Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake!

by Lisa Papademetriou

  I look at Mom sitting on my slightly rumpled, blue-and-white bedspread. We just repainted my room in the old house to match it last year — a beautiful pale blue like the edge of the sky on a hot day. But now some other kid is living in that room. Or maybe it’s an office. And here I am, in a too-narrow room with dingy mauve paint and a falling-down poster.

  “It’s hard not having your own space.”

  “I don’t mind.” I’m not sure if this is true or not, but I decide to give it the benefit of the doubt.

  Mom smiles at me. “It’s just for a little while,” she says.

  “I know.”

  Silence pulses between us.

  “Gran tells me that you’ve been helping at the café.”

  “She’s selling my cupcakes. Mr. Malik bought one yesterday, and came in for another today.”

  “I heard. That’s great.” Mom smiles again, and this time it’s a real smile that lights up her whole face. She leans forward and says, “Guess what — I have a job interview tomorrow.”

  “What? Awesome!”

  “Now I just have to figure out what to wear.”

  “Black pants, red shirt.”

  She laughs. “You have it all figured out?”

  “I’ve been planning,” I admit.

  Mom looks thoughtful, and I wonder if I’ve made her feel bad. I didn’t mean to. It’s just — Mom got laid off a couple of months ago. She used to be an office manager, and the office decided to downsize. That’s why we moved in with Gran. Of course, Gran makes it sound like we moved in because she’s some decrepit old lady who needs help running her tea shop, but I’m not sure if even Chloe is buying that one. Mom doesn’t want to help run the tea shop. She doesn’t even drink tea, and she can’t bake a scone to save her life. We’re here because we’re out of money.

  “Where’s the interview?” I ask.

  “At a doctors’ office,” she says. “A practice. Seven doctors.”

  “That’ll be good.” I just hope she gets it. She’s only had two interviews so far, and neither one of them panned out. Mom unfolds her legs and steps off the bed.

  “Come here, you,” she says, pulling me into a hug. I hug back, trying not to feel desperate. She needs this job, and we both know it. The Tea Room isn’t exactly a huge moneymaker.

  Just then, Chloe bursts in through the door, her ponytail half-undone and scraggly. “Why is everyone on my bed?” she demands.

  “Join us,” Mom says.

  Chloe smiles and hops onto the bed, and we all snuggle together for a minute. For a moment I’m reminded of three-year-old Chloe, who sang constantly and was a fountain of kisses and hugs.

  “Can Horatio come over for dinner?” she asks suddenly.

  “Horatio?” Mom repeats, obviously delighted. “He hasn’t come to dinner in ages!”

  “Is it okay?” Chloe asks.

  “Of course,” Mom says, giving my younger sister a squeeze. But I’m not so happy. I’ve never liked Horatio much, and I was pretty glad when he sort of disappeared for a while. But he’s back, I guess.

  I just hope he doesn’t sit next to me.

  Seriously. He’s my sister’s imaginary friend. Yes, she is eight and still has an imaginary friend. Is that weird, or am I paranoid?

  My mom thinks it’s adorable, and Horatio’s name brings up all sorts of nostalgia for her. He first appeared when Chloe was less than two years old, but we just called him Boy then. We would have tea parties with Boy, and celebrate his birthday, and take him sledding with us and stuff.

  He wasn’t named Horatio until she turned three. Mom says it was really weird — she has no idea how Chloe came up with the name. It’s not like there was another kid in her day care named Horatio or something.

  Anyway, Horatio and Chloe would play tag in the yard, or read together, or have long chats in the living room. It is very peculiar to watch your three-year-old sister play with Duplos while having an intense conversation in a low voice with nobody. Like, it’s the kind of thing that’s always happening in horror movies, and I guess a part of me has been sort of waiting for one of her freaky stuffed animals to come alive, or for the walls to start bleeding, or something.

  I guess that’s part of why he gives me the creeps.

  But the other part is my fear that Horatio is actually Chloe’s best friend … and that makes me sad. She’s always been shy, and ever since learning how to read, she spends most of her time by herself, sitting under a tree, face hidden behind a book. Shouldn’t she have real friends? I mean — she’s eight, not three. Mom doesn’t seem worried about it, but I am.

  I have to admit, I was hoping he was gone for good, but I’m not surprised that he’s back. With everything that’s happened to us in the past few months, I know Chloe needs a friend.

  I guess I’ve just been wishing that she would find a real one.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, you’re not screening your calls?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “I’m surprised you picked up the phone. You hardly ever do. Well, how are you?”

  “Good.”

  “Just good?”

  “Everything’s good, Dad. Getting my room set up.”

  “So … what should we do this weekend?”

  “I don’t know. See a movie, maybe? Chloe wants to see that new one about the princess and the —”

  “I don’t want to just sit in the dark and not talk to you guys.”

  “Okay.”

  “I thought we could go apple picking.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t sound excited about it. I thought you loved apple picking.”

  “I do — it’s just … It sounds good.”

  “Chloe likes apple picking.”

  “Right, Dad. Right. I mean — do you know how to make applesauce?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I just — we usually go apple picking with Mom.”

  “Okay, Hayley ….” Dad sighs.

  “But there’s no reason we can’t go with you, I guess. It’ll be fun.”

  “You bet it will.”

  “Can I bring Artie?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is our time together, Hayley. If you bring Artemis, then Chloe will want to bring a friend ….”

  “She can bring Horatio.”

  “Very funny. Look, I’ll pick you up Saturday morning at nine. Sharp.”

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t sound excited.”

  “I am. I’m … thrilled.”

  “Okay, Hayley, look — let me speak to Chloe.”

  “I don’t know where she is right now.”

  “Well, go find her.”

  “Okay. Hold on a minute.”

  “See you Saturday.”

  “Yeah.”

  I.

  Don’t.

  Want.

  To.

  Idon’twanttoIdon’twanttoIdon’twanttoIdon’twanttoIdon’t wanttoIdon’twantto.

  ot.tnaw.t’nod.I!

  A Dot Tint Now

  Dawn It Not To

  Tad In Town To

  Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going. Chloe is all excited — she wants me to bring Mom’s recipe for apple cake. It’s the one thing our mother knows how to bake. Chloe doesn’t even seem to have thought about how painful that would be for Mom. Not that I’m going to explain it to Chloe. I’m not that mean.

  Look, I don’t want to sound like a jerk or a baby or whatever. It seems ridiculous to complain about apple picking. And I’m not really complaining about apple picking. I’m not even complaining about my dad, if that’s what you’re thinking.

  It’s just …

  Now that we only see him once a week, we’re supposed to Do Stuff together. But when he used to live with us, we never had to do anything. We could just hang out and make pancakes or read the newspaper or watch a Godzilla movie on TV. Dad never complained if I wanted to hang out with Artie or Marco, or a
nyone.

  I didn’t have to cram in all of this quality time with Dad. He was just there. Or else he was at work, and I didn’t really think about him much. Now we have to Talk and Spend Time Together. Back then, we could just ignore each other or be together in quiet ways.

  I guess it sounds bad to say that I miss having my dad live with us because I miss taking him for granted.

  But that’s the truth.

  Horrible me.

  The noise of people chatting and silverware clinking floats through the air on a cloud of fried-food smell. I look over at the salad bar, where Artie hovers, debating with her usual thoroughness the choice between garbanzo and kidney beans. Her parents are all earthy-crunchy, and whenever Artie brings food from home, it’s something in the avocado-sandwich-on-homemade-seven-grain-bread family. My mom is more of a peanut-butter-and-jelly kind of mom. Today she packed a turkey sandwich, a slightly mashed pear, and a bag of chips.

  “This is what I get for forgetting my lunch,” Artie says as her plate clatters onto the orange table. A healthy salad gleams before her, beside a whole wheat roll and an apple.

  “Looks pretty good,” I say.

  “They don’t even have any sunflower seeds to go on the salad!” Artie complains, spearing a grape tomato.

  “And they call this place a school cafeteria?” I shake my head.

  “I just like it how I like it,” Artie says.

  “Yeah. I know the feeling.” I look down at my own sad little half-squashed sandwich. “Mom always puts too much mayo on my sandwiches.”

  “Can’t you tell her to stop?”

  “I’ve tried, but she doesn’t get it.”

  “Annoying, but what are you going to do about it? You’ll just have to live with it.”

  “Yeah.” I take a bite of my pear. “I guess I could pack my own lunch.”

  “There’s an idea.” Artie makes a face.

  It’s funny. I’ve never had this thought before. Isn’t that weird? Like, packing lunch has always been part of Mom’s job description. But why? Why not my dad? He makes good sandwiches. Even I’m a way better cook than she is — why shouldn’t I pack my own lunch? And why didn’t I think of this before, when Mom had a full-time job?

  I look over at Artie, who doesn’t ever question her life. Her artistic parents who both work from home. Her handsome, popular brother. Her beautiful, brilliant sister who is applying only to Ivy League colleges. She doesn’t even seem to notice that not everybody’s family gathers around the living room to sing folk songs together after dinner while Mom strums the guitar.

  When I was small, I used to wish I lived with Artie’s family.

  But Artie doesn’t even know that her family is special, just like she doesn’t realize that her hair is gorgeous and her skin is perfect. If she weren’t my best friend, I’d probably hate her guts.

  Someone plops down into the seat beside Artie and says, “Gimme a high five.”

  I pause mid-chew. It’s Devon, all dimples and white teeth, and he’s holding up a palm for Artie. “Don’t leave me hanging,” he says, and it’s all I can do to not spit out my pear and high-five him myself.

  But Artie just smiles and slaps his hand. “Why are we high-fiving?”

  “Because they put up the callback list,” Devon says. “And you and I are on it.”

  “That’s awesome!” I choke out, and a tiny piece of pear flies out of my mouth and lands on the table. He didn’t see that, I tell myself, but I’m not sure it’s true because — for the first time in possibly ever — Devon’s blue eyes are directly on mine.

  I sit perfectly still, trying not to shrink under his gaze.

  “Devon, this is Hayley,” Artie says.

  “Hi.” Devon smiles.

  “Congratulations on the callback,” I tell him. “That’s great.”

  “Thanks,” he says warmly. “It doesn’t mean anything yet, but …”

  “But it could,” I put in, which makes him smile again.

  He turns to Artie. “I see your friend is an optimist.”

  “Usually,” Artie says, and I pipe in, “I’m very optimistic!” — which makes Devon laugh and me blush.

  “Callbacks are scheduled for Monday,” Devon says. “I’ll see you?” He climbs out of the chair.

  Artie nods, and I say, “I’ll make sure she’s there!” Devon waves at us, then turns and walks across the cafeteria.

  The minute he’s out of earshot, Artie groans and covers her face in her hands.

  “Whatwhatwhat?” I ask her, and for a moment I’m terrified that she’s going to say, “I’m in love with Devon,” but what she says is, “I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t make it.” Artie peeps through her fingers.

  “Why?” I demand. “You have such a great voice! And you’re totally overdramatic.”

  “Hayley!” she cries, but she’s laughing. “No, it’s just — I was so nervous at the last audition. And this is going to be even worse!” She twists a rope of her hair, then bites it.

  “Stop flossing with your own hair,” I tell her. “It’s going to be great! Just try to have fun and everything will work out.”

  “Jeez, you really are optimistic,” Artie says, shaking her head. “I guess I never noticed.”

  “I’m not optimistic; I’m realistic. You’re incredibly talented.”

  Artie holds her hair over her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  One hazel eye peeks out at me. “Will you come with me? To the audition?”

  “I don’t think they’ll let me in.”

  “No, just — you could just wait outside.” Artie’s hazel eyes are huge. “Please?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Of course.”

  “You will?” Artie grabs my hand across the table. “Oh, thankyouthankyou!”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say, but I’m secretly feeling a little bad because I said yes mainly because I knew Devon would be at the audition.

  And also because I’m an amazing friend.

  I guess that’s why — once more — I back off from telling Artie about my little … thing. Crush, I guess, though I’m not sure. All I know is that there’s something special about Devon, and I’m happy that I’m going to get to know him more, once Artie gets the part.

  I guess maybe I am optimistic.

  Shoot the Moon Cupcakes

  (makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

  These have a dreamy quality that I like. The green-tea frosting is mild and sweet, and tastes like something good is about to happen.

  INGREDIENTS:

  adzuki bean paste (found at specialty Asian markets or online)

  1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour

  2 tablespoons cornstarch

  3/4 teaspoon baking powder

  1/2 teaspoon baking soda

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  2/3 cup milk

  3/4 cup sugar

  1/2 cup yogurt

  3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1/2 teaspoon almond extract

  1/3 cup canola oil

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  Scoop the adzuki bean paste into walnut-sized balls, place onto wax paper, and cover with plastic until ready to use, so they don’t dry out.

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

  In a large bowl, sift together the flour, cornstarch, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and mix.

  In a separate large bowl, mix the milk with the sugar, yogurt, vanilla extract, almond extract, and oil. Then beat with a whisk or handheld mixer. Add the dry ingredients a little bit at a time, stopping occasionally to scrape the sides of the bowl, and mix until no lumps remain.

  Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way, then place an adzuki paste ball in the center of each cupcake, pressing down to slightly submerge it in the batter.

  Bake for 20–22 minutes, until cupcakes are slightly golden. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.

  Green-Tea Frosting

 
INGREDIENTS:

  1/2 cup margarine, softened

  1/2 cup shortening

  2–4 teaspoons matcha tea powder

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  3-1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar

  1–2 tablespoons milk

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream together the margarine and shortening. Beat in the matcha tea powder and vanilla extract.

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

  “What smells?” Mrs. McTibble asks with a sour face. She’s holding her Lhasa Apso, Gwendolyn, and frowning down at our glass pastry case.

  “Um, I just baked some cupcakes,” I admit. “They’re inspired by moon cakes — they’re a traditional Chinese —”

  “No wonder it smells foreign.” She sniffs, then adds, “I’ll take one of those.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s nice to see something different in here.” She flashes a look toward my grandmother, who rolls her eyes.

  “Well, if we start filling this place with new things, you and I will have to go somewhere else, Alice,” Gran says, and Mrs. McTibble gives her a starched smile.

  For a moment, I forget myself and reach out to pet Gwendolyn, who snaps at me, as usual. “Sorry,” I mutter, then reach for a sheet of wax paper to pick up the cupcake with.

  “She’s a working dog,” Mrs. McTibble reminds me sternly.

  Right. Usually, dogs aren’t allowed in the café — it’s a health-code thing. But Gwendolyn wears a blue “helper dog” jacket at all times when she’s here, even though her helper status is pretty questionable. I mean, Mrs. McTibble carries her everywhere, and the old lady doesn’t seem to have any problems with her sight, hearing, or sharp tongue. So what’s Gwendolyn helping with, besides being Mrs. McTibble’s match in the grouch department?