Confectionately Yours #2: Taking the Cake!

by Lisa Papademetriou

  For years, singing was a private, almost secret thing that Artie did. I was her best friend, so I knew about it. She never, ever wanted to sing in public.

  Not until I made her audition for the fall musical.

  I look down at my notebook and scribble the word pop. Maybe I can make some cupcakes with pop. Or poppy seeds. Pop rocks? This seems like a bad idea, but I write it down, anyway. You never know when a bad idea will somehow turn into a good one. It happens.

  “Got anything good?” Devon whispers as he slips into the seat behind mine. He has to lean forward and his lips are near my ear, which sends a shiver down my spine.

  “Not yet,” I confess. “Still thinking.”

  Devon nods, and we finish listening to Artie’s song. “What do you think of the play?” he asks when it’s over.

  “Oh, I love it.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” I turn to look into his blue gaze. There’s a fleck of gold in his right eye, like a beam of sunshine is caught there. “What do you think of my accent?”

  I must be hypnotized by that glimmer of gold, because instead of saying something sensible, like, “It’s genius,” I tell him the truth. “It’s kind of hard to understand.”

  Devon sucks in a deep breath. He drops his head.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly.

  “No,” he says. He smiles, and then takes my hand. A current travels up the length of my arm, almost like an electric shock. “That’s what I thought. It’s just — the actor who plays the role in the movie has a Scottish accent….”

  “So you want to sound like him?”

  “Yes. But it’s hard….” Devon shakes his head, and a lock of blond hair tumbles across his eyes. “Ms. Lang says to keep trying….”

  “It must make it hard to sing.”

  Devon looks at me for a long moment. “It really does.”

  My heart stutters in my chest and I feel that look of his — almost like the one he gave Artie before, in the scene. Except, in that moment, he was acting. And now …

  The silence between us drags on. Finally, I say, “I think you should just try using your own voice.”

  “That’s just what I needed to hear.” He presses my fingers and I feel as if my whole body has gone numb — everything except for my hand and arm, which are alive, crackling with energy.

  “Hi, guys! What’s up?” Artie stands beside Devon, and he drops my hand.

  “Artemis — Hayley and I were just discussing cupcake ideas,” he says.

  Artie doesn’t even look at me. “You’re in the next scene, Devon.”

  “Okay.” He flashes me one last grateful look. “Thanks for your honesty, Hayley.”

  “You’re welcome,” I whisper as Artie glares. She trails after him toward the stage for a moment, then turns and lopes back toward me. She’s smiling, so I smile back. I figure she’s going to thank me for making cupcakes for the play, or something, but instead she leans close to me and hisses, “Stay away from my boyfriend.”

  A cold dagger stabs through me as she leans back, still smiling. For a moment, I think I’ve misheard her. Then her eyes narrow.

  There are so many things I want to say, and they all come rushing into my head at once: Are you sure he’s your boyfriend? and What do you think I’m going to do? and Are you threatening me? But before I can say anything, she turns and walks away.

  I look down at my hand, which is sitting in my lap.

  The hand Devon held.

  Suddenly, I feel a little sorry for Artie.

  The arts wing is nearly deserted as I leave the auditorium. The hallway is eerily quiet — so quiet that I become extremely aware of the noise my shoes make as the rubber soles squeak across the marble floor. My head is still swirling with thoughts about cupcakes and Artie and Devon when I round the corner and hear a soft rain of musical notes echoing down the hall, reverberating off the metal lockers.

  They grow louder as I near the end of the hall and come to the practice rooms. The rooms are soundproof, but someone has left a door open and is playing something soft and sweet on a piano. I used to take piano lessons back when we could afford them, but I was never very good. This, to me, sounds a bit like Brahms or maybe Mozart. It’s soothing.

  I peek in, and see a curly blond head bowed over the keyboard. “Kyle?”

  He stops short and turns to face me. His eyes are blank, but he’s wearing a half smile, as if expecting a happy surprise.

  “Don’t stop. It’s just me, Hayley.”

  “Oh, Fred!” Kyle beams, exposing the dimple in his right cheek. Kyle is blind, by the way. His nickname for me goes back to an incident in fourth grade. I was wearing a vintage bowling shirt with the name Fred embroidered over the pocket. I didn’t realize Kyle couldn’t see, and I was baffled about why he couldn’t read my shirt. It was major humiliation for me, but Kyle actually thought the whole thing was funny. “Come on in.”

  I hesitate in the doorway. “I didn’t know you could play the piano.”

  Kyle turns back to the keys and plays a dramatic Ta-da! chord. “Don’t you know blind guys love the piano? Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles …”

  “Art Tatum,” I say.

  “Whoa! Guess who knows her jazz piano, everyone!” Kyle crows. “Do you play?”

  “Just … badly.” I sit down beside him on the piano bench.

  “Hmm.” Kyle shrugs. Then he starts to play the familiar bom-a-did-ah, bom-a-did-ah that makes up the bottom half of “Heart and Soul.” “Show me what you got,” he teases.

  So I come in with plink-plink-plink, and soon we’re playing together. “Anyone can play this song.”

  “But not anyone can make it sound this amazing,” Kyle counters, and he turns his part into an elaborate riff. “So, Hayley, why so down?”

  “You can hear that in my voice?” I take my hands off the keys.

  “I can hear it in your fingertips, when you play,” he says. “And yeah, your voice. What’s up?”

  I heave a sigh. “I don’t know. Artie and I — We’re not getting along.”

  The dramatic opening to Beethoven’s Fifth: Dunh-dunh-dunh-dun.

  “Thanks, Kyle.”

  “Sorry. What happened?”

  “Nothing, exactly.” This isn’t quite true, but Kyle doesn’t press for more info.

  “Is it going to blow over?”

  “I doubt it…. It isn’t really like weather. It feels more like … plate tectonics.”

  “The earth is shifting beneath your feet. Sending up new continents.”

  “Creating oceans.” I toy with the topmost key, making it plink over and over. “And meanwhile, I’ve promised to come up with some brilliant new cupcake that the drama club can sell as a fund-raiser.”

  “So — what’s the cupcake?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, the musical is about a pop star, so I was thinking maybe … poppy seed?” I wince as the words come out of my mouth.

  Kyle lifts an eyebrow. “Eeew.”

  “Pop rocks? Lollipops?”

  “Stop, Hayley, you’re grossing me out.”

  “Me, too,” I admit.

  Kyle laughs. His dimple is kind of cute, I realize. And his eyes are a beautiful shade of gray. It’s interesting to sit near a blind person. You can really study their face without embarrassing yourself. Kyle’s skin is pale, but his cheeks are ruddy. He looks like the kind of person who would blush easily, if that were his personality. “So … pop. Hey, what about those things — cake pops? Like, a cupcake on a stick?”

  “Kyle — you’re a genius!”

  “So true.”

  “Don’t make me take it back.”

  “Okay. Besides — I’m not that much of a genius. I didn’t help you with the Artie thing.”

  I blow out a sigh. “Some things can’t be helped.”

  We sit there for a few moments, just being quiet. After a while, Kyle reaches out to the keyboard. Bom-a-did-ah, bom-a-did-ah …

  He pauses and faces me with his eyebrows raised, as
if he’s asking me a question.

  Plink-plink-plink, I play.

  Kyle grins. We play “Heart and Soul” together for a while. By the time we finish, I’m smiling again.

  There’s a lot I don’t know about Kyle, but I know he always makes me smile.

  The true parts:

  Artie and I aren’t getting along.

  It isn’t going to blow over.

  I have to make some cupcakes to sell as a fund-raiser.

  But none of that is what was on my mind. No, what I was really thinking about is the fact that Meghan is right: Devon definitely doesn’t really seem that interested in Artie.

  He does when they’re onstage, but off it? Hardly. Honestly, he seems more interested in me.

  And Artie really isn’t my friend anymore. We’re practically borderline enemies.

  So what does that mean?

  There’s no rule that you can’t go for your enemy’s crush, right?

  I mean — right?

  I plop down next to Marco on the bus. I don’t even bother scanning for Artie anymore. She’s there, in the back row. I can hear the familiar tones of her laugh.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  Marco doesn’t look up from his notebook. It’s like he’s surrounded by a clear bubble of silence.

  I stare out the window, watching the stores zip by. It’s a gray day, and a low mist hangs over everything. It’s probably beautiful out in my old neighborhood. There’s a farm near my old house, and on days like this, you could just make out the cows in the blanket of fog. But here, in the town, it just feels damp on your eyelashes, and chill.

  Marco sighs, like he’s feeling the same way I am. He must feel my glance as I peek onto the open page of his book, because he says, “Carter.”

  More math. We’ve moved on to fractions.

  “Does this make sense to you?” he demands, almost accusingly. “If I’m dividing 3 by 2/4, shouldn’t the answer be 1-1/2? I’m dividing it in half, right?”

  “No — first off, you need to make this three into a fraction. 3 over 1. Then you to flip the second fraction….” I go over what Mr. Carter told us the day before.

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Marco insists.

  “Well, it does when you think about it.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Marco’s dark eyes flash, but I know he isn’t angry with me.

  “Look,” I say, pulling out my homework. “All you have to know is that division is flipped. Don’t worry about it making sense. Just do it. After a while, you’ll get it.” Chewing the inside of his cheek, Marco stares down at the second problem. “Just be sure to go through all of the steps.”

  “I always forget to simplify the fractions,” Marco admits. “It’s points off for that.” His finger traces the work in my notebook. “I see …” I watch his face. It’s almost like watching a candle sputter into flame, then flicker, as if it can’t decide whether to catch or go out.

  We work on two more problems before the bus lurches up in front of the school. “Thanks, Hayley,” Marco says as he shoves his book into his backpack.

  “You’ll get it,” I tell him.

  “It’s just …” Marco looks over his shoulder. The aisle between seats is jammed, but nobody is listening. Everyone is busy shouting and shoving their way to the front. “It’s just that if my math grade falls below a C+, they’re going to kick me off the soccer team.”

  “Why? That’s totally unfair!”

  “I know — and it’s almost like Carter wants it to happen. He already met with Coach Klein.”

  “I hate him.” I really mean it. Mr. Carter should be fired.

  Marco just sighs. The bus has emptied out, so I step into the aisle. Marco scoots out awkwardly, following me. We make our way off the bus, then start to walk toward the school. Our pace is evenly matched — we both like to walk fast.

  Once we get to the double doors, Marco says, “I guess I’ll see you later, Hayley.”

  “Marco, wait —” I pull my notebook from my backpack and shove it at him. “Make sure you finish the homework.”

  Marco hesitates. “I can’t ask you again.”

  “You don’t have to ask,” I tell him. I swat him in the arm with the notebook.

  “Okay.” Marco looks me in the eye. “I’ll keep up with the homework from now on. I swear.”

  “I know you’re doing your best,” I tell him.

  He shrugs, taking the notebook. “I hope it’s enough.” He gives me another sad smile, then turns to walk away.

  King Kong Cupcakes (Banana-Coconut-Macadamia-Nut Cupcakes)

  (makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

  I basically tweaked the Rain Forest Cupcakes and added Chocolate-Coconut Frosting. Bananas. Nuts. Perfect for Meghan.

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 medium very ripe banana, mashed well

  2/3 cup coconut milk

  1 teaspoon coconut extract

  1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1/2 cup granulated sugar

  1/4 cup brown sugar

  1/3 cup canola oil

  1-1/4 cups gluten-free, all-purpose flour, such as Bob’s Red Mill

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  1/4 teaspoon baking soda

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  1/2 cup chopped toasted macadamia nuts

  INSTRUCTIONS:

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

  In a small bowl, whisk together the banana, coconut milk, coconut extract, vanilla extract, granulated sugar, brown sugar, and oil.

  In a larger bowl, sift together the gluten-free flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and mix.

  Add the dry ingredients to the wet ones a little bit at a time, and combine using a whisk or handheld mixer, stopping to scrape the sides of the bowl a few times, until no lumps remain. Add the chopped macadamia nuts and combine completely.

  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-Coconut Frosting

  INGREDIENTS:

  1/2 cup margarine

  1/2 cup cocoa powder

  1 teaspoon coconut extract

  2-1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar

  3 tablespoons coconut milk

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  In a bowl, using a handheld mixer, cream the margarine. Sift in the cocoa powder and mix with the margarine until completely combined.

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

  Mom is sitting at a table in the café, chatting with Police Officer Ramon.

  Awk-ward.

  I really want to talk to her about Marco and Meghan and Devon and Artie. But she’s busy … smiling. Smiling and smiling at Ramon, who is smiling and smiling at her. I just wish they’d stop smiling so much.

  Which brings me to my next subject: I wish I had someone to talk to about my mother and Ramon.

  But who am I going to call? Meghan? We weren’t friends when my parents got divorced, and she doesn’t really know the whole history. Besides, I don’t want advice. I just want someone to listen. And Meghan is really more of an advice girl. Three weeks ago, I would’ve called Artie. But that’s out. And Marco — forget it. He’s got too much going on to hear me. My sister is sitting nearby, but she’s with Rupert, and I don’t want more free psychoanalysis. Besides, Chloe probably thinks Officer Ramon is great. Just like Annie is great. Everyone’s great!

  I wish I could feel that way.

  I tap in the cocoa and mix it carefully into the rest of the batter. Then I add a generous amount of sea salt. It’s almost like I’m adding the tears that are hidden behind my eyes, the ones I can’t seem to shed for some reason.

  I’ve been thinking about Marco all afternoon. Not just about the trouble he’s having in Mr. Carte
r’s class, but just about how hard things have been for him in general. I wish our friendship was like it used to be — easy. Automatic. Almost thoughtless.

  I feel the same way about Artie. I wish I’d never realized she was awful. It was so much easier.

  In books or movies, whenever a friendship ends, the friends just become enemies. And then the heroine makes perfect new friends who solve all of her problems. Instead, I’ve got a still-kind-of friend who needs my help, an ex-friend who isn’t quite an enemy, and a new friend who’s bossy and maybe halfway nuts. Fun, but nuts.

  Nuts. A thought strikes me: Maybe nuts are what’s needed.

  I decide to add a few pecans to the recipe.

  “You seem lost in thought,” says a voice behind me.

  Turning, I see the warm, smiling face of Mr. Malik. He’s peeking out from behind a tall bouquet of dahlias. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  He places the weekly bouquet — a barter arrangement from his flower shop — on the counter and takes a seat. “You were lost in thought,” he says in his elegant Pakistani accent.

  “Thinking about friends,” I tell him as I scoop batter into paper cupcake liners.

  “Good friends?”

  “Old friends. Ex-friends, maybe.” I shrug.

  “They’re hard to replace.” Mr. Malik places his fingertips together.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s hard to compare someone you’ve known your whole life to someone you’ve known only a few weeks,” he says, and I nearly fall on the floor because that is exactly the problem and I hadn’t been able to figure out how to say it until he just did.

  He sighs and smiles at the same time. “I remember how I felt when my wife died,” he says. “I lost my closest friend, and I did not want to know anyone else. All I wanted was her. But, eventually, I made new friends. And, in time, those friends that I had known for a few weeks became friends that I have known for years. And I treasure them, and the memories we have made together.”