Confectionately Yours #4: Something New

by Lisa Papademetriou

  Mom sits down in one of the chairs. “Just … for not yelling at the dog. I know you wanted to.” She smiles a little, then catches sight of my feet, sticking out on the other side of the coffee table. “Have I seen those shoes before?”

  “Uh — no.”

  Our eyes meet for a moment, and I feel my ears getting hot.

  “Dad got them for you?” Mom says.

  “Yes.”

  “They’re nice.”

  The air feels full of things she isn’t saying, and I feel them falling on me, like rain. I wonder if my father ever paid his half of the textbook. I wonder if he paid the dental bill. I wonder how I could possibly ask, and I know that I can’t.

  Chloe and Rupert come back into the living room. “I put one teaspoon of sugar in it, just how you like it,” Chloe announces.

  “And I got out the ice cubes,” Rupert adds as she places the glass on the table, in just the same spot where the old one was.

  I can’t help laughing a bit at how earnest they are. “Great,” I say. “Perfect, thank you.”

  Chloe crosses the room and kneels down beside Tessie. She strokes the dog’s head gently. “And I’m sorry I chased you around the room,” she says gently. “I just wanted you to fetch your carrot.” She puts her cheek to Tessie’s head, and the little dog licks her face.

  “Dinner in half an hour,” Mom announces, picking up the grocery bag and heading into the kitchen. “Chloe, you’re on table setting. Hayley, you’re on dishes. Gran’s at her bridge club, so she’ll be home late.”

  Chloe is still nuzzling Tessie and whispering into her floppy little ears. Rupert sits beside Chloe, gently stroking Tessie’s back.

  I get back to work on my Spanish, wondering how people can be so wonderful and cause such problems at the same time.

  “Brilliant! Brilliant! Brilliant!” Meghan crows as she flings open the door to the café. Everyone turns to look at her. “Go on about your business!” she announces in a general way as she waves at the customers. Artie is trailing in her wake, holding rolled-up poster board.

  “What’s up?” I ask as they plop themselves onto stools in front of the counter.

  “Project: Landslide!” Meghan announces.

  “I see Hayley’s already working on it,” Artie puts in, and both of them giggle. She’s referring to my latest wedding cake attempt. It has some … challenges.

  I sigh, and Artie apologizes. “I’m sorry — I shouldn’t have said that,” she says. “It’s just — your cupcakes are always so pretty.”

  “You can’t have cupcakes at a wedding,” I say.

  “Why not?” Meghan demands. “I’m going to have chocolate-chip cookies!”

  “You would.” Artie rolls her eyes. A few weeks ago, a comment like that would have had Artie and Meghan at each others’ throats, but now they just look at each other and giggle.

  I put down my frosting bag and wipe my hands on a tea towel. “So — what’s Project: Landslide?”

  “Our guaranteed election-winning platform,” Meghan explains. “Omar wants ideas? I’ll show him ideas! I’ve got everything all planned, and I’m going to announce it all when I give my election speech. When I am president — ahem” — Meghan grins — “I plan to hold a Green Up day to beautify our school, a book drive, and a food drive for the shelter.”

  “Plus two dances and a bowling night!” Artie gushes. They high-five.

  “Sounds fun,” I say.

  “You bet it does,” Meghan agrees. “Plus — meaningful stuff for the do-gooderish types!”

  “Um, so who’s going to organize all of this?” I ask.

  “We are!” Meghan chirps. “Who else? The prez and veep!”

  “Um … it sounds like a lot of work,” I point out.

  “No, no — it’ll be fun!” She holds up her hand, scout style. “Swearsies!”

  I cast a glance around the café, wondering if I’ll still have time to work here if I win vice president. I really love helping out Gran at the café. I’d hate to give it up.

  And then there’s my dad. He’s foaming at the mouth for me to go to Islip. He’s even arranged for me to sit in on a class there in a couple of days. Mom isn’t so sure, but she says it all depends on scholarship money. Which means that she isn’t saying no.

  I don’t mention that, though. What’s the point of freaking Meghan out? I mean, I may not end up at Islip Academy. I probably won’t. Like, 30 percent chance I will. I think.

  “Do you really think we can pull all that off?” My voice sounds doubtful, even to me.

  “We’ll just rope in a bunch of people to help,” Meghan promises. “Like Artie.”

  “I’ll totally help,” Artie says.

  “Why don’t you run for vice president?” The words are out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about how they’ll sound to Meghan, who gasps.

  “It’s a little late,” Artie says. “Besides, I can’t stand the idea of running for something. What if I don’t get elected?”

  “You’re not backing out, are you?” Meghan’s blue eyes are wide with horror. “Hayley, you can’t leave me hanging!”

  “No, no,” I say quickly. “Of course not!” Inside, I cringe. “This sounds like a great plan for the year,” I add truthfully. It does sound like a great plan.

  And if someone else were doing it, I’d be really super excited about it.

  Okay, I tell myself. Okay. We’ll get help. We’ll manage it. This silent pep talk is for myself, as Artie and Meghan have already started talking about the Green Up day, and making notes on Meghan’s clipboard pad.

  “Hayley?” Mom calls from the rear office. “Could you come back here, please?”

  I hurry to the back room, and Mom holds up a red sweater with a very mangled sleeve. “Did you borrow my sweater without asking?”

  “Mom — are you serious?” I ask. Okay, the truth is that I did once borrow a sweater without asking. But it wasn’t her good red cashmere sweater. Besides, if I borrowed a sweater, I might spill something on it, but I wouldn’t chew it. “I have a prime suspect,” I tell her. “And she’s covered in fur.”

  Mom looks at the sweater again, and notices the telltale dog hair. “I shouldn’t have left it out on my bed,” she says.

  “Just like I shouldn’t have left my poster out on the floor.”

  Mom glances at the door that leads to the back apartment stairs. “I should have known we couldn’t handle a dog.”

  “We don’t know what we’re doing,” I point out. “Maybe if we knew how to train her …” My voice trails off.

  Mom shakes her head at the ruined sweater. It’s the nicest top she has, and it always looks really great with her dark, curly hair.

  Rest in peace, sweater, I think. You’ll be missed.

  “Chloe will be heartbroken,” Mom says. It’s like she’s talking to the sweater.

  “Mom — we were just supposed to foster Tessie,” I remind her. “We were never going to keep her.”

  Mom looks uncomfortable, and I wonder if she and Chloe have been having some conversations I don’t know about.

  “We really can’t keep her,” Mom says.

  “We really can’t,” I agree.

  “Okay,” Mom says.

  “Okay.”

  She nods, and I head back out into the café. I pause beside the glass display case for a moment, watching Artie laugh as Meghan jots something down. I have a horrible dropping-off-a-cliff feeling in my stomach, and I’m trying hard to figure out why.

  Is it because I know Chloe will be disappointed about Tessie?

  Is it because I don’t really want to be vice president?

  Is it because I might have to stop working at the café?

  Is it because I might have to go to Islip Academy?

  Is it because Meghan and Artie seem to like each other better than they like me right now?

  Is it because Marco asked me to the barbecue?

  Is it because Kyle did?

  Or is it all of the abov
e?

  “Hey — were you just sitting in?” a girl with the short black hair asks me. “I’m Rachel — what did you think of the class?” Her blue eyes are huge, and her pale skin makes her look like a mod Snow White.

  “I thought it was great,” I admit. “It’s cool that you read novels in history class. I’m Hayley, by the way.”

  “Great to meet you. Yeah, Mr. Denning is really into era-appropriate lit,” Rachel says. “He says it gives us a ‘feel for the values of the age.’ Last semester was the Ancient Greeks, and we went through the Iliad and the Odyssey. Are you going to look in on anything else?”

  “I thought that was the last class of the day,” I tell her.

  “It was — but the studios have drop-in time.” Rachel nods toward the arts building. “Come with me, if you want. Then you can check out some of the extracurriculars.”

  “I wish I’d thought of that,” I say as we fall into step. “But I told my dad to pick me up at three.”

  Rachel laughs. “Just text him and ask him to come later.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone,” I admit.

  “Oh!” She looks really surprised. “Oh — do you want to borrow mine?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

  Rachel shrugs and pulls open the door and holds it for me. Someone is coming out just as I start in, and I run right into Marco. He stares for a moment, then breaks into a smile. “Hey,” he says.

  “Oh — hi!” I introduce Rachel, then say, “What are you doing here, Marco?”

  He gives me a heavy-lidded look. “Someone sent my mom a bunch of information about Islip Academy’s summer photography program,” he says. “You don’t have any idea who might have done that, do you?”

  “No,” I say.

  He looks like he doesn’t believe me, but it’s completely true. I didn’t send it.

  “You should definitely do it, if you can,” Rachel says. “All the summer programs are great. I know a lot of people can’t work it in, with trips and camp and stuff, but if you have the time …”

  Marco gives me this little smile. We both know that his family isn’t going on any fancy trips. And they aren’t sending him to camp, either. It’s funny how “If you have the money” doesn’t seem to have entered Rachel’s brain. She reminds me of my dad a little, and I wonder if all the kids at Islip are like that.

  Marco casts a glance across the rolling green lawns. You know that expression “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence”? Let me tell you, up here, it’s literally true. At my school, the grass in front is patchy with mud and bare spots. Here, the only patches come from daffodils that have started springing up at the edges of the perfect lawns. I know it sounds crazy, but the weather seems better here, too. I swear that when I left home this morning, the sky was half clouds. But now, it’s blue out to the horizon.

  “Listen, I’ve got to get going,” Rachel says. “Nice meeting you, Hayley and Marco. Hope I see you around.”

  Marco and I say good-bye to Rachel and start back toward the main building. “This place is seriously nice,” Marco says.

  “True,” I admit.

  “Maybe a little too nice.”

  “Is that even possible?” I ask, but even as I say it, I know what Marco means. It is a little too nice. A little too manicured. The people are a little too rich.

  “Would I be crazy to go here?” Marco asks. “Or crazy not to?”

  He says this quietly, like he’s asking himself, not me. So I don’t answer.

  I’m not sure I know the answer, anyway.

  “Hayley?”

  The voice at my elbow is gentle, and it takes me a moment to recognize it. “Artie — hi.”

  “Hi.” She glances quickly over her shoulder, then faces me and smiles. “Um, hey, I just wanted — I notice your posters aren’t up yet. For vice president.” She twirls her hair as she says this, as if she’s afraid to bring up the subject.

  “Yeah, I know — sorry. I just haven’t had time. Things have been crazy ever since —”

  “No big deal — it’s just time is running out.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “And Anthony’s had his posters up for a week —”

  “Right, I know.”

  Anthony Adams is running for vice president, too. Meghan doesn’t think he’s likely to win, since he’s always talking about how great he is and nobody can stand it, but still. I should at least let people know that they have another choice.

  “I hope this isn’t awkward, but I kind of —” Artie shrugs and unrolls a large yellow poster with green lettering.

  Hayley Hicks for Eighth-Grade Veep! Pretty Sweet.

  “Oh, thanks,” I say. She has outlined the letters in silver glitter and painted a glittery cupcake in the corner. It’s really pretty, and very me. And it even coordinates with Meghan’s posters. “That’s really … great.”

  Artie studies my face. “Are you mad?”

  “Totally not.”

  “I should’ve let you do it.”

  “No — seriously. Thank you! I love it.”

  “I made three of them.”

  “Wow.” I take the posters from her. She slings her backpack forward and pulls out a roll of green painter’s tape. “You’re an excellent campaign manager.”

  “Well, I … I guess I just think you’ll be a really great vice president. You’re, like — you’re like the string on Meghan’s balloon.”

  I laugh a little at the image. “Tying her down?”

  “More like keeping her from floating away. I mean —” She looks over her shoulder again, as if she hopes nobody can hear. The hallway is crowded, but kids are busy slamming lockers, looking for notebooks, and keeping their minds on their own lives. Nobody cares what we’re up to. “I didn’t like Meghan much — when I first met her. But once you get to know her …”

  “She can be cool,” I finish for her.

  Artie nods. “She can be cool. A little insane, maybe. But …”

  We both laugh.

  “Anyway, she needs people like us, to keep her on track,” Artie says.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “I guess so.” I hold up the poster and look at it again. My name looks strange to myself, written so large and covered in glitter.

  “You don’t want to do it, do you?”

  I feel Artie’s hazel eyes on me, but I can’t bear to look at her. The world goes on around us as my heart stutters and struggles to keep pumping.

  “That’s why you haven’t done the posters.” Artie’s voice is quiet.

  I roll up the poster and turn to face my friend. “I didn’t know it…. I didn’t realize it until you just said it. It’s just —”

  “Drop out,” Artie tells me.

  “Like it’s that simple.”

  “It could be.” Her eyes and voice are gentle, but I still feel them cut into me.

  “I can’t — I can’t do that to Meg.”

  “You have to do what’s right for yourself, too, Hayley. Don’t you?” Artie’s forehead wrinkles, like she’s confused, or maybe like she’s worried about me.

  I know Artie’s trying to help, but somehow it just seems easier to suck it up and be the vice president than to have Meghan freak and deal with the fallout. I mean — it will be kind of fun. Parts of it.

  The bell rings. “Are you going to put up the posters?” Artie asks. “Or should I take them home?”

  I breathe once. Twice. “I’ll put them up,” I say at last.

  Artie just nods. I wonder if she thinks I’m a wimp, or a dummy, or a martyr, or what. But “Okay” is all she says.

  One time, in fourth grade, Artie and I were walking downtown, headed to get some ice cream, and a homeless man asked me for money. He told me that he couldn’t pay for his medicine. He told me that all he needed was a few more dollars.

  I had a few dollars in the pocket of my shorts — enough for my ice cream.

  “I’m diabetic,” the man said. And I gave him the money.

&n
bsp; He turned to Artie. “I just need a little more,” he told her.

  And Artie, who had the same amount of money I did, said, “Sorry.”

  We walked around the corner and into the ice cream store. Artie went up to the counter and ordered a medium cone of black raspberry chocolate-chip. I got a cup of water and sat at the table, wondering if the man was really going to use my money for medicine. There was no way to know — not for sure.

  Artie offered me a lick of her ice cream, and I took it. But that was almost worse, because the ice cream was delicious.

  That’s the thing: Artie never really has a problem doing what’s right for Artie.

  Sometimes, that seems harsh.

  But sometimes, she’s the one eating the ice cream.

  And I never really knew what to make of that.

  “Gran?” Knocking softly, I poke my head beyond her bedroom door. “Did I leave my comb in here?”

  “Sorry, darling?” Gran pulls off her reading glasses and looks up from the pile of brochures scattered across her bed. “Your comb?”

  “I thought maybe I left it in your bathroom,” I tell her as I come to perch on the corner of her mattress.

  “I haven’t seen it.” Gran huffs a sigh and scowls at the brochures. “Of course, things are so untidy that it may be beneath all of these.”

  “How’s the wedding planning going?” I ask.

  “Atrociously. Don’t let’s mention it.”

  “That well?”

  Gran places her reading glasses on the bedside table. “It was great fun the first time I did it. When I was marrying your grandfather, Gerard. But this time, it just seems like an unnecessary expense.”

  I trace a finger over one of the pink embroidered roses on Gran’s bedspread. “You don’t want to get married?”

  “What? Horrors! Of course I do! I just don’t want to pay for a wedding.”

  “Well — it isn’t about the money, right?”

  “That’s the sort of thing that people say when they have a great deal of money, and very little sense,” Gran says. “I happen to have a great deal of sense and little money. And I don’t see why I should spend heaps of money, time, and energy on something I don’t actually want.”