“Sure, Chloe,” Mom said. “French toast.”
So we went inside and helped her make it. It seemed dead quiet in the house until Chloe put on some awful teenybopper music that I actually found myself humming along to. I don’t know where Dad was, but it was just the three of us, and I was glad.
That night, I watched the light in Marco’s room until he turned it out. Then I rolled over and went to sleep and didn’t dream of anything at all.
French-Toast Cupcakes
(makes approximately 12 cupcakes)
For those times you really want breakfast for dessert.
INGREDIENTS:
1/2 cup raisins
1/3 cup dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
2–3 tablespoons maple syrup, plus more
1/2 cup margarine
1/2 cup sugar
2/3 cup milk
1/2 cup yogurt
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1-1/4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
INSTRUCTIONS:
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a cupcake pan with cupcake liners.
In a small bowl, mix together the raisins, dark brown sugar, cinnamon, and maple syrup, and set aside.
In a large mixing bowl, cream the margarine and sugar with an electric mixer until light and fluffy. Add the milk, yogurt, and vanilla extract, and mix until smooth.
In a separate large bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and mix. Slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet, and mix until smooth.
Fill the cupcake liners one-half to two-thirds of the way full. Then drop a spoonful of the raisin mixture into the center of each, swirling it into the batter with a toothpick to create a cinnamon-raisin-bread effect.
Bake for 20–22 minutes, until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove from the oven and allow to slightly cool. Then, while still warm, poke multiple holes into each cupcake. Drizzle around 1 teaspoon of maple syrup on each cupcake to soak through. When cooled, frost each cupcake with vanilla frosting (see recipe).
“I’ve been thinking of your cupcakes for days!” Mr. Malik says as he settles onto a chair at the counter. He places a lovely purple orchid on the polished wood. “Phalaenopsis,” he says.
“Absolutely lovely,” Gran says.
“A thank-you for the last delectable treat.” Mr. Malik beams.
I laugh. “For me? Are you jealous, Gran?”
“Oh, pooh.” Gran frowns at me, but her eyes twinkle.
“Now tell me,” Mr. Malik says, “what is the daily cupcake?”
“French toast.”
“Ah! How clever. I’ll take that. And my tea, of course.”
Gran gathers the loose tea and places it in a pot to brew, and I put one of my latest creations onto a plate.
Mr. Malik looks around, frowning. “Rather busy in here, isn’t it?”
He’s right; the place is packed — every single table is taken with people chatting or working quietly on computers.
“This is the problem with coffee,” Mr. Malik pronounces. “Everyone wants to keep working, keep working. They don’t even know what they are drinking! Tea, however — this is to be savored. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Wilson?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Malik,” Gran agrees. “Savored with good company.” She actually makes herself blush when she says this.
“Mother!” Mom comes out of the back office holding an enormous bundle of mail. “Mother — what is all of this?”
Gran bats her eyes innocently. “Mail?”
“Mail! Yes — specifically bills, Mother.” Mom dumps the envelopes on the counter. “Some of which are past-due.”
“Oh, I never pay attention to those things,” Gran says, waving her hand. “I’ll just call them up and explain. They always let me pay late.”
“Mother, this one says it’s going to a collection agency.” Mom is waving an envelope like it’s an exhibit for the prosecution. “That could destroy your credit rating!”
“Well — so?” Gran looks blankly at Mr. Malik, who pours himself a cup of tea.
Mom throws up her hands in frustration. “You’re impossible! I’m just going to have to call and sort this out.” She stalks off, and I hear her grumbling something about needing a filing cabinet.
“She’s turning my hair white,” Gran says to Mr. Malik.
“Well, Mrs. Wilson, I think you should consider yourself extremely lucky to have a daughter who wishes to take care of you.”
“You’re quite correct,” Gran says, and takes a sip of her tea.
The bell above the door jingles, and a cold chill falls over the room. The cakes fall flat in the ovens, and the coffee develops frost around the edges. A tumbleweed rolls between the tables.
No, just kidding. It’s just Mr. Malik’s sister.
Her flashing eyes land on her brother, and he gives her a huge smile. “Ah, Uzma! Just in time to join us in a cup of tea.”
“Where did you put the information for tomorrow’s orders?” she demands, without acknowledging me or Gran.
“Where they always are.”
“I can’t find them.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait. I’m having a cup of tea with my friend Mrs. Wilson.”
Uzma glares at Gran. She notices the purple orchid beside the cash register and scowls, as if she wishes she could vaporize it with her eyes. She’s never been very happy about Gran and Mr. Malik’s barter arrangement. “I need your help now, Umer.”
Mr. Malik is unruffled by his sister’s temper. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
With a huff, she storms through the door. Mr. Malik smiles gently at Gran, who looks down at her saucer. The happy mood between them has been snuffed out.
It’s amazing that one person can have that power.
Once, when I was a little girl, I went into the flower shop with Gran to choose a bouquet for a friend of hers who was in the hospital. Mr. Malik wasn’t there for some reason — maybe he was on a delivery — so Uzma was helping Gran. I was bored waiting for Gran to pick out what she wanted, so I made a game of smelling all of the flowers in the shop. I sniffed all of the cut flowers, and then moved on to blooming plants.
Well, one of them had a dead leaf on it, so I picked it off.
Uzma Malik must have caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, because she started screaming at me. She even came out from behind the cash register to scold me, wagging a finger in my face. Naturally, I started to cry, and my grandmother became very stern. She told Ms. Malik that it wasn’t her place to speak to a child that way, and that if she had anything to say, she could say it to Gran. Well, Ms. Malik did not like that at all. She called Gran an imperialist. That made Gran so mad that she dropped the bouquet on the counter, grabbed my hand, and dragged me out of the store.
When Mr. Malik heard about this incident, he came over with the flowers and an apology, but things have never been the same between Uzma Malik and my grandmother.
All because of a stupid dead leaf.
“Where were you?”
Artie’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. She’s standing on the other side of the counter, her face flushed and happy. “I thought you were going to wait for me!” She’s speaking a pitch higher than usual, almost as if someone has turned up the volume on her tongue. I catch sight of the two college guys at the corner table looking over at her, and it strikes me that this is what she wanted. “I got out of the audition and couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“Sorry — I’m sorry. I just — I realized I had to get back here. I’d told Gran I would help out ….” I look over to make sure that Gran is out of earshot. She’d call me on a lie faster than you can smack a bug.
“I went trekking all over school looking for you!”
“Sorry,” I repeat. I want to tell her about what happened with Marco, but we’re in the middle of the café, and besides …
“Have a cupcake.” I pass it across the counter to her.
“I got the part,” Artie announces, beaming.
“That’s great!” I rush around the counter and wrap her in a hug. She leans toward me and closes her eyes, still smiling, and — somehow — I get the feeling that we’re in a movie, or maybe that Artie thinks we’re in a movie. I’m not sure if I’m explaining that right, but it’s how I feel. I say, “Congratulations.”
“And Devon got his part, too! I’m so glad we got the chance to run lines last Saturday. I think that really made the difference.”
“Saturday?”
Artie takes a bite of the cupcake. “Yeah — after I couldn’t come over, I called up Devon and asked if he wanted to practice. He only lives about five blocks away — did you know that?”
“You called him?” Why am I turning into a parrot? It’s just — I’m feeling all queasy, like that time I jumped on the trampoline after eating three hot dogs. Artie doesn’t call guys she hardly knows. She’s shy.
Isn’t she?
“Yeah. Lucky he was home!” She squeezes my arm. “This is going to be so much fun! Maybe you should help out with the play — you could work on props or wardrobe or something.”
I manage to make a vague noise that indicates I’m listening, but I’m not — not really. My head is still processing, the gears grinding slowly. So — Artie spent Saturday with Devon, not me and Marco. And it took her a week to mention it.
Maybe she thought it wasn’t a big deal.
Or maybe she thought it was a big deal.
Did she really try to get a ride to my house on Saturday?
All of these questions that, for some reason, I just don’t dare to ask. Just like I don’t dare to tell her about my crush on Devon.
Just like I don’t want to talk to her about Marco.
So here’s the question: What good is a best friend if you can’t tell her anything?
I shouldn’t have said anything.
Artie was sleeping over at my house. It was late — maybe two a.m. — and we were in my room. I was lying in my bed, and she was lying on the trundle. The lights were off, but we were still talking, occasionally drifting off into giggles.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Artie asked.
“Sure.” This was a formality. Artie knows that nobody can pry a secret out of me — not even with tweezers.
“I like Marco.”
“Muh —” I said. I’d almost said, “Me, too,” but stopped myself because I’d realized in that half second what Artie meant, and when I did, my heart started racing.
She propped her head on her elbow. “Don’t tease me.”
“I won’t.”
“What do you think — do you think he likes me?”
What did I think? I thought that this conversation was extremely weird. Marco? Artie isn’t allowed to have a crush on Marco. He’s Marco. Besides … what would it mean? How would it — work?
For me, I mean.
“I don’t … know.”
“He’s just so cute. Those long eyelashes. And sweet.”
“Yeah.”
“He has a bad temper, though.”
I had nothing to say to that.
“I think he might like me. He was sort of looking at me the other day, and he sat right next to me at lunch.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t think he likes me.” I could hear her pout in the darkness.
“I don’t know. I just …”
“What?”
“Well … he’s our friend, Artie. What if — what if he doesn’t?”
A black wall of silence. “Yeah,” she said at last. “I know. Total weirdness.”
“I think, maybe, it’s a bad idea.”
She didn’t say anything after that, and I guess we eventually both fell asleep because I woke up a few hours later to sunlight streaming through the window. Artie was already up, the unruly sheets thrust to the side. I could hear her downstairs, chatting with my mom, things clattering in the kitchen.
I sighed and looked up at the blue sky over the side of Marco’s house next door. A feeling of dread settled over me, as if I’d narrowly avoided a disaster … but only temporarily.
I don’t know much about crushes, but in my experience, they’re a little hard to control. I hoped Artie would get over hers.
But I don’t know if she ever did.
5. The Hissy Fits
4. The Macho Nachos
3. The Zombies
2. The Nefarious Evildoers
1. The Giant Squids
I had to look up what nefarious means, which made it even more fun to imagine the cheer squad painting that mascot name on our pep-rally signs.
There are so many cool, creative, original names we could end up with ….
“They chose the Eagles,” Meghan whispers to me before first period. I’m standing by my locker, trying to rescue a notebook that’s buried beneath everything else. It comes loose with a jerk, and I look over at Meghan. Her vibrant purple hair frames her face, and her glasses perch at the tip of her nose. She’s wearing some crazy pink, feathered earrings, and basically looks like an exotic parrot. With glasses. This is a look I could never pull off.
“The Eagles?”
“Shh. They aren’t announcing it until homeroom.” She looks over her shoulder, as if we’re discussing state secrets.
“But … that’s so lame.”
“Better than the Purple Pintos,” she says.
“Hmm,” I say. Less original than the Purple Pintos, I think.
“Personally, I have a feeling that the administration rigged the election. But you didn’t hear it from me.” She pretends to lock her lips and throw away the key.
“Would they do that?”
“Probably not. But it’s more fun to think that people voted for the Hissy Fits.”
“I know.”
Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I turn to see Devon’s blue eyes staring down at mine. My heart does a little tap dance and all of the blood in my body rushes to my head at once.
“Hi, Hayley.”
He knows my name!
Of course he knows it. We were introduced, weren’t we?
But he didn’t forget!
Oh, be quiet, brain.
“Hi, Devon.”
“Hey, Devon.” Meghan gives him a little wave, and her voice sounds about five zillion times more casual than mine. Meghan is one of those people who knows everybody.
I’m looking at those ChapStick-commercial lips, wondering what he’ll say. He smiles, and asks, “Do you know where Artemis is?”
My tap-dancing heart stumbles a little, recovers, slows down. “She’s, uh …” I look over toward Artie’s locker, as if she will magically appear. We got off the school bus together, but now she’s disappeared. “No. Sorry.”
Devon leans against the bank of lockers. “I wanted to tell her about Alex Strasosky’s party.”
“Everybody’s going,” Meghan puts in. “You’re supposed to dress as whatever mascot you voted for.”
“Nobody’s going to do that,” Devon says.
Meghan shrugs. “Maybe I will.”
Devon laughs and looks at me. “You should come, too.” Then he walks away, leaving me light as a feather.
“Do you think I should go?” I ask Meghan. “I’m not invited.”
“It’s not that kind of party,” she says. “Everyone’s invited. See you in homeroom.” Meghan takes off down the hall, and Marco materializes around the corner.
“Hey, Marco!” I call, waving. I walk up to him, and he nods, and then I remember the awkwardness from the day before and feel myself blushing. But now I’m standing in front of him, and what can I do? Run away? “Um … there’s this party on Saturday at Alex Strasosky’s house.”
“Okay.”
“I thought maybe … Everyone’s going.”
Marco nods again, looks off over his shoulder at nothing in particular. “So — no Game Night?”
“Oh.” Game Night. I’d forgotten about it. Now I feel like a jerk for bagging on our usual plan. But — but I know Artie will want to go to the party. “I just … uh … if you’d rather have Game Night again …” I want to catch the words and stuff them back into my mouth. Another Game Night with just Marco will be super awkward.
He looks right into my eyes, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that he’s reading my thoughts. “No,” he says slowly. “It’s cool. Go to the party.” He steps around me, like I’m something in the way.
I watch him walk down the hall, wanting to call after him, not daring to call after him. I’m feeling shaky, as if the ground has shifted beneath me, and might suddenly shift again.
Marco is one of my best friends, and suddenly I feel like he hates me.
Dad pulls up to the curb, and I’m starting to follow Chloe into the backseat when I realize that the front passenger seat is empty.
“No Annie?” I ask, maybe a little too happily.
“She’s meeting us at the restaurant.”
Great. I nod grimly and climb in beside my dad, balancing the white bakery box on my lap.
Chloe chatters happily about Rupert as I look out the window. I can see my grandmother behind the counter inside the tea shop. She waves to us as Dad pulls away from the curb, and I wave back, even though the windows are tinted and I know she can’t see me.
Dad makes a left turn at the light. Our usual pizza parlor is to the right. “Where are we going?”
“I thought we’d try a new place.”
“Why?” I ask, which is a little babyish, since I know why. We’re going to a new place because of Annie, who is too good for pizza, obviously.
“It’s good to try new things.” Dad’s voice is strained, but he tries hard to make it sound relaxed.
“Where?” Chloe asks.
“Rain.”
I haven’t even heard of it, but I can tell it’s fancy the moment Dad pulls into the parking lot. The lettering on the sign is gold and hard to read. Inside, the lighting is dim and the walls are hung with plush red curtains. Candles give everything a soft yellow glow.
“A waterfall!” Chloe says, and Dad laughs.
Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! Page 7
