“Great, Maddy,” Mrs. Eaton said. “We’ll transfer some of the information from your pamphlet onto the website tonight when we get home.”
As Mom read the pamphlet information, she called out a few misspellings, which I had pretty much expected. “Misspellings make you look less professional,” she said. “You should find someone to proofread everything you put in print.”
“Want to volunteer, Mom?” I asked.
She laughed. “I guess I set myself up for that one. Sure.”
Ella’s dad—Mr. Petronia—was super helpful, too. In his Boston Red Sox T-shirt, he sat on the edge of his chair. “You know, girls, someone’s always selling stuff to eat when my softball league plays a game. Maybe selling at games is a place to start…”
“Hmm…” said Mom. “That’s a great idea—and it gives me another one. My half marathon is only a little more than two weeks away, but maybe you girls could set up a stand there, too?”
“Bentwick’s Last Blast of Summer run?” I asked. I could barely contain myself. That would be an amazing place to launch our business.
I shot Mom a knowing smile. She’d be running her first half marathon, and we’d be selling at our first official event.
Ella and Maddy said in chorus, “Yes!”
Then Grandpa held up one of our pamphlets. “What about the matter of prices?” he asked gently.
“I know,” Maddy groaned. “We completely forgot!”
“But how do we know what to charge?” I asked.
“A good rule of thumb,” Grandma said, “is to add up your costs—your ingredients for a recipe—and then divide it by the servings the recipe makes. Then double that number to make sure you earn a profit on each treat sold.”
“Wow, Grandma,” I said. “You just proved that you don’t have to be high-tech to be smart.”
She winked at me.
“I think I can help lower the cost of your supplies,” Mr. Petronia said. “I’m going to start raising a few chickens in our backyard. It’s something fun to do while I look for a new job, and it means you girls can have eggs at a family discount. Or maybe for free when the chickens lay more than I get orders for. How does that sound?”
“That’s great!” I added. “We go through a lot of eggs.”
“So, let’s see,” said Grandma, tapping her chin as if running down a to-do list. “What else? Well, let’s not forget about packaging. You’ll need a way to display your treats at the marathon. So we should add that to your supply costs. And Grandpa and I can show you how to make labels that list all your ingredients—customers want to know what they’re eating, plus how to contact you…”
As the group started discussing costs, prices, packaging, and labels, my head began to whirl. Maddy looked just as dazed as I felt, but Ella had her head down in concentration. She was working on something in her notebook, where she kept receipts and a log of what we’d spent at the grocery store.
I was amazed when her head popped back up and she said she’d figured out some prices for our baked goods. “I followed your formula,” she said to Grandma.
“Nice, Ella!” said Maddy. “Thank goodness one of us has some wicked math skills.”
Ella smiled, her cheeks pink.
Then Mrs. Eaton said, “Speaking of prices and profits, we may want to start a bank account for what you earn through your business. And we’ll want to look into licenses and taxes.”
“Before we can get started?” I asked, feeling completely overwhelmed now. There was so much to think about. Couldn’t we just get back to what we loved most: baking in the kitchen?
“I don’t think you’ll need to worry about those things right away,” said Mrs. Eaton, “but I’ll start looking ahead, in case your business takes off. That way there won’t be any unpleasant surprises.”
“It’s good to look ahead,” Mom agreed.
“What you will need soon,” Dad chimed in, “is a suitable cart or table to sell from. Have you girls given that any thought?”
“A table sounds easy,” Ella said, squeezing in beside her mom. “But a cart could be a little harder to find.”
I must have looked worried, because Dad spoke up again. “Don’t worry, Grace. We’ll come up with something.”
I gave him my most grateful smile. My friends and I could do a lot of this ourselves, but now we knew that it didn’t hurt to have a little help.
When everyone left that evening, I felt totally exhausted. I flopped on the couch with Bonbon nestled beside me. She gave my chin a quick lick, as if to reassure me.
We still had tons of work to do! We needed to reprint pamphlets with our prices and website. We needed to buy small bags and boxes to package our treats. We needed to print labels for our packages with ingredients and contact information.
And what about the cart we needed for the half marathon—in just two weeks? I closed my eyes, almost wanting to cry.
Just then, the door from the garage to the kitchen squeaked open. “Is the coast clear?” I heard Josh ask.
“Everyone left,” said Dad, “if that’s what you mean.”
“Good! I have a surprise for Grace.”
At those words, Bonbon and I jumped up from the couch and raced into the kitchen. I suddenly felt a whole lot more energetic.
“I was going to wait until your birthday,” Josh said when he saw me.
My birthday wasn’t until September 17.
Josh continued, “But I didn’t think Bonbon should have to wait that long.”
Bonbon?
My little dog and I followed Josh back out into the garage, with Mom and Dad trailing behind us. And there, attached to the back of my bike, was a completely restored bike passenger-trailer with not one wheel, but two!
Instead of looking crooked and dirty, as the trailer had been when I had first spotted it along the towpath, now it was all cleaned up and polished and looked brand-new!
“You picked it up!” I burst out in surprise. “No wonder it was gone!”
“I figured I could fix it,” Josh said, his face reddening. “My secret surprise.”
Before I could say anything, Mom said it for me. “Hey, Grace! Now you and Bonbon can join me on my runs!”
I nodded happily and unzipped the mesh door to the bike trailer. I patted the inside. “Bonbon! Jump in!”
She looked at me through her pirate patch of fur, her head tilted as if I were asking her to walk the plank or something.
“You and I can bike with Mom,” I said, enticing her, “and we can bike with Ella and Maddy…”
But my little dog just stared.
Finally, I picked her up and popped her inside. She seemed fine for a moment, until I zipped the door back up. Though I could see her and she could see me, she started whining and scratching at the netting.
“No!” I said firmly, before she could tear it.
She crouched deeper into the trailer, looking scolded.
“It’s okay, Bonbon,” I said gently. “This is all new, I know.”
I unzipped the opening, and she didn’t waste any time jumping back out onto the garage floor. My stomach churned. I had a sinking feeling that this bike trailer wasn’t going to work for me and Bonbon, but I couldn’t let Josh see that.
“I’ll work with her a little more so she gets used to it before we go for a ride,” I promised him.
Josh looked so proud and happy. I think my brother loves fixing bike stuff as much as I enjoy baking in the kitchen. And he is good at it, too.
I looked more closely at the work Josh had done on the bike trailer, and that gave me an idea. “Josh, if we needed a baking cart that we could push, could you build it?”
He looked at me sideways. “I don’t follow you.”
“What she’s saying,” Dad said, “is that the girls need something for the half marathon. Something they could fill with their baked goods and sell from.”
Josh hesitated. “I fix bikes,” he said. “I don’t really build stuff.”
“But I’m pret
ty handy with a power saw,” Dad said, a flash of excitement in his eyes. “Between the two of us, do you think we could try to help Grace out?”
Josh’s eyebrows rose, and a slow smile inched across his face. “It’s going to need wheels.”
“Aren’t you two forgetting something?” Mom said. “A wooden cart and wheels are a good start, but there’s more to it than that. It’s also going to need metalwork—and someone who knows how to weld.”
“Who did you have in mind?” Dad asked playfully.
“Mom!” I said, thinking of all the sculptures she had welded out of metal—before she got so busy training for the half marathon. “But, Mom,” I said again, “I know that you have tons going on and that you’re super busy right now.”
The edges of Mom’s mouth turned up slightly. I think she appreciated that I understood.
“It’s all right, Grace,” she said, smiling. “A woman’s work is never done. Besides, I’d be happy to help.”
“Great!” Dad said. “Looks like we have a construction team. This is going to be fun! But before we get going, we’ll need ideas from you, Grace.”
A yawn escaped me. “I’ll get right on it,” I said.
“Tomorrow,” Mom said, coming to my rescue. “It’s getting late.”
wanted to try to run with Mom on Saturday morning, to help her during her last two weeks of training just like she was helping me with the baking cart.
But when I tried to get Bonbon back in the bike trailer, it was a disaster. First she braced her hind legs, and I had to push her in.
“Stay,” I said.
She sat facing me as I zipped up the screen door.
Everything seemed okay until I hopped on my bike. “Ready, Mom,” I said.
Mom set off jogging, and I started to pedal. But before I’d passed a half-dozen houses on the towpath, I could feel the trailer behind me starting to rock back and forth. Just as I stopped the bike, Bonbon ripped through the screen door, hopped out of the trailer, and bolted down the path toward home.
“Mom, Bonbon escaped!” I cried. I waved her on ahead while I biked home to find Bonbon.
I was pretty sure I knew where I would find her. At least I hoped she would be there.
And she was.
Bonbon was playing in Zulu’s yard. They both had their rumps up in the air, tails wagging, and their heads down on their paws, daring each other to make the first move.
“Bonbon, what am I going to do with you?” I groaned as I knelt down to scoop her into my arms.
I thought about putting her in her crate, but she’d been so hard to crate lately that I grabbed her leash instead. Then I found a needle and thread and brought Bonbon with me into the garage. She lay down, her guilty eyes on me as I tried to mend the bike trailer screen.
My stitches didn’t look great, but I somehow managed to fix the screen. When I was done, I gave Bonbon a talk. “How can I ever take you anywhere fun,” I asked her, “if you’re going to claw your way free?”
She whined pitifully. Neither of us had answers.
Later that day, Ella and I met at Maddy’s house to print out the brand-new pamphlets—the ones with our Web address and prices. On it we included the words: For the most up-to-date menu, check out our website. Our website was now up and running, thanks to Mrs. Eaton, and we wanted to get the word out about it.
Though it wasn’t very exciting to retrace our steps, we dropped the pamphlets off again at all the same houses. Maddy suggested we drop a stack off at the Kitchen Shop, too, where we’d found our special pans and pastry-making supplies.
The owner, Mr. Hammond, examined a pamphlet in one hand and thumbed the hem of his yellow vest with the other, beaming. “So this is what you girls have been up to! Fantastic!”
“Would you mind having them on hand at your shop?” I asked.
“Not a bit,” he replied. “I’ll put them here on the counter.”
Before we left, we couldn’t resist wandering around the shop. There were so many fun supplies—some we recognized and others that were foreign to me. Then I saw a section with all kinds of packaging: boxes and bags of different sizes and colors, all designed to hold baked goods.
“Look at these!” I said, calling over Maddy and Ella. “These are just what we need.”
But Maddy shook her head. “I think we should have our name—La Petite Pâtisserie—on all of our packaging. We’ll have to order it online.”
She seemed so sure, like there wasn’t any other way to look at it. But I was pretty sure there was.
“That sounds expensive, Maddy,” I said.
“But it’s worth it!” she said. “That’s what advertising is all about—getting your name out there.”
Ella stayed silent, playing with a box lid. I knew she didn’t have money to spend on personalized packaging, but she wouldn’t say so.
“Look, Maddy,” I tried again, “do we even have time to order packaging online? The half marathon is only two weeks away.”
That’s when I noticed Mr. Hammond hovering behind us. He must have heard us bickering. “Questions, girls? Anything I can help you with?”
For a moment, everyone was staring at me. I hesitated. Then I shook my head. “No, thanks. We’re fine.”
When Mr. Hammond had gone back behind the counter, I whispered to Maddy, “I guess we’ll just have to hold off until we can agree on what to do. Okay?”
Maddy responded with only one word: “Whatever.”
As we biked home in silence, Ella was the one to try to make conversation. “I’m super excited,” she said, riding between us, “because last night my dad brought home six hens—Rhode Island Reds. They’re so pretty, but they seem a little nervous about being in a new place.”
“Wow, what does Murphy think of them?” I asked.
“He gave them one look, but as soon as my dad scolded him, he backed away. And then one of the hens flew at him with its talons out, which scared him half to death.”
“Oh, poor Murphy,” I said.
“I know,” Ella said. “He hid under the deck. So I’m more worried about him, actually, than I am about the chickens.”
I nodded in understanding. After so many disagreements with Maddy, I kind of felt like a scared dog hiding under a deck to get away from the angry hen. I was afraid that anything I did or said would set her off.
I snuck a peek at Maddy’s face as she rode quietly along. She looked so withdrawn. For a moment I wondered, Does she feel the same way?
Sunday morning, before Maddy, Ella, and I started baking, Dad helped us go online to research ideas for our bakery cart. We printed out a few images, and Maddy even sketched out a design based on some of what we saw. She drew big wheels and lots of heart-shaped details. She wanted to keep going on it, and I didn’t want to hold her back—not after our disagreement yesterday. But by the time we started baking, we were already running late.
We had to be done baking by three and leave time for cleanup and Mom’s “absolute-and-no-exceptions deadline” of four p.m. She wanted the use of her kitchen back by then.
Period.
So we jumped in as quickly as we could, making macarons we could freeze ahead for the marathon. We needed to build up our supply of treats, or our “inventory,” as Grandma and Grandpa called it.
Her nose dusted with flour, Maddy said, “We really should think about having our own pastry boxes printed online with our business name on them. It’s a great way to show off what we make.”
I couldn’t believe she was bringing that up again! We’d already been through it, and nothing had changed since yesterday. I tried to keep my voice steady as I said, “Hey, maybe we shouldn’t worry about packaging right now. Let’s just focus on having enough treats made for the marathon.”
Maddy didn’t respond, but I noticed that she started working more quickly—and sloppily. The faster Maddy worked at tracing circles for macarons, the sloppier her circles looked.
“Maddy, slow down!” I said. “French treats should
be beautiful.”
“Are you saying I’m doing a bad job?” she asked, looking up from her work.
“No, but…you’re working so fast that sometimes things come out a little less than perfect, if you know what I mean.”
“Maybe you’re being too picky,” she said, her eyes flashing.
“Maybe I’m picky because we need to be,” I retorted. Words were flying fast now.
“We? Are you sure it’s really our business?” Maddy asked, her eyes half closed like a green-eyed cat. “Or is it yours?”
Her words hung there for just a moment, and then she whipped off her apron, which got tangled in her thick red hair. She finally wrestled the straps free, and then threw the apron on the counter. “You can have your perfectly picky pâtisserie, Grace,” she said. “I quit!”
Maddy yanked open the screen door, stormed outside into a lightly falling rain, and left.
Ella and I stared at the closed door for what seemed like an hour.
Finally, Ella turned to me, her eyes wet with tears. “Do you think she means it?” Ella whispered.
My shoulders rose in question. I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“Girls?” Mom called from the living room. “Everything okay out there?”
I called back and fibbed. “Yeah, we’re fine!”
I wasn’t ready to have Mom come in and try to patch things up for us. If she did, I knew I’d break into tears. And right now, I needed to be angry so that I could keep going. If I let myself start crying, I wouldn’t get anything done today!
“How can she just walk out on us?” I whispered. I stared again at the closed door, hoping Maddy would show up again at any minute.
Ella just shook her head.
For the next few hours, Ella and I worked at finishing dozens of macarons in a rainbow of colors—mint green, pale blue, and soft yellow—all lined up in pretty rows by color on the counter, just like at a French pâtisserie.
As they cooled, I snapped a photo.
Click!
I wanted to feel happy and proud about how beautiful they looked, but instead I felt depressed. Without Maddy, our business felt like a deflated party balloon.
Grace Stirs It Up Page 7
