It's Raining Cupcakes

by Lisa Schroeder

  “I should have waited and told you after camp,” she said. “Now you have the unfair advantage. Especially since I’ll only have a few days to make the deadline when I get home. I’ll have to work fast.”

  “Hey, maybe while you’re at camp, you’ll come up with a new and improved s’more recipe.”

  “How can you improve the s’more? It’s, like, chocolaty marshmallow perfection.”

  “Bye, Sophie Bird. See you in three.”

  “Bye, Chickarita. Be good.”

  I made a quick note in my passport book:

  I’ve heard walking down a busy sidewalk in New York

  is like swimming in a sea of people.

  I love to swim and I love people,

  so of course I would love

  New York!

  —IB

  I hopped on my bicycle, my thoughts turning faster than the spokes underneath me. A trip to New York and a thousand dollars!

  I knew I just had to win that baking contest. Even if it meant, for once, that something didn’t go Sophie’s way.

  Chapter 5

  carrot cake cupcakes

  PETER RABBIT’S FAVORITE

  When I got home, Grandma was there, helping Mom in the kitchen. The apartment smelled spicy, like cinnamon.

  “Izzy!” Grandma said when I walked in. She was the only one who ever called me that. “Just in time to try our latest creation. After I get a hug, of course.”

  I wrapped my arms around her tiny waist and let her squeeze me real tight, being careful not to bump her pink pillbox hat.

  Grandma always wears a hat. Her closet has two long shelves with stacks of hatboxes piled high. Inside are hats with veils, hats with beads, hats with feathers, hats with sequins—just about any kind of hat you can imagine. My grandpa was in the hatmaking business for a long time, until hats went out of style. He moved on to other things, but he always had a soft spot for hats, and it made him happy when Grandma wore them. Even after he died a few years ago, she kept wearing them. Some of the hats she has are probably sixty years old, and she usually has a crazy story about each one. I never know if she’s serious or just making it up.

  “Nice outfit,” I told her when I pulled away. Underneath her apron, I could see she had on a tailored white and pink pantsuit. Since she always wore a hat, she felt like she had to dress up to match.

  “Thanks, cupcake,” she said. “You’re looking quite ducky yourself.”

  “Ducky” is Grandma’s favorite word. Says it all the time. Drives Mom crazy.

  “This hat,” she continued, “is just like one the First Lady Jackie Kennedy wore that sad, sad day her husband died. I met Jackie Kennedy once, many years ago, at a fundraising dinner, did you know that? Lovely lady. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, then she leaned in to whisper in my ear. Why, my heart started racing, because I thought she was going to tell me some big secret. But you know what she said?” She paused to give a little giggle. “She told me that I had a smudge of lipstick on my teeth. Wasn’t that kind of her? It really felt like we had been friends forever.”

  I nodded like I always did when she started talking about people like that. Then my eyes traveled around the kitchen. A stack of dirty bowls sat next to the sink. About eight trays of cupcakes, most with one missing, were scattered across the gray Formica countertops. “Doing a little baking, huh?”

  “Oh yes. We’ve been perfecting one of our eight flavors. Carrot cake with cream-cheese frosting. Want to try the latest batch? We just frosted them.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t really like carrot cake. “No, thanks. Are you sure you want carrot cake as one of the eight? I mean, is anyone really going to pick carrots over chocolate?”

  The whole time Grandma and I had been having this exchange, Mom stood there, not saying anything. But as soon as I said that, she snapped out of her trance, throwing her towel on the counter. “She’s right. She’s absolutely right! What are we doing? We keep trying and trying to get this recipe right, when it shouldn’t even be one of the eight flavors. It’s boring. Vegetables are boring! We can’t do carrot cake. We can’t, Mom. We need to find something better.”

  Grandma wrapped her arm around Mom’s shoulders and started leading her out of the kitchen. “Why don’t you go take a rest? We’ve been on our feet all afternoon. Izzy and I will clean up in here. We can try again tomorrow.”

  “Wait!” I said. “Mom, before you go, I have the best news. Sophie told me about a contest in Baker’s Best magazine. It’s a baking contest for kids, ages nine to fourteen. We’re both going to enter. The grand prize is a thousand dollars!”

  They both turned around and looked at me, Mom’s eyes much brighter. “A baking contest? Will the finalists be on TV?”

  “Um, I’m not sure. Anyway, I have to come up with a recipe and enter by the first of August. And the finalists are flown to New York City. Can you believe that? New York!”

  “Oh, Isabel, you should come up with a cupcake recipe. If you make it into the finals, it could be great advertising for our little cupcake shop. We could even feature your cupcake—Isabel’s cupcake—as one of the flavors of the month.”

  I looked over at Grandma. She just smiled, not saying anything. It felt like my heart had jumped up into my throat.

  I tried to choose my words carefully, so I wouldn’t upset her. “But Mom, cupcakes are your thing. Why can’t I do my own thing? Besides, if I make cupcakes, they’ll think you helped me with the recipe.”

  The corners of her lips turned down just slightly. “If you tell them you came up with it yourself, they’ll believe you. Please, Isabel? This could be a chance for us to show the country our great little shop here. What does it matter what kind of recipe you enter, anyway? As long as you’re in the finals, right?” She smiled again. “Oh, this is going to be great. I can’t wait to see what kind of cupcake recipe you come up with. All those times we’ve baked together will come in handy now, won’t they?”

  And with that, they turned and walked toward Mom’s bedroom.

  I went to the sink, put the stopper in the drain, and turned the water on full blast. I threw beaters, scrapers, and silverware into the water, creating splash after angry splash.

  How dare she tell me what to bake for the contest! Why was everything about her? Couldn’t she think of me just once? What a stupid idea. They’d call me a cheater for sure. I didn’t care what she said. I wasn’t doing it.

  Grandma came back in and stood beside me at the sink. She reached over and turned the water off. I hadn’t noticed that the water in the sink was about to overflow. “You didn’t add soap,” she said softly.

  I reached under the sink, grabbed the bottle of dishwashing soap, and squirted a bunch into the sink. “There. Now we have soap.”

  She rolled up her sleeve, stuck her hand in the water, and stirred the water hard. Bubbles rose to the surface. Then she turned and looked at me, her eyes soft and warm, like a blanket you reach for when you want to curl up and read a book.

  “I know it must be hard, honey. You had to move. Your mother is stressed about getting this business off the ground. Your dad is busy working downstairs. All I can say is, follow your heart. Think about it, and do what your heart tells you to do. You have a good heart, I know that as sure as I know your grandpa loved hats.”

  Well, my heart sure didn’t feel very good. “Grandma, I thought this was all going to make her happy. I mean, it’s been me and Dad walking on eggshells around her for so long, and then, with this cupcake idea, she was finally thinking about something besides her problems for once. I thought things were going to be different. Better, you know?”

  I blinked real fast, trying to keep my eyes from getting teary.

  She gave me a squeeze, her wet hand cool on my shoulder. “You are an amazing girl, Izzy. I’m sorry it’s so hard for you sometimes, but your mother loves you very much. Thank goodness she has you, honey. And you know, I think deep down she is happy. We just can’t see it right now because of all the other stuf
f she’s feeling too. It’s stressful right now, but it’ll get better. So try not to worry, okay?”

  Easy for her to say. She didn’t have to live with Mom.

  While Grandma went to work washing the dishes in the sink, I walked over to a pan of cupcakes, ready to change the subject. I might like parties, but pity parties aren’t my idea of a good time.

  “What are we supposed to do with all these cupcakes?” I asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “Those are the rejects. They weren’t quite moist enough. They may not have had enough oil in them. Or she may have overmixed them. I’m not really sure. In any event, you can throw them away. The good batch is over there.”

  I followed her pointed finger to a plate of cute little cupcakes set aside, all nicely frosted, with two sliced almonds crisscrossed in the center of each.

  “I’m going to go see if Stan and his wife are around. Maybe they’ll take some of these. We can’t eat them all.”

  “That’s a ducky idea, Izzy. I’m sure they’ll appreciate that.”

  I walked down the hall to Stan’s apartment and knocked, but nobody answered. Wondering if they’d already left for their trip, I went down the stairs and out the door, to see if the barber shop was open.

  I hadn’t been inside his shop before. There were two stations with big, black swivel chairs in front of mirrors along the right side of the shop. Along the back wall was a sink with a chair in front of it, and a shelf of shampoos and other products sitting above the sink. Up front, by the large picture window, sat a row of chairs with a coffee table in front of them, piled high with magazines. Two old guys sat there, reading the newspaper.

  Stan was cutting a kid’s hair, while the kid’s dad stood beside him, watching.

  “Well, Isabel, how nice to see you,” Stan said, holding his scissors up in the air. “Need a trim?”

  Without thinking, I reached up and touched my straight, short brown hair. Did it look like I needed a trim? Wasn’t a barber just for men? “No, thanks. I’m good. I actually brought you some of my mom’s cupcakes. We’re doing a lot of baking and sampling, and one family can only eat so many, you know?”

  “Pass them out,” he said, waving the scissors around. “Except for Phillip here. He needs to wait until he’s done. Otherwise he’ll be picking hairs out of his food right and left. And it won’t be the chef’s fault.”

  By now the two men had set their newspapers down. They each took a cupcake and thanked me.

  The dad standing next to his son took two. “I’ll hold Phillip’s until he’s done.”

  “Well, land sakes,” I heard from behind me. “This is one doggone good cupcake. You make these, miss?”

  I turned around. One of the men was wiping frosting from his top lip, using his finger. I realized I should have brought napkins. Cupcakes can be messy.

  “No. My mom. She’s opening up a cupcake shop next door. The grand opening is August fifteenth. You should stop by. It’s going to be really great.”

  “Delicious,” the other man said. “Give your mother our compliments.”

  I felt my heart flutter in my chest. They liked them! They liked the cupcakes. I couldn’t wait to tell her. That’d give her a good boost of confidence.

  Stan unsnapped the cape around the kid’s neck, and the kid jumped out of the chair. “Can I have mine now?”

  I started to warn him that it was carrot. He might be disappointed. But I didn’t say anything, just bit my bottom lip and waited. Maybe the kid liked carrot cake. Maybe it was his absolute favorite. Yeah, right, and every kid begs to eat their brussels spouts.

  He bit into it, looked up at his dad, and said, with a mouthful of cupcake, “Mmmmmm. That’s good.”

  “I know,” agreed his dad. He looked at me. “They really are delicious. Thanks for sharing.”

  I smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  Stan walked over and took two from the plate I was holding. “I’ll take these home with me when I’m done here. The perfect dessert after supper tonight. Judy’ll be thrilled.”

  “Good. Hey, when do you leave for your trip?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”

  “Take lots of pictures. And don’t forget to send me a postcard!”

  “Okay, I will. See you when we get back.”

  I waved to everyone as I started to walk out.

  Behind me, I heard Stan say, “Knock-knock.”

  The kid answered. “Who’s there?”

  “Phillip.”

  “Phillip who?”

  “Phillip the gas tank, I’m running low.”

  I heard the boy laughing as the door closed behind me.

  Back upstairs, Grandma had the kitchen just about cleaned up. Dad was standing there, talking to her. I handed him the plate, only half full now. “I took them down to the barber shop and passed them out. They loved them. I want to tell Mom.”

  Dad took hold of my arm as I started to leave, a nervous smile on his face. “Isabel, I just went in to see her. Please, don’t say anything to upset her. This is a really hectic time for her.”

  Like he needed to tell me that. While I walked down the hall toward her room, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. What would she say when I told her they liked the cupcakes? Would she even believe me? What if she brought up the contest again? Would I have to lie and tell her I would make cupcakes when I wasn’t sure what I was going to make?

  I took a quick right, went into my room, and shut the door. I’d tell her later. Or maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal after all. Maybe I didn’t even need to mention it.

  I thought of Stan getting ready to go to England, and how I would have loved to be getting ready to go on a trip right about now.

  Getting a postcard means

  someone is thinking about you.

  It’s also like getting a little piece

  of the place the person is visiting.

  I love getting postcards.

  When I travel someday,

  I will send lots and lots

  of postcards.

  —IB

  Chapter 6

  banana cream pie cupcakes

  WHEN IT’S HARD TO DECIDE WHICH DESSERT SOUNDS BEST

  For the next couple of weeks, I spent most of my time either babysitting the twins or reading travel books in the library. And I thought about the baking contest. A lot. I couldn’t figure out what to do. I didn’t want to make cupcakes. But nothing else seemed quite right either. A pie sounded too difficult. Cookies were too ordinary. A cake was hardly different from cupcakes. I didn’t know what to do.

  It was fun to get a postcard from Stan in the mail. He sent me one with Durham Castle on the front. On the back he wrote:

  Dear Isabel,

  We’re having a jolly good time here. The weather’s been truly grand. I miss everyone back home, however. Hope the cupcake shop is coming along splendidly. It’s sure to be a smashing success.

  Cheerio, Stan

  I took it along with me to show the twins. They weren’t impressed. “We want to swim!” Lucas said.

  “We want to swim, we want to swim, we want to swim!” they chanted, marching around the family room.

  We went outside to the backyard, only to find the kiddie pool completely empty.

  “If I fill it up, the water’s going to be really cold.”

  Lucas nodded his head hard, his blond curly hair flopping in his eyes. Those curls were my ticket to telling them apart. Logan didn’t have nearly as many.

  While Lucas nodded, Logan clapped his hands, like he’d never heard anything so exciting. Really cold water? Yay!

  I dragged the hose over, stuck it in the swimming pool, and turned the faucet on. “Let’s go inside and read books until it’s full.”

  They didn’t move.

  “Come on, boys. It’s going to take awhile.”

  They still didn’t move.

  “Please? If we’re going to be sitting out here all afternoon, I
want a book to look at.” I had spotted a beautiful book about Colorado on their bookshelf the other day that I was dying to read.

  The boys stood there, hypnotized by the water running from the hose into the pool. For once they weren’t climbing something, spilling something, or tearing something apart.

  “Okay, you stay here,” I told them. “I’ll be back in a second. But listen to me. Do not get into that pool. Do you understand me? If you get in, I’m throwing it away. You’ll never, ever be able to swim again. You got that? DO NOT GET INTO THAT POOL.”

  “Okay,” Logan said. Lucas nodded in agreement.

  I ducked inside, kicked my flip-flops off, and ran to the front of the house where the living room was, all the while wondering how mothers of young children ever got anything accomplished. It seemed amazing that they weren’t all walking around completely filthy from not having showered for months. Unless they were waking up at four a.m. every day and showering then. Maybe that was their trick.

  I snatched up the book about Colorado, but as I did, my eyes couldn’t help but scan for others. There were a lot. I took one called 50 Amazing Things to Do in Chicago, and another one about Ireland, then hurried to the backyard.

  When I got there, Mrs. Canova, or Sue as she insisted I call her, was standing there, arms crossed in that “I’m so appalled with you” way, as two completely dressed boys walked around inside the pool, kicking and splashing water at each other.

  “Isabel?” Her eyes pierced mine.

  I gulped. “Yes?”

  “Did you leave them out here by themselves with a pool of water?”

  “Well, it was filling up and—”

  Her eyes narrowed even more as she stepped closer to me. “Did you, or did you not, leave them unattended with a pool of water?”

  I looked down at my toes, the red nail polish I’d put on a month ago starting to chip away. Obviously, she already knew the answer to that question. She had found them outside, and I wasn’t anywhere around.