Confectionately Yours #3: Sugar and Spice Page 4

  “I love them!” I lean across the table and give him a peck on the cheek. “They’re perfect! Where did you find them?”

  “Oh, there was a specialty baking shop across the street from the office,” Dad says. “I thought they might have something good, so I managed to dash in.”

  I’m really touched that my father took the time to go to a baking store to look for a gift for me while he was working. Dad isn’t really a gift guy, usually. This is one way that Annie has been a good influence on him.

  “And for you …” Dad pulls out a book and gives it to Chloe. It’s Chicago Poems, by Carl Sandburg. “I don’t know if you’ll be interested, but I thought maybe you and Rupert might like to read a few….”

  Chloe touches the title, running her fingers over the letters. Her lip trembles a little, and tears spring into her eyes.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, and that does it: Chloe starts crying for real — heaving, messy sobs. She leans against me, and I put my arm around her, and just then our pizza arrives, and we all have to sit there in awkward silence while Chloe cries and our waitress pretends not to see as she sets the pizza on a rack and puts plates in front of us.

  Once the waitress darts away, Dad leans across the table. “Chloe, honey, I didn’t mean to upset you….” He flashes me a Please help! look.

  “What’s wrong, Chlo?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she whimpers.

  “That’s so obviously a lie,” I tell her, stroking her hair. “I mean, you’re getting tears and snot all over my shirt.”

  Chloe takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Rupert’s moving away!” she wails.

  “What? How can he move away?” I ask, and realize that I’m wailing, too. Dad looks at me and shakes his head, like, Not helpful. I clear my throat. “Where’s he moving?” I ask in what I hope is a much calmer tone.

  Chloe takes a few deep breaths, and Dad serves up a slice of pineapple pizza for her. I help myself to cheese. Chloe takes a bite and chews slowly. “Rupert’s father is getting out of his treatment facility,” Chloe says. “He won’t be living with his foster family anymore.”

  “Oh,” I say. I hadn’t even realized that Rupert was living with a foster family.

  “He has to move across town,” Chloe says. “He has to change schools.”

  “How does Rupert feel about all of this?” Dad asks.

  “He says he misses his dad,” Chloe admits. “But he also says that now he’ll miss me.” Her eyes sparkle, and a fat teardrop falls from her lower lashes to her cheek. “And I’ll miss him.”

  “Oh, Chloe,” I say, pulling her in for another hug. I don’t know what to say — I really don’t. Have you ever heard the term soul mate? Well, Rupert is like Chloe’s little soul mate. They’re like two peas.

  “Look, Chloe, it’s great that Rupert’s father is ready to take care of him again,” Dad says. “And it’s good news that he isn’t moving too far away. You know, Northampton has something called school choice — that means that you don’t have to go to the school in your neighborhood. You can choose to go to a school across town.”

  “So, he may not have to change schools?” Chloe asks.

  “Right. I don’t know the situation. I’m just saying that it may not be as bad as you think.”

  Chloe takes another bite of pizza and chews thoughtfully. “It still won’t be the same, though.”

  Dad nods. He smiles, but he looks a little sad. “Nothing’s ever the same, honey,” he says. “Everything changes.”

  We all eat and think about that for a while. I’m a little surprised that Dad has managed to come through with words of wisdom … surprised, and happy. Usually Mom is the person we talk to about stuff like this.

  “So, listen,” I say finally. “I’ve got these new cupcake toppers. I think I’ll make us some dessert when we get home.”

  “Chocolate cupcakes?” Chloe asks.

  “Anything you want,” I tell her, but secretly, I think chocolate would be perfect. I want to make something that says comfort. And what could be more comforting than that?

  “Good news,” Meghan says the minute I walk up to my locker.

  “Anders’s English test is canceled?” I guess.

  “Antoine Kennedy is doing a karate demonstration for the talent show.”

  “We’re having a talent show?”

  Meghan’s blue eyes go wide. “Don’t you remember?” she asks.

  “I didn’t realize it was a definite thing,” I tell her. “Have you cleared it with anyone?”

  Meghan lets out a pfft, and her pink bangs fly off her forehead. “I’ve got to drum up interest first.”

  “You’re a force of nature,” I tell her. She seriously is. I’ve never had a friend who has so much in common with a hurricane: loads of wind, utter chaos, and streets lined with debris. On the other hand, Meghan is a lot more fun than a hurricane. So there’s that.

  “Thank you.” She looks at me like I’ve just crowned her Miss America.

  I can’t help giving her a little hug. “You’re welcome.”

  The bell rings. “Eek!” Meghan looks at her watch. “Gotta jet. Let me know who else is in!” she calls over her shoulder, as if I’ve told her that I’m going to help with this project.

  Which, of course, I am.

  I toss three notebooks into my locker and yank out my history book. I shove what I need for the first two periods into my backpack and slam the locker door shut. Then I dart toward homeroom so quickly that I trip over a pile of books that has just fallen to the floor beside me.

  “Watch out!” Artie shouts as I sprawl halfway across the hall, landing on my butt. Eternally sarcastic Ezra bursts into applause, and I give him my best Ms. Lang glare.

  “Sorry,” Artie mumbles as she begins to gather her books.

  I pick up the two spiral notebooks that are closest and hold them out, but Artie has just dropped the other half of her books and a sheaf of homework paper flies into the air like ticker-tape confetti. She has to begin gathering everything all over again. I haul myself off my rear and help.

  “Sorry!” Artie says as people push their way past. An eighth grader steps on Artie’s notebook, leaving a sneaker mark, and Artie winces.

  I pick up the notebook and dust it off while Artie chases down the loose papers. Eventually, we get everything picked up. Artie shoves all of it into her backpack without sorting it, then rubs her temples. “Well, that was fun,” she snaps.

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  Artie rolls her eyes and starts to walk away.

  “What’s stressing you?” I ask.

  “What?” Artie turns back to face me. “What makes you think I’m stressed?”

  “You always get the drops when you’re freaking out about something. So what is it?”

  The bell for homeroom rings.

  “We’re late,” Artie says.

  I shrug. “Anderson gives us two days a semester to be late. I’ve got two left. How many have you got?”

  “Two.”

  “So now we each have one. What’s bugging you?”

  Artie sighs and glances down the empty hallway. It’s amazing how quickly it clears out. Like, it’s complete crowded mayhem for three minutes, then — bam — Sahara Desert. “It’s just — Improv Group auditions are at lunch today.”

  “You’re trying out?”

  “Is that dumb?” Artie bites her lip.

  “No, it’s fantastic! You’ll be terrific. Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “Well … it’s just … Ms. Lang decides who gets in.”

  “You’ll be great,” I tell her. “You’re really funny when you want to be.” And then, I don’t know what makes me do this, but I reach out and touch Artie’s hand. She looks surprised, but she squeezes my fingers three times. That was what we always used to do when we were feeling nervous, or whatever. Our secret signal.

  Artie closes her eyes, and her chest rises as she takes a deep breath. When she opens her eyes again, they look c
learer. Less freaked out. “Thanks, Hayley.”

  We stand there for a minute, and then I guess we realize that we don’t really have anything else to say. So I turn toward homeroom, and Artie follows. I hold the door for her, and we walk in together.

  Just like we used to. Back when we were friends.

  Last year, Artie and I went to see a community theater production of Annie. It was, like, the worst show I’ve ever seen. The lead was pitchy. Daddy Warbucks couldn’t dance and looked like he was about twelve. And I couldn’t understand a word out of Rooster’s mouth.

  Artie and I were pretty disappointed, because Annie had been our absolute favorite thing in the whole world when we were in second grade. I still love the music. So it was a bummer to see these people butcher it.

  Anyway, we went back to my house afterward because Artie was going to spend the night. We headed into the kitchen, and I got out some milk to make cocoa. But the milk slipped out of my hand and spilled all over the floor, and at that moment, Artie busted into “It’s a Hard Knock Life,” complete with dance routine.

  That made me laugh, so she started acting out the whole show. She did all the characters: Annie, Daddy Warbucks, Miss Hannigan, Rooster’s girlfriend. Sometime around the song “Maybe,” I completely lost it — I was laughing so hard that my sides hurt. I was in pain.

  But I still couldn’t stop giggling.

  I took a sip of water to calm down, and that was when Artie let loose with a spunky rendition of “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile.”

  Artie tap-danced around the kitchen and got so carried away that she slipped in the spilled milk and landed with a splat. Then I snorted my entire drink out of my nose, which made Artie laugh harder. She hauled herself up and tried to collapse on the stool next to me, but she knocked it over instead, and then we both cracked up some more.

  We laughed as we cleaned up the kitchen. We laughed as we painted each other’s toenails. Then, even after we settled down, one of us would think about it again and start to giggle, then the other one would, too, and soon we were off again.

  The laughter even trickled into the next morning, while my dad was making pancakes. Even now, I can’t hear a song from Annie without cracking up.

  I swear to you: That really happened.

  It seems like a dream now.

  Orange-Creamsicle Cupcakes

  (makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

  Sometimes, in the middle of winter, I’ll just all of a sudden start thinking about summer. Like today, I was looking out at the gray clouds and the snow on the ground, and I started remembering blue skies and walking around without my coat. I thought about the ice cream truck that sometimes comes to our school. And then I wanted a Creamsicle. But it’s too cold for a Creamsicle. So — cupcakes!

  INGREDIENTS FOR CUPCAKES:

  3/4 cup milk

  1/2 cup orange juice

  1/3 cup canola oil

  3/4 cup granulated sugar

  1 tablespoon orange zest

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1-1/3 cups all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  1/2 teaspoon baking soda

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  INGREDIENTS FOR ORANGE DRIZZLE (OPTIONAL):

  1 cup confectioners’ sugar

  3/4 teaspoon orange zest

  2–4 teaspoons orange juice

  INSTRUCTIONS:

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

  In a large bowl, whisk together the milk, orange juice, oil, sugar, orange zest, and vanilla extract, and set aside.

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

  Slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet ones a little bit at a time, and combine using a whisk or handheld mixer, 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.

  With your (clean!) thumb, poke large holes into the center of each cupcake. Alternately, take a small knife and carve out a cone from the center of each cupcake to create a well. (You can discard the cones, or eat them.)

  Fill a pastry bag with the vanilla frosting. (You can also make your own pastry bag by cutting off a corner from a plastic Ziploc bag.) Insert the tip of the pastry bag into each cupcake, and squeeze it to fill the cavity you created. Then swirl the frosting on top of the cupcake to cover the opening.

  OPTIONAL: Prepare the orange drizzle by using a whisk to mix together the confectioners’ sugar, orange zest, and orange juice until smooth. Add a little more orange juice if needed to ensure that the mixture has a runny consistency. Drizzle the mixture on top of the vanilla frosting.

  Vanilla Frosting

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 cup margarine or butter

  3-1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar

  1-1/2 tablespoons milk

  1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  INSTRUCTIONS:

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

  Slowly beat in the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches, adding a little bit of milk whenever the frosting becomes too thick. Add the vanilla extract and continue mixing on high speed for about 3–7 minutes, until the frosting is light and fluffy.

  I’m sitting in the window seat, my knees pressed to my chin. I’m trying to read To Kill a Mockingbird for English, but it’s not working out too well. I really like the book, but I’m having trouble concentrating. Too many thoughts about Chloe and Rupert are floating around in my mind. They’re downstairs together now. Rupert is probably playing the piano. Maybe Chloe is reading; maybe she’s dancing. Maybe she’s just listening, her eyes half-closed.

  Outside, the weather is what the forecasters call “a wintry mix,” and what I call “disgusting.” Rain falls and freezes, making the sidewalks into Slip ’N Slides. The days end early, so it’s already almost dark, and the streets are practically deserted. But then I notice a figure almost directly below, taking photographs of the tree outside. The freezing rain has coated the tree with ice, and silver icicles sparkle in the fading light.

  The figure is wearing a heavy coat with a hood hiding his face, but I can tell just by the way he’s standing there that it’s Marco.

  That’s so Marco. To come out in the hideous weather just to photograph a tree. I wonder if he plans to come into the café for a scone or something before he takes the bus back home. I decide to offer him one.

  I hop off the window seat and pad out into the hallway in my stockinged feet. My boots are downstairs, beside the door, along with my coat. As I head for the back stairs, I catch Mom’s voice on the phone in the kitchen.

  “Oh, it’s fine,” Mom is saying. “I don’t know, Denise. It’s a bit overwhelming, to tell you the truth.”

  Denise — that’s my aunt. For a moment, I consider asking Mom for the phone. I haven’t spoken with my aunt for a few weeks, and she’s one of my favorite people in the whole world.

  But then Mom says, “There’s the girls. It looks like Chloe’s best friend is moving away. And the café is picking up, but it’s a lot to manage. And now I might have a wedding to plan —”

  It’s hard to describe what happens to me then. It’s like that freezing rain has trickled over my entire body, turning me to ice. Wedding?

  My feet carry me forward, away from the kitchen, and into the stairwell.

  Wedding?wedding?wedding?wedding?wedding?wedding?

  I push the word away, sweep it into a corner of my mind. Is Mom planning to marry Ramon? I don’t even want to think about it! A few days ago, I was worrying that my dad would get married to Annie. But this would be way weirder. Way.

  I step into my boots and pull on my heavy coat, which is still damp from earlier. I grab a red umbrella. I can dimly hear notes from the piano through the mudroom wall. The music fades as I step into the cold. The freezin
g rain taps like gentle fingertips on my umbrella.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Marco looks over. “Hey,” he says. “Everything okay?”

  I shrug. “Life is weird,” I say.

  “Tell me about it,” Marco agrees. He looks thoughtful, then snaps a photo of me.

  “Oh, jeez, Marco, I must look horrible right now.”

  “You always look pretty,” Marco says.

  I feel myself blushing. I’m embarrassed, but Marco clearly isn’t. He just looks at me, as if it’s perfectly normal to tell someone that they’re pretty in the middle of the freezing rain.

  Marco kissed me once last year. The moment comes back to me in a rush: my heartbeat as he leaned toward me, the softness of his lips. I’m afraid I might start to cry again, like I did then. Marco gives me another piercing look, and I wonder if he can read my mind. I hope not.

  Marco looks away, and says, “Well, I should be getting home.”

  “Okay,” I say. I don’t tell him to come inside for a scone.

  He tucks the camera into his large pocket and heads off down the street, toward the bus stop.

  I think about how Marco snapped that picture of me. I wonder what he saw at that moment. I wonder what that photo will look like, but more than that, I wonder what I look like to him.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Chloe hits the MUTE button on the remote control. She always does that during commercials, which drives me a little crazy, to be honest. Chloe complains that commercials are annoying. But when she shuts off the sound, we just sit there watching silent commercials, which is even more annoying.

  “I think Jen’s going to win,” Chloe says, curling her legs beneath her. “Pepe is so full of himself.”

  “Lots of singers who are full of themselves win this show,” I point out.