Artie grins. “Hayley has a way with a cupcake.”
I smile at her, but it feels tight, like I’ve pulled a muscle in my face. After Meghan and I went back to the party, I found Artie. Devon had gone off somewhere, thank goodness. Anyway, I told Artie that I didn’t feel well and thought I would go home. And she just said, “Okay, I’ll get a ride home with Chang or Devon,” and I felt like a popped balloon and haven’t felt right since.
Even working on the cupcakes yesterday felt off. Measuring and mixing, baking and frosting. These things can usually absorb my whole attention. But yesterday, I found my mind kept wandering off, thinking about Artie and Devon, wondering what would happen if they became a couple, imagining my lonely lunches and empty weekends. So when the cupcakes came out and I frosted the tops and sprinkled them with chopped pine nuts, I decided to call them Heartsick Puppies, since I felt like I’d stirred my sad, confused feelings about Artie and Devon right into the batter.
The worst part? I couldn’t even talk to my best friend about it.
And speaking of friends … I notice Meghan is the only person still in her seat, reading her book, as if there isn’t a crazy cupcake party happening at the front of the room.
“Hey, Meghan,” I say, coming over to her desk. “Do you want a cupcake? There’s a couple left.” I hold one out to her. It’s particularly gooey, covered in thick frosting.
Meghan puts down her book. “I’m allergic to gluten.”
“To what?”
“Gluten. It’s a protein in wheat and some other grains.” She says this as if she’s had to explain it a thousand times before.
“So — you can’t have bread?”
“Bread, pizza, cupcakes, muffins, pasta — whatever.” Meghan shrugs. “Unless it’s gluten free, like made with rice flour or something.”
I look down at the cupcake. “Sorry.”
“I’m used to it.”
Raviv overhears us and starts making a loud yummy noise. “Mmmm! Meghan, this is so good! So much delicious gluten!”
I look down at Meghan. “Are you used to that?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Yep.”
I sit down in the chair beside hers. “It must be hard to watch other people eating.”
“It isn’t really — I mean, I know that if I eat a cupcake, I’ll puke or get sick, so I don’t want it so much.”
“I think I would die without cupcakes,” I say.
“I can still have cupcakes. They just have to be gluten free. And you really wouldn’t die. You’d miss them, that’s all. Then you’d get over it.”
I look down at the cupcake in my hand. I know I wouldn’t really die without it. I prefer baking cupcakes to eating them, anyway. But it just seems so unfair.
I feel really bad for bringing the cupcakes in, but Meghan clearly isn’t thinking about them — she’s gone back to reading her book.
At the front of the classroom, the cupcakes have disappeared. A few stray crumbs on my tray and a wastebasket stuffed with cupcake wrappers are the only signs that they were ever there. The only one left is the one in my hand.
I look at my classmates — Raviv licking his lips, Artie and Chang giggling. I wonder if any of them would be as cool as Meghan if they had to give up eating wheat.
It’s not the food that would bother me, I decide. It’s the being different.
Meghan Markerson is different.
Not everyone can handle that.
It’s quiet in the café, and the afternoon sunlight slants in, covering the floor in gold. Three tables are taken. One by the raggedy-looking college student who brought his housemates the bacon cupcakes. He’s become a regular — Jerome — and he’s fun to chat with, but right now he’s reading a thick volume of something that looks like it would put me to sleep in about five minutes. Chloe and Rupert are at the table by the window, both reading. Gran and Mr. Malik are across from each other in the far corner, chatting quietly and sipping tea. I can hear the click and tap of my keyboard as I look up information about gluten-free recipes. The silence is a little unnerving.
I clear my throat, just to hear something. Then I start humming as I pull up a page with a few GF chocolate cupcakes. GF, by the way, stands for gluten free. It turns out that loads of people have a gluten allergy, and they’re all online, yakking about food.
Anyway, I open this page, and some sound track comes blaring out so loudly that I jump about a foot in the air. I hit the mute button, but Chloe is already glaring at me from across the room. She shushes me.
“Don’t you guys want to go outside and play, or something?” I ask. I look out the window, at the blue sky and puffy white clouds. Rupert hasn’t even glanced up from his book. “Go have some fun,” I suggest.
“We are having fun. Right, Rupert?”
No response.
“Rupert!” She gives him a little kick under the chair.
“Hmm?” He looks up, blinking at her from behind his thick glasses.
“Aren’t we having fun?”
Rupert stares at my sister for a moment, as if he’s trying to remember who she is, or maybe what planet she’s from. “Of course.”
“There — see?”
“What time is it?” Rupert asks, looking up at the clock on the wall. “Oh, no. I was supposed to be home ten minutes ago.” He shoves his book into his bag and stands up.
“See you tomorrow.” Chloe waves as he heads out the door, then passes by the window. “What?” she asks, looking at me.
I shut my computer and walk over to her table. I hold her eyes as I sit down across from her. “Do you ever wish Rupert would talk more?”
“Why would I want him to talk more?”
“Don’t you wish he were more interesting?”
“He’s one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.”
“But he doesn’t —”
“Hayley, maybe you don’t want to give people a chance, but I do, okay?” She grabs her bag and hurries through the back door.
I feel my grandmother’s eyes on me. I know I must be looking guilty, because that’s how I’m feeling.
“What just happened?” she asks.
“Um.”
“What did you say to your sister?”
“Nothing! I just asked if she ever wished Rupert would talk more.”
My grandmother and Mr. Malik exchange a glance. “And what did she say?” Gran asks.
“She said no.”
“But you don’t believe her.” Mr. Malik gives me a kind smile.
“Well … I mean, they just sit here and read! Does that seem normal to you?”
“Normal?” Mr. Malik and Gran exchange another look, and this time she suppresses a small smile.
I’m getting really exasperated. “Shouldn’t they be doing something?”
“Reading is doing something,” Mr. Malik says.
Gran nods. “Reading is one of life’s great pleasures.”
Oh, boy.
“A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.” Mr. Malik smiles into his tea.
“John Milton?” Gran asks. “Oh, how delightful. You know, I haven’t read Paradise Lost since —”
And they’re off, talking about books. I should have known better than to try to get them to worry about Chloe and Rupert. I’m sure my grandmother thinks it’s adorable that they like to read together.
But I can’t help thinking that maybe Chloe could do better — get a friend who’s livelier. I wonder if she misses her old friends. She never talks about them.
I wonder if they ever think about her.
“Hey, Artie, can I come over?”
“What? Hold on, sorry, Roan is trying to tell me something. (Yes. Yes. I don’t care. No, I’ll be here tonight. What’s Myla doing? She is?) Okay. Hi, I’m back.”
“What’s Myla doing?”
“Going to the library to study for the U.S. Government AP exam.”
“What’s Roan doing?”
“Baseball something. He w
ants me to work the concession stand, which I’m not doing. You’re so lucky you don’t have older siblings.”
“So — can I come over?”
“Um, sure. Why?”
“I want to bake some cupcakes.”
Artie laughs.
“No, really. But they have to be gluten free. I talked to this guy at the health-food store, and he said that if I’m baking in a place where flour is flying all around, they could get cross-contaminated.”
“So?”
“So — that’s enough to make Meghan sick. All it takes is a tiny bit. Obviously, there’s flour all over the bakery. And Mom is using our tiny kitchen to make dinner.”
“Why are you making Meghan a gluten-free cupcake?”
“I just — I felt bad that she couldn’t have a cupcake today.”
“What’s the big deal?”
Silence. “So — you don’t want me to come over?”
“Whatever; it’s fine. I just don’t know why you’re doing it. It seems like a pain.”
“It’s no big deal. You just use different kinds of flour, like rice instead of wheat. Did you know that there’s chickpea flour?”
“I’ll probably have to run lines while you’re over. We’re supposed to be off-book in two weeks.”
“What does off-book mean?”
“It means you have your part memorized.”
“It’s no big deal, Artie. I just want to use your kitchen. You don’t have to entertain me.”
“It’s just … Okay.”
“I can come?”
“Sure, come over.”
“See you.”
“Bye.”
A light film of grime covers the bus window, blurring the view of familiar houses as we rumble down streets I’ve known all my life. Taking the city bus is a new experience for me, and a bit disconcerting. It’s like having my mother drive me somewhere, only at a much slower pace and much higher up off the ground. I’m surprised at how drab the houses look to me as we head out of downtown. The streets are almost empty. Now that we live in the center of Northampton, I’m used to seeing people — moms with strollers, cool college students, professor types, street musicians. Out here, the place looks a little … blank.
The bus is half-empty, and a paper shopping bag occupies the seat beside mine. It contains tapioca starch, potato starch, rice flour, cocoa, sugar, eggs, xanthan gum — all the ingredients you need to make a gluten-free chocolate cupcake. I figured that it makes sense to start simple. I can get fancy later, if this batch turns out well.
We pass a wide green field occupied by four black-and-white cows. The agricultural high school next door raises them, and they stand in a small group, their heads lowered to the emerald grass, as cars whiz by. I wonder if they all get along, or if they ever have cow spats. Do they ever feel sad? Lonely? Happy?
It’s hard to tell from a distance, behind a blurry window.
We turn up the street and pass Cooper’s Corner, the convenience store I used to walk to whenever we needed something — some bananas, say, or ice cream. I press the button and the bus comes to a stop.
My old house is about three blocks from here, and I enjoy seeing the leaves changing colors in everyone’s yard as I walk. The yellow house on the corner’s maple is turning a cheery orange. Across the street, the purple Japanese maple is starting to lose its leaves. The red house four doors down has maroon mums and laid-out cedar bark, and the recent rain releases the smell. Each house, each yard, is as familiar to me as my own body, and it feels good to see them again.
I should turn at the next street — Artie’s street — but I decide to go past my old house first. I turn down my ex-street (my ex-street? Is that a word? But that’s what it is …) and climb the hill, cradling my bag in my arms. Even the strain in my muscles feels good and familiar. I’d thought that it might make me sad to see my old house again, but instead, what I feel is a thrill. There’s a red jogging stroller on the front porch, and someone has hung a yellow, plastic toddler swing from the tree. I hadn’t realized that a family had moved into our house. I wonder if the baby has my old room.
And there, right beside my old house, is Marco. He’s turning the soil in his family’s flower bed, and I know instantly how much money he is making for this chore, and the fact that his older sister has refused to help, and that — secretly — he would do it for free, because he loves working in the garden. I know these things because they’re always the same, and it makes me so thrilled to know them that I shout, “Marco!” and my voice sounds so loud and so happy that I almost don’t recognize it.
He looks up and smiles, like he’s surprised and happy, and I quicken my step. But then his face clouds over and he glances toward the front door, like he’s considering making an escape. It’s too late, though. I can’t turn back, either, so my feet propel me forward, and soon we’re facing each other, separated only by a paper shopping bag and a hoe and about a zillion miles.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m heading over to Artie’s.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. I see some new people have moved into our house.”
“Do you know anything about them? We’re trying to figure them out. They drive a Saab.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nobody knows.”
“No — I don’t know anything.”
“They seem nice.”
“Good.” I want to say that I hope the baby is cute, that I hope it likes my room, but my discomfort keeps my lips sewn shut. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Are you — are we doing Game Night this week?”
He looks at the ground, digging in the dirt half-heartedly with his hoe. A clump of dirt lands on a yellow mum flower, burying the bloom in a mudslide. “Look, Hayley — I think …” He shakes his head, like he needs help to get a thought out. “I think we really shouldn’t hang out. Anymore.” He meets my eyes. “As much.”
“What?” I feel like someone has stepped on me with a giant shoe — like I’ve been crushed, and splattered across the sole. “Why?”
“I don’t want — people might get the wrong idea.”
“Nobody has the wrong idea.” My words are a whisper, but it’s so quiet out here that it’s impossible to miss them.
And the look he gives me then — it’s like the shoe has crushed him now. He shakes his head and looks over at his front door. “I’ve got to go.” He walks away from me then, and I want to call after him, but I have no breath. All of the air has been squeezed out of me and a heavy weight has settled on my shoulders, and I feel so much as if I’ve turned to stone that I wonder if my heart is still beating.
Marco never speaks to Sanjit Patel. Never. Last year, they were partnered on a science project. Marco asked Mr. Forbes for a reassignment, but Mr. Forbes is a notorious jerk and refused. Okay, so I was sure that Marco would finally, finally talk to Sanjit rather than get an F on the project. But no. They completed their assignment entirely over e-mail.
Sanjit is a nice guy with a wide smile and a good sense of humor. So what’s the problem?
In fourth grade, Sanjit made fun of Marco’s sister. She has autism, and doesn’t really talk. She was in fifth grade then, and went to a special school, but she had come to our school carnival the week before. I remember. One minute, Sarah was watching a game of musical chairs. Five kids circled around and around four empty chairs while music played. The music stopped, the kids all ran for the chairs. Sarah let out a shout, then hit herself on the head, over and over. Lots of kids were scared, and Marco’s family had to leave.
I remember Marco’s face. His skin burned red, but not with embarrassment. His dark eyes flashed and he held his head high, as if he were daring anyone to say something. Nobody did.
Nobody did, until the following Monday. At lunch, Sanjit sat down beside Marco, and out of the blue, he let out a yell and started hitting himself on the head. Dark veins stood out on
Marco’s neck, and he shouted at Sanjit. Then he took a fistful of mashed potato and threw it at him, and who knows what would have happened if Ms. Nauman and Mr. Witt hadn’t come over and separated them.
I haven’t thought about that day in a long time. Years, maybe.
We all know that Marco has a temper, but as Sanjit can tell you, he also holds a grudge. He holds it, and never lets it go.
I walk on, around the corner, instead of cutting through my ex-backyard, like I usually would. The air has been heavy with cool mist, but the sun peeks out, filtering through the pines that border Artie’s family’s property. My conversation with Marco burns in my chest like a half-digested meal as I knock on the side door. Her brother, Roan, answers. He doesn’t even say hi, he just looks at me, then turns and shouts, “Artemis!” then strolls off. I guess I should be flattered that he treats me like a sister, but I still think it’s rude.
The television has been blaring in the other room, but it cuts off suddenly and a moment later, Artie appears in the kitchen as I dump my bag on the breakfast table.
“Hey, you’re here.”
“Hi. I ran into Marco on the way over.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I can taste the words in my mouth, and I’m about to say them — to tell her all about Marco — because even though I know it will be a little awkward, given her past crush and all, I have to talk to someone, and who else is there? So I open my mouth, and at that moment, Devon walks in from the living room, like he has some kind of right to be there.
“Hi, Hayley.” He’s holding a blue bowl, and turns to Artie. “Is there any more ice cream?”
“In the freezer.” Artie smiles at me. “We’re watching the movie version.”
“Of what — your play?”
Artie nods. “Ms. Lang said we should.”
“It’s brilliant,” Devon says as he scoops something chocolatey into his bowl. “I just wish I could do an accent like that guy.”
“You don’t really need to,” Artie tells him.
There is a sliding door that leads to a patio, and as I look out, the sun dims a bit. The clouds have returned, and the brief light fades behind a wall of dreary gray that mutes everything, even the colors of the grass and the red fire bushes. “Don’t mind me,” I say. “You guys should go back to your movie. I’ll just be in the kitchen.”
Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! Page 9
