by Coco Simon
“Em, she was just joking,” cautioned Mia.
I raised my palms innocently. “I’m just teasing . . . ,” I said. “No need to be so touchy.”
Emma sighed. “I’m sorry I have a certain look that they seem to like out there in the world. I don’t think it makes me better than anyone, and I don’t think I’m conceited or anything like that, do you?”
“Wow. Sorry. I’m . . . I didn’t know it bothered you so much.”
Katie and Mia were looking on with worried expressions.
“Well, it does. So please stop,” said Emma. “I’m not trying to be mean, but I really am sick of it, okay?”
“Totally, jeez. Sorry.” I looked down at my lunch tray and fiddled with a straw wrapper.
“Okay, that was awkward,” joked Mia.
Katie smiled, but Emma and I didn’t.
“Come on, you two,” said Katie.
I glanced up, and behind Emma’s shoulder, across the cafeteria, I spotted Matt walking in, looking adorable in a blue chambray shirt and beat-up khakis. My sour mood brightened. There was construction in the high school cafeteria, so both of our grades had to share a cafeteria. I was sure he’d come over to say hi to us. I started fussing with my hair to make sure it was perfectly and naturally awesome looking.
But just then, a girl sitting at a table near the door jumped up and ran over to him, chatting excitedly and gesturing at her table. Matt looked a little caught off guard, but then he smiled and nodded and then went to get his lunch.
Who on earth is that? I wondered. And then, Please don’t let him sit with her; please don’t let him sit with her, I chanted in my mind. But not a moment later, he appeared, tray in hand, and went to join her table, where she began chattering excitedly at him again.
I didn’t recognize the girl. She had long, straw-colored straight hair, and she wasn’t too tall or too short, and she was fit and sporty looking. She was sitting with girls in the grade above me, so she must’ve been older. She was very pretty; I had to admit it. Fresh-faced and cheerleaderish, but not tacky. I was dying to ask Emma who she was, but obviously I couldn’t, since I now hated Emma and Matt and actually the whole darn Taylor family. (Kidding. Sort of.)
“Well, I guess I’ll be going now,” I said.
“I’m not in a fight with you, Lexi-lou,” Emma said nicely, using our most secret preschool nickname.
I grimaced at the name. “I’m not in a fight with you either,” I said.
“Let’s all meet outside school at three thirty, go get a snack, and walk to the Donays’ together, okay?” said Mia brightly.
“And no more fighting,” added Katie, wagging her finger at us, mock-seriously.
“Fine,” I said grouchily.
“Who’s fighting?” kidded Emma.
“Hmph,” I said. I stalked out of the cafeteria without so much as glancing at Matt again.
The bad vibes from lunch were honestly forgotten or blown away by the time we met up outside school later, though I reminded myself not to tease Emma about being pretty anymore. Those days were over for sure. But it was a gorgeous afternoon, sunny and warm with blue skies, and we were all jazzed by our freedom and in good moods. I had put the Matt lunch scenario out of my mind and resolved to not worry about it—it was just a one-off.
We played “step on a crack, you’ll break your best friend’s back” all the way to the Donays’ house and were laughing and pushing and shoving one another the whole time. When we reached Emma’s block, we passed the Donay house without realizing it and had to double back to find it; it wasn’t what we were expecting for such a rocker chick.
The house was adorable—a small white Cape Cod with a little wing off each side and really pretty landscaping, with lots of blue and white flowers blooming.
“It’s so pretty!” Katie exclaimed breathlessly.
We climbed a few brick stairs and ventured up the walk to the front door, and then I rang the doorbell and stepped back. Because the house was elevated, the view from the front door was really pretty—all treetops from the neighboring houses, and the air was filled with birdsong.
“Not exactly what you would picture . . . ,” began Mia, and then the door opened.
“Hello! You must be the Cupcake Club!” said a woman with a friendly voice and a strong accent.
I turned to find a very pleasant, pretty woman at the door, grinning widely at us. She was petite and a little curvy, with red hair just like mine, and fair skin and dimples. Along with a warm smile, she was wearing a chic white silk blouse with a floppy bow at the neck and high-waisted black trousers with black high heels.
“Hi, Mrs. Donay, I’m Alexis,” I said, sticking out my hand.
“Lovely to meet you,” she said. I loved her accent but felt like it would be rude to ask where she was from.
“And you, too. Let me introduce the rest of the team,” I began, introducing all around.
“Please do come in. Martine is just inside in the kitchen. Martine, alors! Elles sont ici!”
“Oh, are you French?” I asked, recognizing the language.
“Well, French Canadian, actually. But raised in Quebec, speaking French. Everyone speaks it there,” said Mrs. Donay.
“Cool,” I marveled. “I would love to live in another country for a while when I grow up.”
We passed through the front hall, the dining room, and into the kitchen, chatting as we walked. I tried to look at everything in the pretty house, but it was hard to take in. My main impression was: elegant.
The kitchen had a marble-topped table on an iron base, with little bistro chairs around it, and a neatly patterned black-and-white–tiled floor. The lights were hanging lanterns, and the whole thing looked really French, actually. In the middle of all this was Martine, exactly as Mia had described her: jet-black hair in a choppy cut; pale white skin; heavy black eye makeup; a serious expression on her face; and lots of black denim, piercings, and chains. She was tiny—short and waifish—with a heart-shaped face and a pointed, pixieish little chin. She looked like Tinker Bell, if Tink ever turned Goth.
I was totally intimidated and hoped my surprise at her appearance didn’t show on my face when I greeted her. I expected her to be as sour as her mom was sweet.
“Hi, Martine, I’m Alexis,” I said in a professional manner, putting out my hand. But then Martine smiled, and her serious face was transformed. She had her mother’s dimples and a similar wide grin, with pretty blue eyes that turned up at the corners when she smiled.
“Hi,” Martine said shyly, shaking my hand. In surprise, I introduced everyone, and Martine continued to smile.
“Alors, let’s all sit at the table and have quelque chose à manger—something to eat!” said Mrs. Donay. She went and lifted a heavy tray from the counter and brought it to the table.
There were two bottles of sparkling lemonade in tall frosty glass bottles, stacked bistro glasses, a plate piled high with fancy lacy cookies, and nice periwinkle-blue linen napkins. Mrs. Donay doled out drinks and snacks as we chatted about the weather, and when I took a bite of the cookie, I nearly swooned.
“Oh, Mrs. Donay! Did you make these? They’re incredible!”
“Ah, mais non. I wish! I picked them up on my way home from work. They are from the French bakery two towns over in the new shopping center.” She giggled a tinkling girlish laugh. “I can’t cook my way out of—how do you say?—a paper sack!”
Martine laughed at her kindly. “ ‘Bag,’ Maman, not ‘sack’! And maybe you can’t cook, but you are the best at presentation!”
Her mother pursed her lips modestly and nodded in agreement. “I can put take-out on pretty plates and make it look enchanting. That’s half the war!”
“ ‘Battle,’ Maman,” said Martine. “Half the battle.” She rolled her eyes, but it was only in jest; it was more for her mother’s benefit.
They were really cute together, the mother and daughter. I was so used to slightly torturing my parents and watching my friends annoy theirs th
at it was refreshing to see a mother and daughter be nice to each other. They were almost like friends.
I smiled. “So, Martine, what are you thinking for your birthday cupcakes?”
Martine grinned mischievously. “Well, let me start by saying, I really love your work. I’ve had cupcakes that Dan—I think he is someone’s brother?”
Mia raised her hand. “Step,” she acknowledged. “But we live together.”
Martine nodded. “He’s brought some of your cupcakes to gigs and rehearsals—we jam in a band together sometimes—and they are just soooo delicious! I’m not really the cupcake type. Or the ‘sweet sixteen’–type, either,” she said, making quotation marks in the air by her head. “But when my mother talked me into having a party, I knew I had to have your cupcakes for dessert.”
“Wow! We’re flattered!” I said.
“Do you remember what flavors you had? Or do you have an idea of something you might like or want in terms of flavor?” asked Katie.
I had opened my notebook to take notes, and my pen was poised.
Martine pushed her hair back behind her ear, which made her look like a little kid. She squinted her eyes to remember. “I like the cake that was chocolate, I think? And frosting—vanilla. Black and white. Pretty boring.”
“Not boring,” said Katie. “A delicious and simple canvas for an elegant design.”
Mia leaned in. “What are you thinking for the party theme? We can tie the cupcake design into that.”
Mrs. Donay exclaimed rapidly, “Ooh la, la, la, la, la, la!” and flapped her hands—in excitement or nervousness, it was hard to tell which.
“The party is themed to be like CBGB, which was a famous rock club in New York City that closed down.” Martine grinned. “It’s going to be in a warehouse, with really loud heavy-metal music, big candles everywhere, and a studio booth so people can cut their own tracks using a synthesizer.”
“Wow!” said Emma. “That sounds amazing!” Emma has an on-again, off-again flirtation with heavy metal that the rest of us don’t share. (That’s the polite way of putting it.)
“Do you think? I hope so! The attire is ‘Rockin’ Out in Black.’ My mother will get piles of accessories . . . fake chains and nose rings and things for people to wear to dress up if they want, and on the same table, we’re having colored hairspray and mini black lipsticks and stuff, for people to really go wild.”
“Awesome!” It actually did sound fun, though if I were going, I’d wear earplugs.
“I can’t wait! So anyway, maybe the cupcakes could have something to do with all this, please?” Martine asked politely.
I looked at her mother, who was nodding. It was so funny because Mrs. Donay was so conservative and normal looking, and Martine’s appearance was so out there. I would have assumed there’d be a lot of crankiness or frustration between the two of them, but there just wasn’t. Maybe Martine’s mom liked how her daughter looked, or maybe she thought it was a phase she’d outgrow. Either way, it was remarkable. And a relief.
I could see Mia’s creative wheels spinning as we tied up the loose ends about quantity and date. We adjourned by saying we’d make a few sample designs for them to see this weekend. The party was two weeks off, so we’d have some time to get it right. Right?
Outside the house after our meeting, the four of us were speechless. We walked down the brick steps and onto the sidewalk, and then everyone began to speak at once.
“That was so . . . ,” began Katie.
“Okay, that was totally not what I was expecting . . . ,” said Mia.
Emma’s mouth just hung open.
“Guys! Wait till we at least get around the corner before we start discussing this. Discretion is the backbone of our business! Shh!” I cautioned in a low voice.
We walked the rest of the block in silence, and then we burst out chattering again.
“Wow! She was so nice!” said Emma.
“I know!” I agreed. “I thought she’d be . . .”
“Mean or something, because of how she dresses and whatever . . . ,” supplied Katie.
“And she and her mom got along so well . . . ,” said Mia.
“That was really fun!” I summed up. “I guess like Emma said, you really can’t judge a book by its cover!”
Katie agreed. “There’s always more than meets the eye. That’s one of my mottoes,” she added with a giggle, elbowing me so I’d know she was teasing.
“Ha-ha,” I said.
“What in the world are we going to make?” Mia moaned.
I patted her on the arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll think of something. That’s why we pay you the big bucks.”
“Oh, that’s why!” said Mia, laughing.
“I guess we have to use our usual brainstorm session technique,” said Emma. “Time to start searching the Internet for ideas!”
CHAPTER 3
Research
Lex, by the way, what’s first prize for the science fair?” whispered Emma.
“You mean besides the glory of winning, would there be, like, a trophy or something?” I whispered back.
“Or maybe some cold, hard cash?” Mia wiggled her eyebrows.
“I have to check,” I said. “I’m going to look at the contest rules on the website tonight when I start to organize my presentation.”
We were doing our homework after school in the library because I needed to look up calorie and health information for my science project. Well, actually, I needed Katie to help me do it, because she was the food person and knew what to look for. Emma and Mia came along to keep us company.
Katie’s forehead rested in her hand. She was poring over charts in some giant, thick health books.
“Thank you so much, Katie,” I murmured. “Is it really hard?”
Katie looked up at me and nodded. “It’s just . . . It all depends on what you think is the most important for the ‘healthy’ aspect. Low in sugar? Fewer calories? High in vitamins and minerals? Low in fat? Do you have your thesis?”
“Hmm.” I tapped my lip with my pen as I thought. I guess I did need to clarify my thesis for the project. Should it be “Cupcakes Don’t Have to Be Bad for You”? But I don’t want to imply that cupcakes are bad for you because, obviously, that could take a big bite out of our business! So I decided it would be “Cupcakes Are Good for You! (But Only Certain Ones).” I sighed.
“What’s the matter, Lex?” Emma asked kindly.
I explained my dilemma, and the other girls thought about it too. I love my friends, I must say. They are so helpful!
“What about, ‘Cupcakes Aren’t the Worst Thing in the World for You!’?” joked Mia.
“Ha-ha,” I said.
Emma was thinking for real, though. Finally, she said, “What about something like, ‘Cupcakes Can Be Good for You!’?”
“Hmmm . . . ,” I said, pondering it. “I think that works! Right?” I looked at Katie, who had the best grasp of the situation, and she was nodding.
“Yes. I think that’s safe and accurate,” she agreed.
“And most important, provable!”
“Will you need to give the info on an ‘unhealthy’ cupcake for contrast?” asked Mia.
“Oh. Hmm. Yes. I guess so,” I said. “I hate to criticize our own good work, though. . . .”
We were quiet for a moment, and then Emma had another brilliant suggestion. “Hey! Just use a boxed cupcake mix and canned frosting for contrast! No need to use our own cupcakes, right?”
“Eureka!” I cried, slamming my palm onto the tabletop.
“Shhhh!” shushed the librarian.
I blushed, and the girls and I all exchanged guilty looks. “Oops. But that is genius, Em. Thanks!” I was so happy! The Cupcake Club had solved all my problems, yet again. As I sat basking in my happiness, the door to the library opened, and in walked Matt.
“Matt!” I called in a joyful whisper. I wanted to share the good news, but really, I just wanted to connect with him and flirt a little since I was in such
a great mood. What could be better than the arrival of a great idea and your crush, all in one minute?!
But he didn’t hear me because he was talking to the girl who came in right behind him. The same girl from the cafeteria the other day. They were speaking in whispers because we were in the library, so their heads were kind of close together, and then she said something that made him laugh. Watching them, I felt like I was going to be sick. Now, I was mortified I had called out to him, and I prayed he wouldn’t notice us over here. I sank down in my chair, my face flushing beet red. I couldn’t meet my friends’ eyes, but I was sure they were looking back and forth between Matt and me.
After a few painful seconds, which felt like an hour, Emma said softly, “They’re gone. They didn’t see us.”
When I didn’t reply, she said, “Lexi?”
I looked over at her. I know my misery was written all over my face. “Is that his girlfriend?” I asked, in pain.
Emma tilted her head to the side thoughtfully. “No. I don’t think so. No.”
“Wait, so, ‘no,’ or ‘I don’t think so’?” I asked.
“Well, I haven’t heard one way or the other,” said Emma, looking away. “Probably not, though. I would have heard something, I’m sure.”
“Not if he’s anything like Dan,” said Mia. “Sorry,” she apologized to me. “But teenage boys don’t tell anyone anything about their personal lives.”
“Who is that girl?” I asked Emma, cringing.
“Um, I think she’s Samantha Perry.”
That name sounded familiar. Why? I racked my brain. “Wait! Sam Perry? Like who called when we were at your house the other day?”
Emma shrugged. “I guess?”
Now I was annoyed. “Do so many girls call Matt that it’s hard to keep track?” I sputtered.
“Hey, I’m just his sister! I’d be the last one to know anything about his personal life, so don’t get mad at me!” she said indignantly.
“Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.” I backed down. There was no point in getting mad at Emma. None of this was her fault.
My heart rate was slowing down, and I could feel that my flush had subsided. “You know, whatever. It’s not like we’re together, anyway!” I said huffily. Was I just trying to convince myself? Sure. But what were my other options? To cry? To mourn a relationship that never officially was?
