detention.”

  “Oh, Hayley.” Mom shakes her head.

  “I know, I know….” Mom isn’t happy that I got detention, but she thinks Ms. Lang overreacted a little, so at least I’m not in trouble at home. “I never thought I’d be the kind of person who gets detention.”

  “You never got into trouble before you met Meghan,” Mom points out. She sits down at the kitchen table.

  “I know, but it’s weird — Meghan is a straight-A student and class rep. She’s just the only nerd I know who gets into trouble.”

  “Well … it’s not as if your grades are suffering,” Mom says thoughtfully.

  I carefully carry her teacup over to the table. “So … how was your date?” I waggle my eyebrows.

  Mom laughs. “Oh, Hayley, it’s so strange to have my own daughter ask me that.”

  “Yeah. It’s kind of strange to be your daughter and ask you.”

  We look at each other for a moment. I get the feeling that we both have more to say … but maybe neither one of us knows exactly what. Mom looks down at her teacup. Then she picks it up and takes a sip. “It’s bizarre to be dating again. I kind of hate it.”

  “Really? But Ramon is so nice….”

  “He’s very nice. But still — when you’re out on a date …” Mom shrugs. “I always feel like I’m auditioning for something. Like, I had to sit there and chat about my day and the café and everything … but really, I just wanted to get home and have tea and find out how you and Chloe were doing.”

  “We’re fine.”

  Mom presses her lips together, then takes another sip of tea. “Does Chloe seem … sad to you?”

  “Yeah. I think maybe she’s missing Dad.”

  Mom tilts her head, like she’s considering it. The kitchen is quiet. The clock tick-tick-ticks on the wall and I hear the water running in the washing machine down the hall. It’s nice to be here, alone with my mother. We don’t actually spend much time together, just the two of us. And I’m relieved that she’s noticed Chloe’s mood, too. It’s always good to know your parents are paying attention. It’s comforting. “I guess we’ll see,” Mom says at last.

  “She’ll tell us sooner or later.”

  “Hmm.” Mom looks at me from the corner of her eye, then nods. But I know what she’s thinking: I hope it’s sooner.

  I’m thinking the exact same thing.

  Last year, I caught Chloe crying alone in her room one afternoon. I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn’t tell me. She wouldn’t even admit that anything was wrong.

  For three weeks after that, she seemed sad.

  I remember the date that I knew for sure that something was wrong. March 11. “Hey — what’s Mara doing for her birthday this year?” I asked, checking the calendar. Chloe and Mara had been best friends since preschool.

  “Nothing special,” Chloe said.

  Nothing special? That was not Mara’s style. It wasn’t Mara’s mom’s style, either. These were the people who had taken over the local beauty salon and given fourteen six-year-olds “Rock-star Makeovers” the year before.

  I was sure that Mara was doing something for her birthday … and Chloe wasn’t invited.

  I fretted about it for another month but didn’t hear a word. Finally, Chloe’s teacher called Mom in for a conference. It turned out that Mara and two other girls had been picking on Chloe for months.

  I don’t know why Chloe hadn’t told us. Maybe she didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe she thought things would change. Maybe she was afraid Mom would do something big … which Mom, of course, did. She waited for the school year to be over (only another six weeks by then) and enrolled Chloe in a different school.

  And that’s when Chloe found Rupert. Her new best friend. Her real best friend.

  I wonder how much sooner that could have happened if Chloe had just spoken up.

  Raspberry Cupcakes

  (makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

  I top these with white-chocolate mint frosting. You could also just go with vanilla frosting … but why be normal?

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 cup milk

  1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar

  1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  3/4 teaspoon baking soda

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  3/4 cup granulated sugar

  1/3 cup canola oil

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1 6-ounce container fresh raspberries (or equal amount frozen raspberries, thawed), mashed into pulp

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with cupcake liners.

  In a large bowl, whisk together the milk and vinegar, and set aside for a few minutes to curdle.

  In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

  Once the milk has curdled, add in the sugar, oil, vanilla extract, and raspberry pulp, and stir. Then slowly 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 cupcake liners two-thirds of the way and bake for 20–22 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.

  White-Chocolate Mint Frosting

  INGREDIENTS:

  4-1/2 ounces white chocolate, finely chopped

  6 tablespoons margarine or butter

  2 cups confectioners’ sugar

  1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1 teaspoon mint extract or minced fresh mint leaves (NOT peppermint)

  Up to 1/4 cup milk

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  In a double boiler, melt the white chocolate until smooth, then remove and cool to room temperature. If you prefer, you can instead melt the white chocolate in a small bowl in the microwave, heating it on high for a few seconds at a time, then stirring until smooth. (Repeat heating if necessary, but don’t overdo it!)

  In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream the margarine or butter until it’s a lighter color, abo
ut 2–3 minutes.

  Slowly beat in the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches, adding the vanilla extract and either mint extract or minced fresh mint leaves about halfway through.

  Add the melted white chocolate to the frosting and combine thoroughly. If the frosting seems too stiff and thick, add a little milk until the right consistency is reached. Continue mixing on high speed for about 3–7 minutes, until the frosting is light and fluffy. Place in the refrigerator until firm enough to frost, about 30 minutes.

  “Daddy!” Chloe runs toward our father, who is waiting for us outside Sunrise Pizza.

  “Hey!” He scoops her up and swings her around, and she squeals happily. “I’m so glad to see my girls!” Dad holds out his arm for a hug, and I step into it.

  “We missed you,” I say. He still smells the same, I think as I breathe in the scent of his clean, pressed shirt. He hasn’t been gone long — we only missed one of our usual weekend dates, which is why we’re seeing him on a school night — but, somehow, it seems like forever.

  We head into the restaurant and take our favorite booth near the front. Chloe is bubbling over with excitement, telling Dad all about this science fair project that she’s working on, which sort of gets me out of having to tell him about my second day of detention. She wants to know if different kinds of bread grow different kinds of mold, which seems kind of disgusting to me, but Dad is all into it and starts explaining how bread mold is the origin of penicillin. Then the waitress comes to take our order, and we get the usual — large pizza: half cheese, half pineapple and ham. I take a dollar instead of a Coke (Dad’s standard deal, meant to encourage us to save money), but Chloe decides to get cranberry juice.

  Then Dad holds up a small purple shopping bag. “I brought you guys a couple of things from Chicago,” he says.

  “How was your trip?” Chloe asks, her eyes glowing. “I’ve never been to Chicago!”

  “Well, I hardly saw any of it,” Dad admits. “I was mostly just in an office building and a hotel. But I got you these….” He pulls out something wrapped in white tissue paper and hands it to me. When I unwrap it, I see long sticks, each topped with a paper office building. “It’s the Willis Tower,” Dad explains. “They’re cupcake toppers.”