Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake!

by Lisa Papademetriou

  “You sure?” Artie asks, and Devon says, “Okay.” He heads back into the living room, but Artie lingers a moment, like she can see that something’s wrong. And for a moment I think, I will tell her.

  But then Devon calls, “Artemis!” and I feel like the mum bent beneath the weight of a clump of dirt, extinguished.

  Artie shrugs. “I’ve got to —”

  “Okay.”

  She leaves, and I get to work on the cupcakes. It isn’t hard. I know her kitchen as well as my own, and better than I know Gran’s. I can see into the living room from where I stand, mixing the batter. Artie and Devon have their backs to me. Devon’s arm is stretched along the top of the couch, almost as if it is around Artie.

  I pour the batter into the cupcake wrappers in silence. I wash up as they bake, then sit and stare into the fading light as the cocoa smell begins to waft through the house. After eighteen minutes, I test the cupcakes. They are firm, so I place them carefully into my cupcake carrier. I put two on the counter. I’ll frost the others at home.

  Then, without a word, I leave out the side door.

  It takes me forty minutes to get home, and it’s dark by the time I walk through the door. Mom is on the phone, and she frowns at my cupcakes as she says, “Yes. Yes, I’ll be there.”

  I step into Gran’s tiny kitchen and unpack my bag. There’s a reason I didn’t want to bake the cupcakes here. Downstairs, it’s flour city. Upstairs, the kitchen is so small that it can barely hold two people, and Mom has something simmering on the stove and a half-made salad on the counter.

  “Hullo, darling!” Gran chirps from the dining room. She and Chloe are setting the table. “How is Artie?”

  “Fine,” I say just as Mom clicks off.

  “You will not believe who that was. It was Juliet Markerson.”

  “Why?” I ask. Juliet Markerson — Meghan’s mother. I wonder if Meghan is inviting me to a party, but my mother’s tense face suggests it’s something else.

  “Because I’m on the PTO, and she’s the president, and she has decided that she wants to ban cupcakes at Adams.”

  “What?” It’s half word, half gasp.

  “That’s silly.” Gran waves her hand, as if she can’t bear to listen to such stupidity.

  “Why?” Chloe asks.

  “It’s an obesity issue, she says. And a food-allergy issue. She says that you can never be sure about the sanitary conditions in an individual’s home. So — no more bake sales, no more birthday celebrations, nothing like that.” My mother huffs and sits down at the table, eyeing my cupcake carrier.

  “That’s absurd. What about common sense?” Gran demands. “Overweight children aren’t overweight because they buy a cupcake at a bake sale.”

  “I know, Mother, but — on the other hand — how necessary are cupcakes?” Mom asks. “I mean, the athletic teams could sell something else to raise money.”

  “But a bake sale is something that everyone can help with,” Chloe points out.

  “Well, anyway, Hayley, I hope you weren’t planning on bringing these into school tomorrow.” Mom taps her fingernails on the carrier’s plastic cover.

  The whole time everyone has been talking, I’ve been feeling like a boa constrictor has wrapped itself around me and is busy squeezing, flexing its muscles until my whole body aches. But when Mom looks up at me, I feel the heat and pain pour out through my eyes, and hot tears spill down my cheeks.

  “Hayley, honey!” Mom jumps up and wraps me in a hug, pressing me against her soft body. Her sweatshirt smells like our fabric softener. “What’s wrong?” She pulls away to look into my face.

  “It’s not that.” I brush the tears away, embarrassed that I’m overreacting. “It’s just — I’ve had a bad day.” I give a little hiccup.

  “They’re just cupcakes, Hayley,” Chloe says, looking worried.

  Mom pushes the hair away from my face. “Did you — did you want to take these in tomorrow?”

  “Just one.” I smile weakly. “It’s gluten free. For Meghan Markerson.”

  “Oh,” Mom says, looking confused.

  “This is my fault. I brought in cupcakes this morning, and Meghan couldn’t have one because she’s allergic.”

  “Sweetheart.” Mom hugs me again.

  “Well, I can’t believe her mother would spoil things for everyone just because her own daughter has an allergy.” Gran is sputtering, as if the entire thought is an insult.

  “But that’s no reason to cry, is it?” Mom looks at me, clearly worried. I know what she’s thinking: It’s the divorce, it’s the move, it’s my job. But it doesn’t have anything to do with her.

  “No.” I take a deep breath. “It’s no reason to cry.” Just because I’m losing everything.

  “Should we try one?” Mom asks.

  “Before supper?” Gran is scandalized, but Mom silences her with a look.

  “Sure,” I say, and I pop open the carrier. Everyone takes one, even Gran. I’m not sure what to expect, but when I bite into the cupcake, it’s moist and still slightly warm. The texture is just right — not too dense, which was what I was afraid of. And the cocoa shines through, sweet and soothing.

  “Yum!” Chloe says, and Gran agrees.

  “Delicious,” she proclaims.

  Mom takes a deep breath, and puts her half-eaten cupcake down on the counter. “Sweetie, the meeting isn’t until Wednesday. I think you can still take a cupcake to school, if you want.”

  “Really?”

  Mom smiles. “They haven’t been banned yet. And they may not be. Juliet may not get the votes.”

  I’m relieved. I really want Meghan to have a cupcake, to make up for the ones she couldn’t have today. “These would be good with chocolate frosting.”

  “I’ll help,” Chloe volunteers.

  “After supper.” Gran’s voice is firm.

  So we clean up and I pour water into everyone’s cup, and then we sit down to dinner, just like we always do. My tears have dried up, and I feel like an empty husk, fragile but clean. Darkness has settled over everything outside, but the moon is rising. It looks enormous and orange from the window, and I’m glad to see it.

  Gluten-Free Chocolate Cupcakes

  (makes approximately 12–15 cupcakes)

  These are really good. You won’t miss the gluten, believe me.

  INGREDIENTS:

  1/2 cup milk

  1/2 teaspoon vinegar

  1 cup plus 1 tablespoon gluten-free all-purpose flour (I made my own, but you can use Bob’s Red Mill.)

  1/4 cup cocoa powder, unsweetened

  1/2 teaspoon baking powder

  3/4 teaspoon baking soda

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips

  3/4 cup sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1/4 cup yogurt

  1/3 cup canola oil

  INSTRUCTIONS:

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

  Whisk the milk and vinegar in a measuring cup, and set aside for a few minutes to get good and curdled.

  Sift the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a large bowl, and mix.

  Place the chocolate chips into a microwave-safe bowl and heat for 30 seconds. Remove from microwave and stir. If they aren’t melted, heat again in 10-second increments, stirring each time, until fully melted.

  In a separate large bowl, mix the curdled milk with the sugar, vanilla extract, yogurt, and oil. Then add the melted chocolate, and mix with a whisk or handheld mixer. Slowly add the dry ingredients a little bit at a time, stopping to scrape the sides of the bowl a few times, and mix until no lumps remain.

  Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way, and bake for 18–22 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.

  Chocolate Frosting

  INGREDIENTS:

  1/4 cup margarine

  1/4 cup shortening

  1/2 cup cocoa powder

/>   1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

  2-1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar

  3 tablespoons milk

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream together the margarine and shortening. Sift the cocoa powder into the bowl, and mix with the margarine and shortening.

  Add the vanilla extract to the mix, and then start beating in the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup intervals, adding a little of the milk in between batches. Continue to beat the frosting until it is light and fluffy, about 3–7 minutes.

  I’m surprised to see Artie standing at the row of sinks when I walk into the girls’ bathroom the next morning. “Hey!” She gives me a huge smile and releases her auburn hair, which she had been holding piled on top of her head. It bounces past her shoulders.

  “Hi.”

  She notices me looking at the makeup she has piled on the steel shelf in front of her. “Mom only lets me wear gloss,” she explains, motioning to the eyeliner, eye shadow, and mascara. “I keep telling her that everyone wears it, but you know how she is.” She shrugs, as if to say, What choice do I have?

  I don’t really know what to say. My mom and I have never discussed makeup, really — mostly because I tried it once and thought it felt slimy. Frankly, I’m just too lazy to wake up extra early and smear a bunch of goop on my face. But I know one thing: If Mom said no, it would never even occur to me to go behind her back and do it anyway. I mean, I might argue with her about it, if it was something I really wanted.

  So I’m standing there, wondering if Artie is being brave or not, when she says, “Thanks for leaving those cupcakes last night. They were awesome.” She turns back to the mirror and reaches for eyeliner, then opens her mouth wide and squints one eye as she lines the bottom lashes on the other. “Devon thought it was a little weird that you just ducked out without saying good-bye, though.”

  Three giggling sixth graders push through the bathroom door like toothpaste gushing through a tube. They don’t even seem to notice that Artie and I are there as two of them head to the mirror to do their hair and one heads into a stall.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt your movie.”

  “That’s what I told him.” Artie starts applying eyeliner to the other eye. When she finishes, she stands back to survey her work. “Is this even?”

  I step up to the mirror and stand beside her, looking at myself and my best friend reflected back at me. Some of the girls in our grade look like they’ve put on their makeup in the dark, or maybe tried to apply it with a garden trowel — it’s either caked on or done in weird colors and looks, in my opinion, horrible.

  But Artie looks like a movie star. She’s already pretty, but the brown eyeliner brings out the hazel color of her eyes, and the mascara has made her pale lashes seem dark and lush. Her complexion has always been rosy, and the light blush she has applied gives her a pink glow. Her hair is loose around her face, and I’m surprised to realize that my friend isn’t just pretty — she’s stunning.

  Beside her, I feel like I’m fading away, becoming invisible. My wavy hair and bangs seem childish, and my skin is pale after a night lying awake, worrying about the cupcake crisis. I am also, I notice, getting a pimple between my thick, straight eyebrows. I’m thicker than Artie, who seems light and slender in just the right way.

  I catch Artie’s eye, and she gives me a little half smile, almost as if she feels sorry for me. “Do you want to borrow anything?” she asks, indicating the makeup.

  I look at it, momentarily tempted. But I wouldn’t know what to do with it. “No, thanks,” I say, and she goes back to smearing something on her lips.

  The first bell rings, and in a whirl, the giggling sixth graders wash their hands and swirl out the door, leaving me and Artie alone. “Oh, by the way, Hayley, I won’t be at lunch today. Devon and I are going to run lines.”

  This hits me with a chill, and before I know what I’m doing, I hear myself say, “So — is Devon your boyfriend now?”

  Her eyes flick to mine in the mirror. “Why?”

  “It’s just —” But I’ve started, and I know that if I don’t say anything now, I’ll never say anything. And if I never say anything, the distance between us will just grow and grow until we can’t reach each other anymore. “I just … used to have a crush on him, that’s all. So it’s a little weird for me.”

  Artie’s eyes flick back to her own reflection. She closes the cap on her lipstick and rubs her lips together. “I know.”

  For a moment, I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. My heart is beating double time. “You know that it’s weird for me? Or that I had a crush on Devon?”

  “Both.” Artie drops her makeup into a flowered bag and zips it closed.

  “Oh. But you don’t care?”

  Artie turns to look at me, a condescending smile at the corner of her lips. “What’s the big deal, Hayley? You knew that I had a crush on Marco, and it didn’t bother you.”

  “But I didn’t — I never meant —” I’m sputtering, as if she’s thrown cold water all over me. I didn’t even want him to kiss me! I never asked him to feel that way!

  “So can I help it if Devon likes me, not you?” Artie grabs her makeup bag and pats me on the shoulder, like I’m a little girl who just lost a sack race. “It’s time to grow up, Hayley.”

  She walks out of the bathroom, leaving me standing there alone.

  The homeroom bell rings, but I hardly hear it. I don’t cry. For some reason, I can’t — instead, I feel nauseated, as if I’ll throw up at any minute. I steady myself at the sink, then run some cold water, splashing it on my face, over my mouth.

  In the mirror, my eyes look blank.

  I feel the way I did when I found out Dad was moving out. Artie doesn’t care about me. Artie cares about Artie, just like Dad cares about Dad.

  It’s a lonely thought, and it makes me realize that the little world I’m living in is a place I never really knew, or understood.

  I stay in the bathroom for fifteen minutes, skipping homeroom altogether. I wouldn’t normally do that, but I just can’t bear the thought of walking into the room late and having everyone stare at me as I sit down. One year, for Easter, Gran and I poked holes in eggs and blew through them until the yolk and whites spilled into a bowl. That’s how I feel right now — emptied, like my insides have been scooped out and scrambled, leaving my outside brittle and fragile.

  When the bell rings, signaling the end of homeroom, I step out of the bathroom and join the swarm of students heading to class. I head toward my locker, and just as I am about to reach it, an orange locker door closes and I see Meghan’s grinning face.

  “Now who on earth would do this for me?” she asks, holding up a cupcake. Taped to the wrapper is a note that reads, EAT ME, I’M GLUTEN FREE! “And how would that person know my locker combination?”

  The knot that my guts have been tied in starts to loosen. I even manage a smile. “I don’t know — isn’t it all prime numbers? Anyone could have guessed that.”

  “Right.” Meghan laughs, creasing the space between her eyebrows. She takes a bite and chews it thoughtfully. “Delicious,” she says.

  I spin the combination and yank open my locker. “I’m glad you like it.”

  She looks down at the cupcake. “Nobody’s ever done this for me before. I’ve been to so many birthday parties, and nobody —” She shrugs, takes another bite.

  “It wasn’t that big a deal.”

  “Yeah.” Meghan dips a finger into the frosting, licks it off the tip. “I guess that’s kind of the point.”

  I don’t really know what to say. “So, uh — your mom called my mom last night.”

  Meghan looks surprised. “Why?”

  “Apparently she wants to ban sweets in school. No more cupcakes, no more bake sales —”

  “What?” Meghan’s screech is so loud that a group of eighth-grade girls looks over. Then they put their heads together and start whispering. “Are you serious?”

  “Abso
lutely. You didn’t know?”

  “Of course not! Gah! If she’d told me, I would’ve disconnected the phone lines! This is terrible — now everyone is going to think this is because of me.”

  I don’t point out that it kind of is because of her.

  “That’s going to make me popular! I’m already borderline with about half of the school because of the Purple Pinto thing,” Meghan rants.

  “I thought you didn’t care what anyone thought about you,” I say.

  Meghan looks shocked, as if I’ve just said something crazy. “What gave you that idea?”

  “I don’t know — the way you dress, the way you just say things …”

  Meghan considers this for a moment. “I care what people think,” she says. “I guess I just usually don’t change my mind because of it.”

  “So — are you going to do something about it?”

  “Aside from freak out? I guess I’ll have to talk to my mom.” Meghan rolls her eyes. “That should be fun.”

  The second bell’s about to ring, so I grab my book and notebook and slam the locker with a clang. “Let me know how it goes.”

  “I will.”

  I start to head off, and Meghan calls after me, “Thanks for the cupcake, Hayley!” at the top of her voice.

  I laugh, feeling people’s eyes on me as I walk down the hall.

  This is one case in which I don’t mind.

  “Hello?”

  “That didn’t work.”

  “What didn’t work?”

  “Talking to my mom. She gave me one of her standard ‘Meghan Markerson, I Am Doing This for Your Own Good and for the Good of the School’ lectures.”

  “So that’s no help.”

  “It’s worse than no help — it totally backfired. She’s completely dug in. This is my sister’s fault.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Alexis is flunking out of high school. She has this sketchy boyfriend, and she doesn’t listen to anything Mom says, so Mom yells at me instead of her.”