Confectionately Yours #3: Sugar and Spice Page 6

  “It’s sold-out,” Tanisha tells him. Again, I kinda want to smack her.

  “That’s okay,” I call after them. “I’ve got to get home to help Gran.” But they are already swept into the crowd, moving away from me.

  In the next moment, Marco is through the doors, already gone.

  I never even got to ask him about Kyle.

  The night that Artie told me she had a crush on Marco, I couldn’t sleep. This was a year and a half ago, but it’s one of those memories that I’ve played over in my mind so often that it feels shiny and new, like a penny that has been rubbed clean.

  We were in my room, back when I had my own room. I was in my bed; Artie was on the trundle, and she asked if I could keep a secret. Then she told me that she liked Marco.

  Like liked him.

  I felt as if I’d just been hit by lightning, or maybe just whacked in the head with something heavy. I was stunned. And I said something dumb, like, “What if he doesn’t like you back? That would be weird.”

  But it would’ve been even weirder if he had liked her back.

  I mean, where would that have left me? If my two best friends became boyfriend and girlfriend, what would I be?

  Leftovers.

  I remember staring up at my ceiling, which was covered in glow-in-the-dark stars. Marco and Artie had helped me stick them up there. “These are pretty heavy plastic,” Marco had said as he stuck a fat one directly over my pillow. “If it falls down while you’re asleep, we could be talking major brain damage.”

  “You’re hilarious, Marco,” I’d told him.

  “The plastic isn’t that heavy,” Artie had pointed out. “Besides, Hayley has a pretty thick skull.”

  I wondered what putting up the stars would’ve been like if Artie and Marco had been sneaking giggles at each other the whole time. Or trying to hold hands. Or out watching a movie together, while I stuck the stars up by myself.

  And then, a few weeks later, my parents announced they were getting divorced. I went out in the backyard and told Marco about it. He comforted me. Then he kissed me.

  Then I burst into tears.

  I didn’t know what to do with that kiss. I didn’t want to be Marco’s girlfriend, either. That would have been just as weird as Artie being his girlfriend — maybe even weirder. It would have messed everything up.

  But, as you know, things got messed up, anyway.

  Just when things were seeming kind of normal again, Tanisha entered the picture.

  It looks like we’re never going back to normal.

  I guess that isn’t a real place, anyway.

  Lemon-Ginger Cupcakes

  (makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

  I read that basil means “best wishes,” and I like the idea of taking flavors that are sour and strong (lemon and ginger) and making them sweet. These are my Forgiveness cupcakes. I hope they work.

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 cup milk

  1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar

  1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour

  1 tablespoon cornstarch

  3/4 teaspoon baking powder

  1/2 teaspoon baking soda

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  1/3 cup canola oil

  3/4 cup granulated sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  2-1/2 teaspoons ground ginger

  Zest from 1 large lemon

  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, cornstarch, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

  Once the milk has curdled, whisk in the oil, sugar, vanilla extract, ground ginger, and lemon zest. 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 18–20 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.

  Basil Cream-Cheese Frosting

  INGREDIENTS:

  1/4 cup margarine or butter

  1/4 cup cream cheese, softened

  2 cups confectioners’ sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1 tablespoon minced fresh basil leaves

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream together the margarine or butter and cream cheese until completely combined, about 2–3 minutes.

  Slowly beat in the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches, adding the vanilla extract about halfway through. Once all the sugar has been added, mix in the minced basil. Continue mixing the frosting on high speed for about 3–7 minutes, until the frosting is light and fluffy. It’s best to make the frosting a day ahead to allow the flavor to really come out.

  The bell over the door jingles and a figure draped in black fabric bustles in. Cold air claws its way into the warm bakery before Uzma has a chance to shut the door.

  “Hullo,” Gran says, but her blue eyes are wary.

  Uzma’s dark eyes flash around the café. Mrs. McTibble sits at a corner table, sharing a scone with her “service dog,” Gwendolyn. (Gwendolyn wears a jacket that says “service dog” on it, so we have to let her in the café, but she’s also a Lhasa Apso, so I have my doubts.) A few students are drinking coffee and studying at the long table, and people on laptops are scattered about. “Have you seen Umer?” Uzma blurts.

  “Not since he dropped off the flowers earlier today,” Gran admits.

  Uzma fidgets and looks around again, as if she doesn’t quite want to believe Gran. I just keep on stirring. I’m making Forgiveness cupcakes — made with lemon and ginger. I’m hoping I can get one to Kyle.

  Finally, Uzma sighs and begins to turn away.

  “Is everything all right?” Gran asks.

  Uzma cocks her head, clearly surprised. “Yes, thank you,” she says sharply. There’s an edge in her voice. It definitely sounds like something is not all right. I look over at Gran, and see her right eyebrow lift slightly.

  “Would you like a cupcake?” Gran asks her.

  “No, thank you.” Uzma’s tone is as cold as the frigid February air outside.

  “Oh, come now, I insist,” Gran says. “Hayley has just made a fresh batch, haven’t you, dear? Surely you won’t refuse my granddaughter’s recipe?” She unties her apron and comes out from behind the counter, smiling her most engaging smile. “Hayley, dear, would you mind bringing us each a cupcake? And perhaps a pot of tea?” Gran takes Uzma by the arm and steers her toward the table by the bay window. “Is Earl Grey all right?”

  “That would be lovely,” Mr. Malik’s sister replies a little uncertainly. I mean, who can say no to Gran when she’s being so charming — and forceful.

  I get out two plates and set a cupcake on each. Then I pour some hot water into a teapot. I take over the cupcakes and then come back for the tea. When I return, Uzma is telling Gran about her ungrateful nephew, and Gran is nodding sympathetically. I think about what Mr. Malik said — that his sister needs a project — and wonder if Gran might be able to help her out.

  Maybe we could teach her to make cupcakes, or something.

  When I turn around, there’s a customer standing at the counter. “Rupert, how did you sneak in without jingling the bell?” I ask him.

  Rupert shrugs. “Is Chloe home?”

  What is this? The lost and found? Why is everyone looking for someone today? “Actually, she’s out shopping with Mom,” I tell him.

  “Okay.” He looks over the treats in the glass case.

  “Rupert, can I ask you something? Chloe tells me that you’re moving away. Is that true?”

  Rupert tears his eyes away from the profiteroles. “Just across town.”

  “But you’re changing schools?”

  He looks away. “Yes.”

  “But — you know �
� Northampton has school choice. You can choose where you go.”

  Rupert sighs. “I know. You can choose your school. But that doesn’t mean they’ll send a school bus out to get you. If you want to go to a school you’re not zoned for, you have to have someone take you. And my dad’s job starts early in the morning. He can’t drive me.”

  “Oh.” I wonder if Gran or Mom could take Rupert. But no. The café is always super busy in the morning. We open at six A.M. “Are you … How do you feel about living with your father?”

  “I love my dad,” Rupert says, and his voice is so warm that it actually surprises me. Chloe’s best friend isn’t exactly the most expressive guy.

  “Well … we’ll miss having you so close.”

  “I know,” Rupert says, and his eyes travel to the floor. “I’ll miss Chloe. And the Daczewitzes.”

  “Who are they?”

  “My foster family.”

  “Oh.” I flash back to a memory of Rupert at Halloween, with his sisters. I noticed at the time that they were much older, and that they looked completely different from him. You can never predict a family, Gran had said then.

  “Mr. Daczewitz is my dad’s good friend, from when they were in the National Guard together,” Rupert explains. “He said he’d take care of me, while my dad went … away.”

  “Where did he go?” The minute I ask, I want to take the words back. Where the heck do you think he went, Hayley? On a Caribbean vacation? “You don’t have to answer that,” I add quickly.

  “It’s okay. He was in a residential treatment program.” Rupert’s shoulder rises and dips. “He made some bad friends.”

  “Got it.” Residential treatment. That means drugs or alcohol. A shiver goes through me as I imagine what that must have been like.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. He was never bad to me. He just messed up his life.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything.” Sometimes it’s okay to tell a bald-faced lie, I say to myself.

  The door blasts open again, and there’s Chloe. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes shining. Mom is behind her, carrying a canvas tote bag full of groceries.

  “Rupie!” Chloe shouts and races up to join us. “Are you here to work on our book?”

  “I was a little early,” Rupert admits. “I was just talking to Hayley.”

  If Chloe catches the strained note in his voice, she doesn’t say so. “Let’s head up to my room,” she says. “I’ve got a few new ideas….”

  Neither one of them looks back at me as they scurry toward the back stairs.

  “Hayley, would you put these into the fridge?” Mom asks, pulling out whole milk and cream for the café. “I’m heading upstairs to start dinner.”

  “Sure,” I say, and bend down to tuck everything into the tiny fridge under the counter.

  “Well, thank you for a lovely chat,” I hear Uzma say.

  “It was a pleasure,” Gran replies. “Come by anytime.”

  I straighten up just in time to see the oddest sight ever: Uzma awkwardly embracing Gran, who can’t really hug back due to (a) extreme surprise and (b) the fact that she’s holding a dirty plate in each hand.

  Uzma finally releases her and blasts out the doorway in her graceless way.

  “Well,” Gran says as she places the dishes into the tub we use to bus the tables. “That was interesting. And how was your chat with Rupert?”

  “I’m not sure.” I explain a little bit about his situation. “I think I shouldn’t have asked so many questions. I might have hurt his feelings.”

  “Mmm. Perhaps,” Gran says as she pulls out a jar of colorful candy-covered sesame seeds. She places a few on the top of my cupcake, so that it looks like a flower. Sometimes, I forget that my grandmother is a genius when it comes to baked treats. “But maybe Rupert wanted to tell someone what’s going on in his life.” She glances out the window, and I wonder if it’s Rupert she’s thinking of, or Uzma. “Sometimes the people who most want to share are the ones who aren’t very good at it. Well … until they get going.”

  “Rupert’s interesting to talk to,” I say.

  Gran smiles at me. “Yes, that’s what Chloe tells me.”

  I laugh. I know what Gran is really saying — I used to be worried that Rupert was strange, and I wanted Chloe to make a “normal” friend. But now I know that Rupert and Chloe are perfect for each other. They’re just shy. And smart. And sweet.

  I really wish he wasn’t moving away.

  There is some sort of major logjam in the hallway that’s slowing everyone down. I look at my watch. If people don’t pick up the pace, I’ll be late to math. Great. Mr. Carter loves any excuse to give people detention.

  As I near the drama room, I see the problem: There’s a crowd gathered around a piece of paper posted by the door. The dramaramas are blocking the traffic. I spot my old crush, Devon, peering at the list, but I don’t say hello or try to catch his eye. It actually makes me a little sick to look at him now. How could I ever have thought he was cute? Sure, he looks like a lip-balm model — but he’s kind of a jerk. Besides, his left ear is bigger than his right.

  A whoop blasts off the lockers, and I see Omar giving Jamil a high five. Then I notice that Artie is standing beside them. She stands in front of the list, scanning it for a minute. Then she scans it again. Then she walks away.

  Now I’m part of the logjam. I fight my way through the dramaramas to get a look at the paper. “What’s this?” I ask Jamil, who’s still hanging around, grinning.

  “Improv callbacks,” he says.

  I feel like he has just reached into my chest and squeezed my heart. I scan the list. Trina Bachman’s name is there. Omar. Jamil. Devon.

  Artie’s name isn’t there.

  I look down the hall. I can still see her flowered backpack. “Excuse me,” I say as I push through the crowd. “Artie!” I call. “Artemis!”

  I know she can hear me, but she doesn’t turn back. But the crowd is thinning out, so I break into a jog. “Artie,” I say, and I touch her shoulder.

  She freezes, and I get in front of her to block her way. Artie’s face is red, and a thin blue vein in her forehead is standing out. Her eyes are red, too, and I know she’s focusing all of her will on not crying.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  Artie sucks in some air. “No big deal,” she says brightly. “Lots of people didn’t make it.” She even manages to smile, but she’s looking over my shoulder.

  She really is a good actress, I realize. “It is a big deal,” I say.

  Artie’s hazel eyes meet mine. “You don’t have to pretend to care,” she says. Then she steps around me, like I’m something in the way. A stone, maybe.

  And I can’t really tell if I do care or not.

  I used to have a hamster named Fabio. He had long, golden fur and a twitchy little nose. He loved cantaloupe and going outside in the backyard. I loved the feel of his scratchy little feet as he tried to run up and down my arm.

  Anyway, I had Fabio for three and a half years, and then, two weeks after Christmas, he died. I don’t know why. I didn’t feed him anything weird, or forget about him. He just died, I guess. I still feel sad when I think about it.

  I cried for a long time after Dad buried Fabio in the backyard. Mom and Dad tried to cheer me up, but I could tell that they didn’t really think I should be so upset over a hamster.

  I told Marco about Fabio, and he said, “That’s sad. Hamsters don’t live very long.” He was nice, but I could tell he didn’t really want to talk about Fabio.

  When I told my friends Lily and Jane at school, Jane just shrugged and started talking about her fish. Lily said her parents wouldn’t let her have any pets, and that was the end of the conversation.

  Chloe was the only person who seemed to feel the way I did. She bawled her head off. But that didn’t really make me feel better.

  And then there was Artie. When I told her about Fabio, she looked … I don’t know … stricken. I think that’s the word. Like some
one had just slapped her. She grabbed my hand and said, “Oh!” and then she have me a big hug. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m sad,” I said.

  “Of course you are,” Artie told me, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it was normal to be sad over a hamster.

  “I’m really sad,” I confessed. My voice was almost a whisper. It was hard to get the words out.

  “Fabio lived with you in your room for three years!” Artie cried. “He was there every day! You played with him, you fed him, you petted him. You spent more time with Fabio than with anyone else!”

  And then I really did start to cry, and Artie hugged me. I cried really hard until I started to hiccup, and Artie rubbed my back until I calmed down.

  I guess big deals are relative. What may be a big deal to one person isn’t a big deal to another. Or maybe some people are good at handling one kind of big deal, and bad at handling others. When my parents announced that they were splitting up, Artie didn’t want to talk about it. She wasn’t a very good friend then.

  But when Fabio died, she hugged me while I cried. Then we went outside together, into the snowy yard. I showed Artie the place where we had buried him, and she sang “Amazing Grace,” and we talked about the time Fabio got lost in the hosta plants and Marco wanted to call 911 for help. (We wouldn’t let him, and we found Fabio about three minutes later.) I remembered the funny little squeaks he would make when he was happy, and Artie remembered the time that he was crawling on my shoulder and dug his way into my shirt.

  We talked and laughed for a long time, and by the time Artie went home, I felt like the pieces of my heart had knit back together a little bit.

  Artie was the only person who knew it was a really big deal when my hamster died.

  And I know it’s a really big deal that she didn’t make the callback list for the improv group.

  Here is a secret: Sometimes you don’t stop caring about someone just because they aren’t nice to you.