She nudged me over to the chair in front of my desk and grabbed my hairbrush off the dresser. “Do you have any barrettes or ribbons or anything?”
This coming from the girl with the best hair in town. Natural blond, wavy—but not in an obnoxious frizzy way—and totally cooperative with whatever she wants to do with it on any given day.
“Sophie, my hair is short. I don’t need barrettes, and I never put anything in my hair. You know that.”
“You don’t have anything?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Hold on. Let me go see if you have something I can work with.”
She walked out and left me sitting there, wondering what was so wrong with my hair. It was brown, it was short, and I never had to do anything to it. Just wash it and go. Then I realized, maybe that’s what was wrong with it. Maybe it looked like all I did was wash it and go.
She came back with a bottle of gel Mom had gotten ages ago at the salon. I think she used it one time and never touched it again.
“Sophie? What are you going to do exactly?”
She squirted some of the gel into her hands and rubbed them together. “I don’t know. I just want to try something.”
I sat there as she rubbed the stuff through my hair, trying to sculpt it this way, then that way. She worked a lot on my bangs, trying to force them over to one side. She was taking forever. Then the doorbell rang.
“He’s here!” I yelled, jumping up and whacking her in the chin in the process.
“Ow!” she cried.
“Sorry. Come on. We have to go.”
I turned and faced her.
“Oh no,” she said.
“What? What’s wrong?”
I dashed over to the mirror. And shrieked. “Sophie! I look like Elvis. Only uglier!”
She tried to laugh. “I guess a little of that gel goes a long way. But come on, it doesn’t look too bad.”
“Doesn’t look too bad? Are you kidding me?”
I grabbed the brush, bent over so my hair hung upside down, and brushed my hair as hard as I could. I thought maybe I could brush some of the gel out and fluff my hair a little bit. But when I flipped my head back and stood up, my hair stuck straight up everywhere.
Sophie burst out laughing.
“Girls, come on, the reporter’s here,” I heard Grandma say.
I peeked out of my bedroom. Grandma was looking right at me, and she clapped her hand to her mouth.
“I need another minute, Grandma.” She nodded, her eyes wide with both shock and amusement.
I shut the door again and started brushing, my best friend laughing so hard she was absolutely no help. Not that I wanted her help, of course. I decided I never wanted her help again.
At least when it came to my hair.
Chapter 13
cherry devil’s food cupcakes
WHEN YOU NEED SOMETHING DEVILISH TO MATCH YOUR MOOD
When Sophie finally stopped rolling around on my bed and wiping tears from her eyes, the first words out of her mouth were, “Put on a hat!”
“A hat?” I cried. “Okay, if it were the middle of February, maybe a stocking hat and some gloves would work. But it’s summer, ya loonhead.”
She started to laugh again. “Not a stocking hat. You know, a fancy hat, like your grandma wears. Don’t you have any old hats she’s given you?”
It seemed like the only solution. I ran to my closet and started digging through the piles of old clothes I’d set aside to be taken to Goodwill. Underneath the pile, I found a funny-looking black hat with a little piece of netting that hung in front. Right. Perfect if we were going to a funeral.
“Isabel!” my dad called. “Hurry up. We’re waiting for you!”
I tossed aside a blue one with a big white flower on the side. Ug-lee! And then, from way in the back of my closet, I pulled out a little pink hat with a bow along the side.
I dusted it off and fluffed it up, then stuck it on and ran to the mirror. It wasn’t bad. “What do you think?” I asked.
“Just ducky. Now go out there and sell cupcakes!”
I walked out like I’d been planning to wear the hat all along. Grandma gave me the biggest grin when she saw me.
“Like grandmother, like granddaughter,” Dad said to Mom.
“Hi, Isabel,” the reporter said, sticking his hand out. “I’m Patrick.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” I said, trying to sound as sophisticated as Grandma when she says it.
The four of us sat on the couch, while Patrick sat across from us in the La-Z-Boy. Since there weren’t any more seats, Sophie stood next to the end of the couch.
Patrick started off by asking Mom and Dad questions about the original concept of a cupcake shop, who came up with it, why did they think it would be successful, that kind of thing. Then he got into asking us how we felt about Beatrice’s Brownies.
“Well,” Grandma said, “I’m sure you can understand our lack of enthusiasm over the opening of the store. They are a huge corporation and have mostly targeted large cities. Until now. Why come here, to our cozy town of Willow? What is there for them to gain? Not a thing, except crushing the hopes and dreams of families just like ours, who are trying to make a decent living in the neighborhoods where we grew up.”
“What do you think, Isabel?” Patrick asked me. “Have you ever had a brownie from Beatrice’s? Think the kids will prefer them over your cupcakes?”
I put my hand on my stomach, the butterflies flapping their wings hard in there. He’d asked me a question directly. I had to answer him.
I smoothed my dress across my lap and started talking. “No, I’ve never had one of their brownies. But we watched a special about them on TV. Their brownies look pretty good, I guess. And people seem to like them. Will kids want brownies or cupcakes? Well, I hope they’ll want cupcakes, but we’ll just have to wait and see.”
I sat back and breathed a sigh of relief that it was over. I’d been as honest as I could be. I glanced over at Sophie, expecting to see a thumbs-up. Instead her eyes were bugging out of her head; she was waving her hands back and forth and mouthing the words, No, no, NO!
Dad noticed and spoke up. “Sophie, is there something you’d like to say? We’ve known you for so long, you’re like part of the family now. Come over here and take a seat.”
He got up and made room for Sophie to sit next to Mom. Patrick asked Sophie for her full name and wrote it down in the little notebook he’d brought with him.
“What about you, Sophie? Think the folks in Willow will prefer brownies over cupcakes?”
“Are you kidding me?” said Sophie. “No way. Those brownies are terrible. They aren’t chock-full of chocolaty goodness like the commercials say. More like chock-full of artificial flavors and preservatives. We can guarantee you that It’s Raining Cupcakes will give you a fresh, homemade cupcake just like Grandma used to make every single time you come to visit.”
And with that, she pointed to Grandma and smiled, like the reporter had a TV camera in his hand instead of a notebook.
I sat there fuming, my hands balled up into tight fists. The nerve! How could she make my answer sound completely wrong? It wasn’t wrong. It was honest. Besides, how did she even know the brownies were terrible? Had she ever tried one? What if the company sued her for saying something mean like that?
I started to speak, to add something more newsworthy to my answer, when Sophie piped in with some more words of wonderful wisdom.
“I’m so sure people like cupcakes better than brownies, or any other dessert for that matter, I entered a cupcake recipe in a special baking contest for kids. Just you wait. I bet my cupcake recipe will win!”
I couldn’t believe it. Out of all the desserts she could have entered, she’d picked a cupcake recipe? I glared at her and almost said something, but just then the doorbell rang.
Patrick jumped up from his chair. “That’ll be the photographer. I want to get a picture of all of you downstairs, in front of the shop. Then I’ll have a fe
w more questions for David and Caroline, if that’s okay.”
They nodded, and we all stood up. When Sophie finally looked at me, she gave me the thumbs-up sign. By then I was sure she was out to make me look as stupid as possible. First the hair and then making me look bad during the interview. What was next? Pushing me out of the photo at the last second?
Dad greeted the photographer, and then we all walked downstairs. Sophie walked beside my grandma, chatting it up with her like they were best friends.
I reached up and fixed my silly hat, knowing I needed to stand next to Grandma for the photo, so people would think we dressed up like that on purpose. As I walked down the stairs, I saw Lana getting her mail.
“Hey, Lana,” I yelled, waving at her.
“Hi, Isabel,” she called back.
Sophie looked back at me, a question mark in her eyes. I had forgotten to tell her about Lana and her beautiful murals. Well, good. Let her wonder who the strange, pretty lady was who knew my name.
Outside, the photographer arranged us the way he wanted. The three adults stood in back, and Sophie and I stood in front of them. “I need to switch with her,” I told him.
“How come?” Sophie asked.
“So the only two ladies wearing hats in the photo are standing next to each other.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Sophie.
“Well it matters—,” I didn’t get to finish.
“Fine,” the photographer said. “Doesn’t make any difference to me. Please switch and let’s get this going while the sun is behind a cloud. Makes for a much better picture that way.”
We made the switch, and then he said, “Say ‘cupcakes.’ ” I didn’t say “cupcakes” and I didn’t smile, since I couldn’t find one single thing to smile about.
Patrick pulled Mom and Dad aside to talk to them a little more. Sophie and I stood there on the sidewalk with Grandma.
“I think it went just ducky, don’t you, girls?”
I didn’t answer. I was too mad. But Sophie spouted off a bunch of stuff, including how she was positive no one would eat at Beatrice’s once they read the article and learned that Beatrice’s brownies were filled with artificial flavors and preservatives.
It was then that I found my voice. My loud voice. “Sophie, do you even know if that’s true? I don’t think you should have said that. There are better ways to earn customers, don’t you think?”
Her mouth dropped open, like she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. I wanted to pop a cupcake into her big mouth. A whole carrot cake cupcake. Unfrosted.
“Well it was better than what you said, Miss Wishy-Washy. ‘I hope they’ll want cupcakes, but we’ll just have to wait and see.’ I thought the whole reason for the article was to MAKE PEOPLE WANT TO EAT YOUR CUPCAKES!”
“Okay, girls,” Grandma said, “that’s enough. Come on. You both had the best of intentions. And you did a lovely job. Now patch things up between you, what do you say?”
Neither of us said anything for what seemed like forever.
“Sorry, Isabel,” Sophie finally said. “I was just trying to help. But I’m going home now. You’re obviously mad at me. Call me later if you want.”
Before I could say anything, she took off down the sidewalk and around the corner.
Grandma pulled me to her and gave me a hug. “For goodness’ sake, Isabel, what is wrong? One minute everything’s ducky, and the next it’s like World War Three.”
I looked down and kicked a little pebble across the sidewalk. “I can’t stand it, Grandma. She does everything better than me. And what she wants, she gets. It’s not fair. She has a dog, and a boyfriend, and she even got to see the Grand Canyon.”
Grandma laughed. “I didn’t even know you wanted a dog. Or a boyfriend.”
I leaned up against the front window of the cupcake shop, the glass cool on my back. “I don’t. But I guess she did. And she got what she wanted. That’s my point. I want to go on a trip. Do I get to go? No. I want Mom to be happy. Is she? Mostly no! I want to look good for a picture in the paper, and something as simple as that doesn’t even work out. See what I mean? I don’t even know why I entered that stupid baking contest. Of course she’s going to win.”
“But you entered?” Grandma asked.
“Yes. I mailed it yesterday.”
She reached out and grabbed my hand, then gently rubbed it with hers. It felt small against mine. Fragile. “Things don’t always go our way, Izzy. But I’m proud of you for sticking your neck out and trying. If you don’t try, nothing happens. But if you try, well, you just never know. That’s what you want your mom to understand, right?”
I nodded and sighed. “I miss the old days, Grandma. I miss the days when Mom and I would bake together because it was fun. Will it ever be fun again?”
“I do believe it will be,” she said, pulling on my hand, leading me back to the door to go inside. “Think positively. Stay focused on the possibilities. What do you say?”
I couldn’t answer. Because I was starting to believe less and less in possibilities and more and more in plain, rotten luck.
Chapter 14
old-fashioned vanilla cupcakes
FOR THOSE WHO LOVE THE FAMILIAR
I didn’t call Sophie. And she didn’t call me. Instead I threw myself into the cupcake business. Grandma and I made about a gazillion cupcakes over the next week and went around the whole town, passing them out to anyone and everyone. We stood in front of the library, the swimming pool, and Mother Goose Park. Along with the cupcakes, we gave people a postcard Grandma had made with a coupon for two dollars off the purchase of a dozen cupcakes. Again and again, people told us how delicious the cupcakes were and that they’d be sure to stop in when the shop opened.
Of course, Mom didn’t hear any of it because she stayed home. She mostly sat in her room, or on the couch watching TV. We tried everything to get her to come with us, but she seemed determined to give up.
I went to the library and checked out a bunch of books to see if something might help her. Some of them had pretty interesting titles.
Don’t Be a Fraidy Cat: How to Live Like You Have Nine Lives
How to Find Your Happy Place in a Sad World
From Worrywart to Hopeful Hero in Ten Easy Steps
I left a couple on the coffee table in the family room and a few others on the nightstand in her room, so all she had to do was pick one up and start reading.
“We only have another week until we open,” I said to Dad one night while he and I sat watching TV. “What if she can’t do it? Are you going to bake cupcakes?”
He turned and gave me a slight smile. “I’m a fine cupcake baker, thank you very much.”
“Fine cupcake eater is more like it,” I said.
“That too,” he said, standing up. “And now I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late.”
“Good night, Dad.”
“Good night, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Dad?” I said, before he reached the hallway.
He stopped and turned to me. “Yes?”
“Do you think everything’s going to be okay?”
He put his hand up and rubbed his scruffy cheek. “Yes, I do. We just have to carry Mom through this right now. She doesn’t believe, so we’ll believe for her until she’s ready. That’s what families do, you know?”
“Yeah.”
He turned around. “See you in the morning.”
Suddenly I felt tired. Exhausted. I thought about what Dad said as I turned off the TV and went to my room. In my passport book, I wrote:
When I travel, I will pay someone
to carry my luggage everywhere I go.
It will just be so much easier that way.
—IB
The next morning Dad woke me up, shaking me and saying my name.
I sat up, afraid the place was on fire or something. “What is it? What?”
“Look!” he said. “They put us on the front page!”
He shoved the paper
in my face. I had to blink a few times to focus.
The headline read, LOCAL FAMILY KEEN ON CUPCAKES, NOT BROWNIES.
When I saw the picture, I wanted to throw up. I looked completely ridiculous in the hat. On Grandma a hat looked normal. Stylish. But on a twelve-year-old girl? Just. Plain. Stupid.
I fell back and pulled the covers over my head.
“What?” Dad said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled. “I need to wake up. I’ll be out in a little while. I’ll read the article then.”
He got up and left me alone to consider my options.
A. Use my babysitting money to buy up every newspaper I could get my hands on and then burn them.
B. Hitch a ride to Idaho and take up residency there.
C. Color my hair purple so no one would recognize me as the girl in the stupid hat.
D. Just accept the fact that I was the stupid girl in the hat, and it would blow over eventually.
I got up and put my robe on. At least Dad seemed happy about the article. Then I remembered what Sophie had said during the interview, and I wanted to see if they’d put it in the article.
I walked out and grabbed the paper off the table.
“Has Mom seen it yet?” I asked.
“No. She’s still asleep. I hope it cheers her up.”
I scanned the article, looking for quotes. My name was mentioned only once, in the beginning, when we were introduced as the family who owned the shop. Nothing I actually said was included. Sophie, on the other hand—“a close family friend,” according to the article—was quoted as saying, “It’s Raining Cupcakes will give you a fresh, homemade cupcake just like Grandma used to make.”
Even though Sophie sounded like she was being paid to plug our cupcakes, it was a good article. The reporter wrote about the different flavors, the flavor-of-the-month idea, and the hominess of the shop. I could see people reading it and wanting to come and try our cupcakes.
“Well?” Dad asked.
“It’s good. Really good. Except for the picture, where I look totally ridiculous. But it should make Mom feel better.”
He stood there, sipping his coffee. “I think it’s good too. Maybe her fear will lessen a bit after she reads it.”
It's Raining Cupcakes Page 7
