“Wow.”
“It’s a fun time around my house lately.”
“Yeah. My sister’s a little weird, too.”
“How so?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She has an imaginary friend —”
“I had an imaginary friend until I was ten years old!”
“You did?”
“Yeah. It was a horse.”
“Are you serious? Did it … talk?”
“Of course not, it was a horse. Anyway, it was a little hard to bring it to school, so I had to invent ‘Through Power,’ which meant it could go through walls, and stuff.”
“So my sister is less weird than you.”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
Silence.
“So — what should we do about your mom? Just accept our fate?”
“Hayley! What kind of attitude is that? We can’t give up now!”
“What are we going to do? Start a petition?”
“Hayley, you’re a genius! Of course — that’s it! If we show that the whole school is behind us, we’ll be able to convince the PTO! I’m hugging you over the phone right now. Can you come over? We’ve got to plan.”
“Why don’t you come over here?”
“Sure. Where do you live?”
“Right over the Tea Room.”
“That’s five blocks from here! I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“See you.”
“Bye.”
“What are you girls up to?” Mom looks up from her computer and watches us as we pour ingredients into the gleaming silver commercial mixer. It’s enormous — big enough to hold twelve quarts — and Meghan was the one who suggested we use it.
“Gran said we could.” I finish pouring in the sugar and turn it on.
“I did,” Gran verifies. She rings up a customer as Mom looks from my face to Meghan’s, then back again.
She takes a sip of her coffee. “That’s fascinating, but it doesn’t really answer my question. You just took a batch of cupcakes out of the oven; now you’re making more?”
“We’re making three hundred chocolate mini-cupcakes to give out at school tomorrow,” Meghan explains.
“Gluten free?” Chloe asks.
Meghan smiles. “You heard about that? Nah, these are just regular.”
“Why are you making three hundred cupcakes?” Mom asks, one eyebrow lifted.
“We’re starting a petition to save the cupcake!”
“Save the cupcake!” Chloe echoes. Rupert mumbles something, and Chloe dissolves into giggles at the end of the counter.
“What is it?” I ask, intrigued by the idea that Rupert might have a sense of humor.
“Are they endangered?” Rupert repeats, more loudly this time.
“Not if I can help it,” Meghan says. She tucks a lock of purple hair beneath the hairnet I gave her.
“Isn’t that a bribe?” Mom asks.
“Of course not!” Meghan huffs. “It’s an incentive! We just want everyone to remember exactly what they’d be giving up.”
“And it’s good publicity for the Tea Room,” I put in.
Gran twinkles, but Mom looks horrified, and I’m about to kick myself: Of course she doesn’t want to make enemies out of the PTO! But a moment later, her lips flip down into a thoughtful frown, and she shrugs. “Okay.”
The bell over the door jingles, and Mr. Malik bursts in, smiling. “How am I supposed to sell flowers when my shop smells like chocolate?”
“Would you like a sample?” I ask, holding out a small cupcake. We’re on our third batch now. We already frosted the first forty-eight with chocolate and a tiny flower on top.
“Oh! Why, look at this, it’s like a tiny tea cake.” Mr. Malik accepts the plate I offer him. It’s a small plate, but it looks huge with only the tiny cupcake in the center. “Just enough for a single bite.”
“They remind me of petit fours,” Gran says as she measures Mr. Malik’s loose tea into a paper cone.
“Ah, a symbol of a more civilized time,” Mr. Malik says as he sits beside my mother at the counter. “A time when people had time!” He looks judgmentally at my mother’s computer screen, but she just smiles at him.
“I should make a few for the shop.” Gran pours boiling water into the tiny green teapot that’s just big enough for her to share with Mr. Malik. “Or perhaps just enough to share.”
“Mrs. Wilson, that would be lovely.”
My grandmother smiles at Mr. Malik as she holds the teapot lid in place with her hand, then pours out the tea into two china mugs.
“Are these ready to go in?” Meghan asks, gesturing toward the mini-cupcake pan, which I’ve just filled with batter.
I nod, and she yanks open the commercial oven and pops the tray inside. She closes the door with a thunk and looks around the café. “You’re so lucky.”
“I am?”
“I just love this place.” She puts her elbows on the counter and leans her face into her hands. “The light just pours in, and the floor is so wide. I love the plants and the piano.”
I look around, taking in the café with new eyes. It’s cozy and filled with light, and the wide wooden planks on the floor creak comfortingly whenever you walk across the exact middle of the room. Half of the tables are full. Even Mrs. McTibble is there with her dog, letting her take small bites of her scone. Here and there, vibrant orchids — all from Mr. Malik’s store — tower out of their clay pots. The neglected piano stands quietly in the corner. It gets used so rarely that I often forget it’s there.
“You should have music here sometimes,” Meghan says.
Mom looks up from her computer again, and cocks her head. “What did you say?”
“I said you should have music in here sometimes.”
Mom thinks it over. “That might be nice. Maybe for Sunday brunch. A jazz band, or some such.”
“You should get the piano tuned,” Rupert suggests.
Where is this spurt of conversation coming from? I wonder, as Mom nods and pecks onto her keyboard. “I’ll look into it.”
“That would be so fun!” Chloe claps her hands. “We could have concerts! Or maybe even a dance performance.”
“Don’t go crazy,” I tell her.
Meghan says, “Why not? The floor is wide enough.” She smiles at me, and I can almost hear what she’s thinking: Your sister is so not weird.
The timer chimes, and we pull the cupcakes out of the oven.
They’re perfect, and I feel a strange little surge of pride, as if my life is kind of okay, after all.
“What’s going on here?” Dean Whittier frowns at Meghan, who flashes him an innocent smile.
It’s Wednesday, and we’re standing near the front entranceway, behind a card table loaded with mini-cupcakes. We’ve each got a clipboard, which makes us look official. This is something Marco discovered two years ago. He was in a supermarket parking lot, trying to sign up people for a walkathon, but they just kept coming up to him and asking official questions, like, “What are the store hours?” and “Can I have a job application?” He got bored, so he decided to walk around the parking lot, standing in random empty spots, and then — whenever people tried to pull in — telling them that they couldn’t park there. He said that nobody argued; they just looked at the clipboard and drove on.
I’ve always known that story would come in handy someday, and I’m right, because it’s only 8:05, and we’ve already got fifty signatures. Also, I think the cupcakes have been helping. Our table has been mobbed all morning.
Unfortunately, Dean Whittier doesn’t seem impressed by the clipboards. “What trouble are you causing now, Ms. Markerson?”
“Do you mean, How am I helping the students express their ideas to the administration?” she corrects him.
“Oh, boy.” The dean sighs. “I can already tell I’m going to love this one.”
“It has come to our attention” — she points at me, and I resist the urge to duck under the table — “that the PTO pla
ns to ban bake sales and the general presence of sweet treats at school. We simply want to make the students aware of this.”
“Look, you’re going to have to shut this down.”
“Why?”
“You’re bribing students with cupcakes.”
“We’re simply giving away cupcakes. There’s no obligation to sign the petition.”
I flush as two boys snag cupcakes, then dart away from the table. “Those guys didn’t sign,” I point out.
“Would you like a cupcake, Dean Whittier?” Meghan asks.
“No, thank you. I’m not sure that’s appropriate.”
“Would you like to sign the petition?” I ask.
Dean Whittier looks at me in surprise, then laughs. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate, either.”
“Nice try, though, right?” Meghan says with a grin. “Hayley’s good.”
“Don’t let her get you into too much mischief, Ms. Hicks,” the dean says, and walks away. I’m shocked that he knows my name, and wonder if it’s a good sign or a bad one.
“Nice one!” Meghan holds her palm up for a high five, and I slap it.
Once the dean is gone, the traffic at our table picks up. Almost everybody is furious to hear that the PTO wants to ban sweets. One kid even threatens to sue the school if the measure passes. That’s Omar Gomez, though, whose mother is a lawyer. He’s basically always threatening to sue somebody.
I catch sight of Ezra, and call him over. “Sign this petition,” I tell him, thrusting my clipboard at him.
He frowns, but takes a cupcake, anyway. “What’s up?”
“The PTO wants to ban cupcakes, bake sales, you name it.”
“What? That’s how we raise money for our soccer uniforms!”
“Not anymore, if you don’t sign this petition.”
Ezra signs, and immediately calls over his teammate Tom Stacco, who calls over Evangeline Jackson, the captain of the girls’ soccer team. Soon we have members from both teams helping us, handing out cupcakes and asking for signatures, and before I know it, I’m face-to-face with Marco.
“Hi,” I say.
His eyes are flat and hard. “You have a petition?”
“Yeah.” I get the clipboard back from an eighth-grade girl and hand it to Marco. “It’s really great that you’re signing this.” I know my voice sounds gushy, but I can’t help it. I wish he would just look at me and smile, let me know that things are okay between us.
He looks up at me with that same flat expression, almost as if I’m not even there. “I signed it for the soccer team, not for you, Hayley.”
I try hard not to flinch, though my face stings as if I’ve been slapped. He starts to turn away, but before his eyes fully leave mine, I hear myself ask, “Would you like a cupcake?”
Marco stares at me for a long moment, long enough for another person from the soccer team to grab the clipboard out of my hand. Then he takes a cupcake and walks away, slowly pulling the paper wrapper from the side.
Someone puts the clipboard back into my hand just in time for Kyle to ask if he can sign. I give him the clipboard without thinking, until finally he has to ask me where he should put his name.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Kyle. Here.” I take his hand and guide it halfway down the page.
“Hayley! We’re out of cupcakes,” Meghan says.
“Are you kidding?”
“I’m scratching out my name,” Kyle announces.
“No! Don’t. I’ll make you a cupcake,” I promise.
Kyle grins, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. “I was just kidding.”
“Oh.”
“But I’ll take that cupcake.”
“Okay. I don’t know when I’ll have time —”
“Anytime,” he says, and in the next moment, someone pushes him aside and grabs the clipboard from me (again) just as the first bell rings.
The students around our table scatter like minnows surprised by a stone splashing into their pond. I help Meghan fold up the table. “I’ve got it,” she says. “Mrs. Diamond said I can store it in the office.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s light! See you in homeroom.”
I grin at her, then notice a familiar auburn head bobbing down the hall. Seeing a chance for one more signature, I sprint after her. “Artie!” I shout. “Hey! Wait up!”
She turns around and looks at me, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Hi, Hayley.”
“Um, listen, would you sign this petition?” I briefly explain about the PTO, then hand Artie a pen.
To my surprise, she doesn’t reach for the clipboard.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“You’re starting a petition?”
“Meghan and I are, yeah.”
Artie’s eyes narrow, but she nods, as if that’s the information she was expecting. “I should have known.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know …. Isn’t this just a little … juvenile?”
My heart is thudding in my chest. Juvenile? Juvenile? My mouth falls open, but the words are still frozen on my lips. I feel as if I’m made of sand, about to blow away in the wind. “Artie, I —”
She purses her lips. “Look, Hayley, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I don’t want to be called Artie anymore.”
“What? What should I call you?”
Seriously, I’m expecting her to say Fabulosa, or Queen Janice, or something equally weird, but what she says is, “My name is Artemis. Devon says that someone with a name as beautiful as that shouldn’t have a boy’s nickname.”
“But — but —” The bell rings, and Artie — Artemis — frowns.
“I’m late. I’ll see you, okay?” And she gives me a friendly little pat on the shoulder — the kind of thing you might do to a child or a dog — and dashes off to her locker.
I stare after her for a moment, wondering who on earth she is.
Juvenile? Juvenile is when you call the radio show fifteen times to request that they play the Batman theme song!
Juvenile is when you sing to your cat! Juvenile is when you dare your best friend to eat a worm!
Juvenile is when you hide your Barbies under the bed so you can still play with them — even during your first year in middle school!
Juvenile is when you put your finger into the pencil sharpener to see what happens!
Juvenile is when you write a fan letter to the Muppets!
Juvenile is when you tell your best friend not to use the name she’s been calling you since you were both two years old!
That’s juvenile.
That’s what’s juvenile, okay?
A million more responses to the word juvenile are bubbling in my mind as I yank open the door to the drugstore and storm down the school supplies aisle. Meghan has asked me to pick up some poster board and make a couple of signs to take to the PTO meeting. Of course I said yes. It’s the least I can do — after all, she’s going to be making the presentation. I’ll just stand back and hold up my CUPCAKES ARE NOT A CRIME sign.
Anyway, so I’m just standing there, trying to decide between neon pink and neon green, when who should come around the aisle holding a bottle of shampoo but Annie.
She lets out a startled “Oh!” then smiles, and then looks down at the shampoo in her hand as if she wants to make sure it isn’t anything embarrassing.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hello.” We both stand there awkwardly, and I wonder if she wants to run away as badly as I do. Instead, we’re held there by some weird force of politeness, and it’s clear that neither one of us will escape until we think of something to say to each other.
“Getting shampoo?” I know — how did I think up something so brilliant, right?
“For some reason, I’ve had the same bottle of conditioner for two years, but I keep running out of shampoo.” I look at her long, lustrous black hair and can’t believe she doesn’t even need conditioner.
She notices the neon poster board in my hand. “Projec
t?”
“Extracurricular,” I explain. “The school wants to ban cupcakes.”
She looks bemused. “Why?”
“Childhood obesity, food allergies, and concerns about safe food preparation.”
“Oh. Those are good reasons.” She shrugs.
“But I think people should be allowed to choose what they eat.”
“Well, it isn’t like you go to a school full of small children, right?”
“No — the youngest are eleven, the oldest thirteen. Some are fourteen.”
Annie laughs. “I could cook dinner and take care of my baby sister when I was eight! How are you going to tell people who are almost adults what to do?”
“Exactly.”
A smile still plays at the edges of Annie’s lips. “My mouth still waters when I think about that cupcake you made the other day. It would be” — she searches for a word — “unfortunate … if your schoolmates couldn’t share in your passion.”
Share in my passion? I never really thought of cupcakes as a passion before, but I guess she’s right. And when she puts it that way, it doesn’t sound juvenile at all. “Thank you,” I say.
Annie nods, then seems to think of something. “When will they decide?”
“There’s a meeting tonight,” I explain.
She places her shampoo carefully on a shelf of notebooks, then reaches behind her neck to unclasp the delicate bird necklace she’s wearing. She holds it out to me. “My mother gave me this when I was your age,” she explains. “It’s good luck.”
I hold up a hand, palm out. “I can’t.” I couldn’t possibly take something that special.
Annie’s face falls. I quickly say, “Maybe I could just borrow it.”
She smiles and steps behind me, and I hold up my hair as she fastens the clasp. The bird is light against my neck. “I feel luckier already,” I tell her.
I expect a laugh, but instead, she cocks her head thoughtfully. “Of course, it is sometimes hard to recognize luck. Often things that appear lucky turn out to be unlucky. And sometimes things that appear unlucky are really good luck in disguise. It all depends on the angle from which you see it.”
Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! Page 11
