Confectionately Yours #4: Something New

by Lisa Papademetriou

  You can tell a lot about people by the way they treat dogs. Like Meghan, for example, is a very enthusiastic petter. She gets Tessie riled up and excited. Kyle, on the other hand, approached Tessie slowly and patted her gently. She calmed down when she was with him. And that’s how those guys are with everything. Meghan is all crazy energy, and Kyle is more tranquil. They’re both fun … just in different ways.

  “This cake is deformed,” I say to nobody in particular.

  From across the counter, Chloe cocks her head. “It looks like Mount Tom.”

  “After an avalanche,” Rupert adds in his quiet voice.

  “Rupert!” Chloe protests, but I just laugh. He’s right, after all. I’m standing behind the counter in the café, working on a wedding cake, but I’ve done something wrong. The top level is sinking into the bottom level, and it’s a gigantic mess.

  “I respect that you are still trying to frost that cake.” Rupert’s dark eyes are serious.

  “Not for long.” The frosting is only making everything worse. Besides, the cake is huge, and I can’t reach the back of it.

  Meghan looks up from the poster board and art supplies laid out across her table. “You need a lazy Susan to frost a wedding cake. And you have to put little sticks in the bottom layer so that it holds up the top layer.”

  “I did that!”

  “Did you leave the top layer on a circular piece of cardboard?” Meghan asks.

  “No.”

  “That’s why it’s sinking. The sticks are just poking holes in the bottom of the top layer. You need something solid to stop them.” She goes back to coloring in her campaign poster.

  “Grr! Why do you know these things?” I demand.

  “Meh. My mom gets all of these cooking magazines,” she explains. “I pick things up.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t trouble yourself, dear,” Gran says to me as she fills a fat white china teapot with hot water. “Why don’t you just make a few cupcakes?” Her forehead is creased with worry as she eyes my wedding cake.

  “Don’t worry, Gran, I’ll get it all worked out in time for your wedding,” I tell her. “That’s why I’m practicing.”

  “Well, it just seems like a lot of fuss, that’s all. I don’t think —”

  “Well, now, my dear future Mrs. Malik!” Mr. Malik bustles into the café holding a sheaf of deep pink roses. “You’re looking lovely.”

  “Oh, Umer.” Gran’s eyes brighten and she blushes as pink as the flowers. “Honestly! You’ll go out of business bringing me flowers every day.” But she doesn’t refuse them. Instead, she takes the blooms and inhales deeply. “How lovely.”

  “If I go out of business, it will be thanks to that so-called restaurant next door to my flower shop!” Mr. Malik huffs as he perches on a stool by the counter. “They’ve vented the place improperly — it’s making my whole store smell like a burrito!”

  “Oh, dear!” Gran says. Chloe reaches for the flowers, and Gran hands them over, then pours Mr. Malik a cup of tea. I automatically reach for a madeleine — Mr. Malik’s favorite — and place it on a plate.

  “Thank you, my girls,” he says. “A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but a rose that smells like salsa is …”

  “Un-Shakespearean,” Rupert finishes.

  “This is what happens when business owners aren’t locals!” Mr. Malik grumbles.

  “They aren’t locals?” Chloe asks as she arranges Gran’s roses in a vase.

  “No, dear,” Gran explains. “The restaurant is run by two businessmen in Boston.”

  Mr. Malik harrumphs. “It’s really quite rude. But whenever I call to complain, I have to leave a message! I’ve complained to the manager, of course, a very nice lady, but she can’t do anything about the vents without the owners’ permission.”

  “Dreadful.” Gran shakes her head. “Do have another madeleine, Umer.”

  “Mark my words — if they do this thing badly, they do everything else the same way,” Mr. Malik pronounces. “I wouldn’t eat at that restaurant for a million dollars.”

  That settled, Mr. Malik and my grandmother turn to discussing the news. My feet are starting to hurt from standing, so I give up frosting my monstrosity and head over to join Meghan at her table. “That looks good,” I say, pointing to her poster.

  “Artie gave me a few ideas.”

  “Really?” I think I mentioned that Artie and Meghan aren’t exactly besties. “Well, it looks great.”

  Meghan leans back in her chair and stretches. She nods approvingly at the green-and-yellow posters. They really pop. “I’ve been doing this for over an hour,” she says. “Want to take a walk?”

  “Are you going for a walk?” Chloe asks, looking up from the book she just settled in to read. “Would you take Tessie? I’m just dying to finish this chapter.”

  “Sure!” Meghan says just as I let out a groan.

  “You’re doing the after-dinner walk,” I tell Chloe. “And the one right before bedtime.”

  “No problem,” she says, waving her hand at me.

  Honestly, whatever happened to “I’ll take care of the dog”? But, to tell the truth, I’m kind of glad that Chloe is sticking me with a bunch of the dog walking. That way, I can complain to Mom, and I know we won’t get a permanent dog.

  I’m very mean, I know.

  I’m sorry.

  But who likes picking up poop?

  “I can’t believe how lucky you are!” Meghan chirps as she bounces down the street with my new-used lazy Susan. She’s doing her bouncy-beach-ball walk. I don’t even know how she does it, but it’s like a little hop with each step. Like Tigger.

  “You’re even more excited about it than I am. Is it heavy?” Meghan insisted on carrying it, since I’m holding Tessie’s leash.

  “No — hardly anything. I just can’t believe it! It was right there at a tag sale! It’s, like, your Lazy Susan of Destiny! Look what Hayley got!” Meghan commands when she spots Marco walking toward us.

  He snaps a photo of Meghan holding out the lazy Susan. “Cool,” he says. “It’s a plate.”

  “You can turn it,” I explain to him. “It makes frosting cakes easier.”

  “Every home needs one,” Marco jokes.

  “Hayley found it at a tag sale for two dollars!” Meghan goes on. “Isn’t that amazing? Isn’t she lucky?”

  “Yeah,” Marco agrees. “Is that where you got the frog, too?”

  “What frog?” I ask, and Marco points downward.

  I look at the guilty-faced dog at the end of my leash. She is carrying a neon-green beanbag frog about the size of a lime. “Did you just shoplift that?” I ask Tessie, who just peers up at me with two neon-green legs sticking out of her mouth.

  “She stole it from the tag sale! We’re gonna get arrested!” Meghan cries.

  Marco takes a photo of the dog with the frog. “Haven’t you two been in trouble with the law before?” he asks.

  “Don’t remind me,” I say, shooting a look at Meghan. The last time I was involved in a crime, Officer Ramon Martinez brought me home … and ended up dating my mom. Which turned out pretty well, actually. Except for the part where I got grounded. “We’ll have to bring the frog back.”

  “They aren’t going to take back a frog that has been slobbered on,” Marco points out helpfully.

  Ugh! Now I have to pay for Tessie’s contraband? “I hope you’re grateful,” I say to the dog, who wags her tail at me. Oh, well. The tag sale is only charging twenty-five cents for small stuffed animals, so it won’t exactly break the bank. Besides, it’s partly my fault. I should have been watching her. I was just caught up in my lazy Susan purchase.

  Marco snaps another photo, then looks at the camera screen. He laughs a little, then holds it out so I can see. He’s managed to capture me frowning down at Tessie, and the little dog looking up at me adorably.

  “Now there’s a face that could get away with anything,” Meghan says. She puts the lazy Susan on her hip and leans down awkwardly to g
ive the dog a pat.

  “Don’t encourage her,” I grumble as we fall into step back the way we came. Northampton sidewalks are pretty wide, and there are only a few stray singles and couples browsing the stores, so we have no trouble walking in a line together. Marco pauses to snap photos once or twice. He notices things I don’t, like graffiti on a fire hydrant and a small patch of yellow crocuses blooming between the roots of an urban maple tree.

  “Hey, Marco — do you have summer plans?” I ask.

  “Not really,” he says. “Why?”

  “Well, there’s this photography program at Islip Academy,” I explain. “I think it’s competitive to get in, but your stuff is so good —”

  “You should do it!” Meghan chimes in. “My sister has a friend who did it last year and said it was amazing.”

  “I don’t think my dad will go for it.” Marco watches the usual snarl of pedestrians and cars in front of the converted department store that serves as Northampton’s very own tiny mall. “It’s probably expensive.”

  The faraway look on his face makes me sad. Marco’s parents are … complicated. Well, infuriating might be a better word. Sometimes I wonder why they ever had children.

  We reach the Unitarian Society, where a group of people have set things out on tables and blankets for a community tag sale. The scene of the crime.

  “Listen, Hayley, I’ve got to run,” Marco says suddenly, “but I’ve been thinking about the barbecue. Should I pick you up around seven thirty? I thought we should get there a little early, since I’m bringing the cooler and taking pictures and everything. You won’t mind hanging out with me while I do that, right?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Meghan cocking her head and looking at me. I don’t glance her way.

  “Um, sure, Marco,” I tell him. “That sounds great.”

  “Okay. Awesome.” He clicks a picture of a bunch of old teapots at the tag sale, then heads down the street.

  “So — uh — I think that blanket over there is where Tessie must have gotten the frog,” I say, pointing to a small mountain of stuffed animals.

  “Marco asked you to the barbecue?” Meghan asks.

  That girl is extremely good at staying on target. “Um, yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Uh — a couple of days ago?” More like a week, I realize.

  “And yet you never mentioned it,” Meghan points out. This is half observation, half question. What she’s really asking is, “Why?”

  “It just seemed like it wasn’t a big deal.” I tug Tessie’s leash gently, and we start toward the cashier, where I explain the situation and hand over a quarter. The white-bearded Santa Claus–looking man who takes my money finds the whole situation uproarious, and then repeats the story about the shoplifting dog to a couple of women working nearby. Well, I’m glad that my foster dog’s life of crime is amusing to someone.

  This whole time, Meghan has been watching me with this Hmm look on her face.

  “Stop looking at me,” I tell her.

  “Okay,” she says.

  We walk for a few moments.

  “Stop thinking about me,” I tell her.

  Meghan laughs. “Okay, Hayley. You’re right — it’s not a big deal.”

  But we both know the truth: If I really didn’t think it was a big deal, I would have mentioned it.

  I love the way Marco can look at a crumpled piece of paper on the sidewalk and see something amazing.

  I love the way he’s so gentle with his sister, Sarah.

  I love that he isn’t afraid to stand up for what’s right.

  I love that he gave me his balloon in the first grade when mine soared away on a trip to the zoo.

  I love that he always puts part of his allowance in the frog statue in front of the church downtown.

  I love the far-off look he gets when he’s thinking about something deep, like time, or stars.

  I love that we’ve been friends since before we could walk, and that he knows me better than almost anyone.

  I love that he thinks I’m amazing.

  I love him like a brother. Even though he’s handsome, and wonderful, and smart, and artistic. He kissed me, and I wondered if things could be different. But now I just don’t think they can.

  It doesn’t make sense, but that’s the way it is. I can’t explain it, and I guess that’s why I don’t want to talk about it much.

  “So I really need you to put that in the mail this week, William.”

  “Oh, sorry! I didn’t realize you guys were on the phone. I’ll just hang —”

  “Hayley? No, that’s okay. Your father and I were just wrapping up. I’ll get off. Good-bye, William.”

  “Bye, Margaret. I’ll take care of the dentist. Don’t worry.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hey, Hayley! What are you doing Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Um — I don’t know. Homework, I guess.”

  “Wrong! You and I are heading out to Islip Academy for a tour and an interview! Isn’t that great?”

  “Oh. During school? Don’t you have work?”

  “I’m taking the afternoon off. I thought we could go out for dinner afterward or something.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Just okay?”

  “No — it sounds good.”

  “It’s a beautiful campus. An incredible library — you’ll love it. They even have stables!”

  “For horses?”

  “No, that’s where the boarding students sleep. Of course for horses! You’ll love it!”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It is. It’s very nice.”

  “What should I wear?”

  “Just be yourself, Hayley. Wear what you would normally wear. Maybe a skirt.”

  “I don’t usu — Okay, Dad. I’ll wear a skirt.”

  “I’ll meet you in front of your school right at three, okay?”

  “Great, Dad. Hold on, I’ll get Chloe. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Hayley! Trust me — this is going to be great!”

  Pomelo Cupcakes

  (makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

  Pomelos are like Godzilla grapefruits. They’re huge and have a thick skin. If you can’t find one, a regular grapefruit will work, too. Delicious, unexpected, citrusy taste!

  INGREDIENTS:

  1-1/3 cups all-purpose flour

  3/4 teaspoon baking powder

  1/2 teaspoon baking soda

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  1/4 cup vanilla yogurt

  3/4 cup granulated sugar

  1/3 cup milk

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1/4 cup pomelo juice

  2 tablespoons finely grated pomelo zest

  1/3 cup canola oil

  INSTRUCTIONS:

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

  In a large bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

  In a separate bowl, stir together the yogurt, sugar, milk, vanilla extract, pomelo juice and zest, and oil. With a whisk or handheld mixer, add the dry ingredients to the wet ones 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 about 20–22 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.

  Pomelo Cream-Cheese Frosting

  INGREDIENTS:

  1/2 cup butter, softened

  1/2 cup cream cheese, room temperature

  4 cups confectioners’ sugar

  1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1/2 teaspoon lemon extract

  2 teaspoons finely grated pomelo zest

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream together the butter and cream cheese until they are fully combined and a lighter color, about 2–3 minutes.

  Slowly beat in the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches, adding the vanilla extract, lemon extract,
and pomelo zest toward the end.

  Continue mixing the frosting on high speed for about 3–7 minutes, until the frosting is light and fluffy.

  “Um … what flavor is this again?” Artie asks as she dumps a half teaspoon of baking powder onto the mix of flour and sugar in the large white bowl.

  “Grapefruit,” I tell her.

  She purses her lips in a way that says “cool” and “interesting” at the same time, only without words. I’m still getting used to having her here, in Gran’s tiny kitchen, on a Saturday night. Game Night used to happen in my basement. That was back when I lived in a house, and Marco was my next-door neighbor, and Artie lived in the house behind ours. Back when our parents were friends.

  Now our parents don’t really talk anymore. And my friendships with Artie and Marco are all messed up. That’s the thing that nobody tells you about some divorces — for a while, it can feel like nuclear fallout. Nothing survives.

  And then, after a while, things start to grow back.

  I guess that sounds depressing, but I don’t really mean it that way. Things do grow back. And sometimes you even get a new species in the mix.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Meghan says as she walks into the kitchen. She stops up short when she sees Artie. “Oh! I just — I was just walking past the Tea Room, and your Gran said you were upstairs —”

  “Hey, Meg. Artie and I are just making some cupcakes.” I look at Artie, unsure how she’ll react. She can be kind of possessive with her friends — she’s one of those people who likes to have one-on-one time. But she’s just mixing the batter and smiling, like it’s no big deal.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Meghan says.

  “You’re not interrupting,” Artie tells her. “We were just about to put these in the oven and start a movie. Want to join?”

  “Oh. Sure!” Meghan plops into a chair at the tiny table and watches as I use an ice cream scoop to fill the cupcake liners. “So — are these going to be for the barbecue?” she asks.

  “Just a test run.” My voice is a murmur … like I’m on tiptoe. Inwardly, I’m cringing. I don’t want to talk about the barbecue in front of Artie.