Cake and Confessions

by Laurel Remington

  white = food

  green = top tips

  OMG. She hasn’t even been engaged for twenty-four hours yet and already this is getting way out of control. My eyes snag on a handwritten note at the bottom. Wedding Belles—Channel 3. There’s a scribbled name and next to it the word “producer.” And a time—Wednesday 2 p.m.

  “What was that about a TV producer?”

  “Shh.” Smiling, Mom puts a finger to her lips. “You have to swear to keep it a secret if I tell you, okay?”

  “Um, sure.” I don’t point out that she’s already told the builder.

  “It’s the most brilliant thing.”

  “What?” I say warily.

  “A TV producer contacted me. She’s a huge fan of the blog, and she’s bought Mom Survival Kits from Superdrug for all her friends.”

  “Great…”

  “She’s doing a show about celebrity weddings, and she wants to feature me! Can you believe that—me, on TV!”

  “Yeah, I can.” I can totally see Mom on that show where people have to eat bugs in the jungle. Or maybe on Dancing with the Stars.

  “It will be such a boost for my brand, you know. And secretly…” She leans in conspiratorially. “I’ve always wanted to be a real celebrity. This is my big chance.”

  “Wow, Mom, I didn’t know you wanted to be on TV.”

  “Well, it will be exciting,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “And guess what else?”

  “What? There’s more?”

  “She wants to feature you too. Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Oh.” My heart does a dive. Mom may dream of being a celebrity, but I definitely don’t.

  “She loves the idea of you and your blog, and your secret club!”

  “But if we’re on TV, it will hardly be secret.” I swallow hard, knowing that I’m grasping at straws. In real life, the club isn’t “secret” anymore. I mean, we’ve posted lots of photos of ourselves on the website, and ever since our first online bake-off, word got out on social media that “The Little Cook” is some girl named Scarlett Cooper, and that her friends are Violet, Gretchen, Alison, and Nick. But in a way, that’s been good—kids all over who want to join up can see that we’re real people just like them. Our identities may not be secret, but there’s a huge network of members out there, most of whom I’ll never meet. And the fun thing is, sometimes when new people join up at our school, they leave cakes or desserts in the cafeteria at lunchtime, and we don’t know who they are.

  “Come on, Scarlett,” Mom chides, sensing my lack of enthusiasm. “You know how often we’ve talked about this. If you want your blog to work over the long term, you’ve got to keep it fresh—and keep getting exposure. Think of how many new members you’ll get if you’re on TV.”

  I nod reluctantly. It’s true that Mom and I have talked a lot about blogging and online stuff—I mean, it’s the one big thing we have in common. And even though it can be annoying to have Mom giving me tips on something that started out being a secret from her in the first place, when it comes to blogging and social media, Mom sure does know her stuff.

  She’s got thousands of followers who subscribe to her Mindfulness for Moms blog and meditation and lifestyle “Tips of the Day.” She makes money from advertisers for things like exercise gear, vitamin supplements, and health foods. Not that it seems like she’s been following her own tips—at least not lately. Mom’s one of those people who thrives on stress.

  “I know, Mom,” I cave. “And I’m sure you’re right—about the blog. But the thing is, there’s a lot going on right now, and I want to be able to focus on helping out with the wedding.” I point to the color-coded chart. “That is, if you want me to.”

  “Of course I do. But you shouldn’t pass up this opportunity. It may all be happening at once, but we can make it work.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I sigh. It’s Mom’s special day, and I was trying to go along with what she wants. But now that the wedding also means that I’ve got to be on TV…

  Just thinking about it, my insides begin to knot up like in the old days before Mom’s blog post was due to come out. Ever since then, I’ve hated the idea of drawing any kind of attention to myself. I know that lots of people out in cyberspace know my real name, but it’s “The Little Cook” who’s the real force behind the Secret Cooking Club. To me, that makes all the difference.

  Mom switches on the kettle and sits at the table with her magazines spread before her. “Anyway, as far as the wedding goes, the TV station will help with the arrangements. They’ve got a team working on it. And, they’re giving me a budget to spend. Still, there’s just so much to do. Especially in two months.”

  “Two months?” I choke out the words. “Isn’t that a little…um…soon?”

  I remember saying to my friends that the sooner the wedding’s over, the better. But this is just ridiculous.

  “Look—it’s their schedule, not mine. The show is filming next month. So, I’m thinking the wedding will be the end of June.” She spreads her hands. “Besides, there’s nothing nicer than a spring wedding. Though, I suppose technically it will be summer by then.”

  Two months. I take my plate to the sink and make Mom a cup of tea. Mom’s already super busy, so how she’s going to plan a wedding in that time, I have no idea. As I set the mug on the table, I glance at the pile of wedding magazines which has suddenly seemed to grow larger.

  “I’m sure it will be amazing,” I say. But Mom doesn’t hear. Pushing the mug aside, she attacks the first magazine, armed with her rainbow of Post-its. I’m almost to the kitchen door when she calls out behind me.

  “What do you think of these table decorations?” she says. “I like the peach flowers, but maybe pink would be better…or lavender.”

  Too late. Sighing inwardly, I accept my fate. I sit at the table, grab a pack of Post-its, and do my best to look interested.

  The Secret Cooking Club

  April 18

  Here’s another idea for spring. Today my branch of the Secret Cooking Club is doing our monthly bake for the local senior center. We’re making their favorite—sticky toffee pudding—and then we’re going to try something new: fresh lemon tarts. We’re going to top them with raspberries, white chocolate shavings, and icing sugar. And don’t forget the edible glitter—just a little! I think we all can use a little extra sparkle sometimes, don’t you?

  The Little Cook xx

  Chapter 7

  Sticky Toffee

  Two hours later, I finally manage to get away. My neck is tired from nodding: “Yes, I love that…yes, you’d look lovely in that color…yes, I think that’s hideous too…yes, I think we could do that for the cake…yes, that would look good on TV.” After about the first five minutes, I’d figured out that Mom and I have completely different taste. The wedding dresses I liked were sleek and simple, and my favorite wedding decorations, cakes, and food most definitely did not have pink as the main color. Or lavender. But it’s Mom’s special day, not mine, so while I tried to steer her away from the worst of the Disney Princess wedding stuff, I’m not sure how well I did.

  By the time Mom left to go into her office to write a blog post that she was going to call “Plan Your Perfect Day,” the pads of Post-its were practically used up, Bridezilla had thankfully not come out of hiding and, most importantly, Mom was happy.

  I go out the front door and around the hedge to the house next door. I let myself in—I suppose it will be easier once the two houses are linked together, but I kind of like things the way they are. Mom has no reason to go to Mrs. Simpson’s empty house, and Em-K still lives most of the time in his apartment. Don’t get me wrong—it will be nice being able to use Rosemary’s kitchen all the time. But I worry that it might be a little bit less…special.

  I’ve already got a few texts from my friends wondering where I am. So I’m not surprised when I go into the ki
tchen and find them all there—Violet, Gretchen, Alison, a new girl named Naya, a new boy named Fraser, and…Nick. As soon as I see him, a flush creeps over my face.

  “Hi,” I say. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No worries,” Gretchen says. “How’s the blushing bride?”

  “She’s great.” I roll my eyes. “It’s the rest of the world I worry about.”

  Treacle looks up from his basket where he’s been asleep, blinks once, and goes back to sleep. I give him a pat on the head and grab an apron from the peg next to the fridge. It’s our night to bake treats for one of the local old people’s homes. We used to bake for them once every two weeks, but lately we’ve barely been managing once a month. I’ve already blogged that we’re making sticky toffee pudding—hands down the favorite dish of the elderly residents (as one woman is fond of saying, “so sweet, and yet easy on the dentures”)—and lemon tarts.

  Violet is grating lemon zest for the tarts and, next to her, Fraser is pressing the pastry crust into little fluted tins. “Can I help?” I ask Violet. She lowers her eyes and nods. Once again, she doesn’t seem her usual bubbly self.

  “Sure,” she says. “Can you measure out the sugar?”

  “Yeah, um…” I look around for it.

  “Fraser, can you pass me that bag of sugar?” Violet says.

  “Um, what?” He turns his head from where he’s been staring in the direction of Alison’s blond ponytail, bobbing up and down as she and Nick are chatting and taking turns stirring the sticky toffee mixture that’s melting on the stove top.

  “The sugar.”

  “Oh…sure.” He passes her an open bag from the counter.

  Just then, Nick comes up behind me. He lifts his hand to brush a strand of hair off my cheek, and ends up leaving a thumbprint of flour. “Oops!” he says. My cheeks flush and even he looks a little pink.

  “We thought you’d been bridesmaid-napped,” he jokes.

  “It felt like that,” I say. When he turns to go back to the stove, I reach up to the spot on my cheek where he touched it.

  Violet stops grating the lemon and looks at me. I take my hand away, feeling awkward.

  “And it gets worse,” I say, eager to fill the void. “She wants me to be on TV.”

  As soon as I’ve said it, I remember telling Mom I’d keep it a secret. That’s something I ought to be able to manage. And now, I’ve shot off my big mouth.

  “TV?” Alison says, sounding surprised. “As what?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I try to change the subject. “She’s talking to a producer about being on some celebrity wedding show.”

  Gretchen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is your mom really that much of a celebrity?”

  There’s a note in her voice. One that I’ve heard a few times before. Caution, wariness. If we weren’t friends, I might even say a little bit of jealousy.

  “No,” I say. “But she wants to be, I guess.”

  “What will you be doing?” Violet asks.

  “I don’t know. Making the wedding cake on TV maybe? You know, kids who cook are a thing now.”

  “Like MasterChef Junior?” Alison says. “Cool.”

  The others nod. Everyone, that is, except Gretchen. She’s staring at the lemon and egg mixture in the bowl in front of her, stirring in the double cream like she’s out to turn it black and blue.

  As I watch Gretchen, I start to feel worried. Other than Violet, I consider her to be my best friend. Sure, we’ve had our issues, but overall I respect how cool and confident she is. For one thing, she’s been the student council rep every semester for the last two years, and this year she’s class president. She knows how to talk to grown-ups and always seems to be in control. She’s as steady as a brick and the first person I’d go to in a crisis. Unless the crisis was between us.

  “What’s up?” I say, keeping my voice low. “What have I done wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She doesn’t look up. “I’m glad things are going so well for you. TV—well, I don’t think any of us expected that. I’m sure it will be fab when you’re on there, making the wedding cake.”

  “I really don’t know anything about it yet.”

  All of a sudden, I realize why she’s angry. I said I will be making the cake, not “we.” Even Violet looks a little bit hurt. “I thought we were all going to help make the cake,” she says. “Don’t you want our help?”

  “I do!” I protest. “Definitely. But remember, this is Mom’s thing, not mine. I never asked for it, and I don’t want it—or this whole Bridezilla wedding.”

  Gretchen gives a little smirk. “You’ve hit the nail on the head, Scarlett. You want this, you don’t want that. You wish things were this way and not that way. You’re the blogger, you call the shots. We aren’t a club anymore. We’re Scarlett and her sidekicks.” She lets go of her spoon and lets it sink into the mixture. We all watch openmouthed as she takes off her apron and throws it on to the table. “And you know what? I’ve had enough. It’s been fun, but I’m out of here.”

  “Why are you doing this?” A chill creeps up my spine. “Just because of the ridiculous TV thing?”

  Gretchen shakes her head. “No, that’s not it.” She looks at Alison. I do too. Alison puts down her spoon.

  “The thing is, Scarlett, it’s not the same as when we started,” Alison says. “I mean, you’ve got the blog and the charity stuff. And the rest of us—well, I don’t know.”

  “The rest of you?” I glance around from Violet to Nick. “You’ve been talking about this behind my back?”

  “No, Scarlett,” Nick says. “That’s not fair.”

  “Fair? Is any of this fair?” I say in a raised voice. “I mean, all I did was turn up a little bit late tonight. I was so looking forward to baking something with you guys—I know I haven’t had much time lately. And—foolish me—I thought I could tell you—my friends—about all the fuss with Mom and the wedding.” I take off my apron and throw it down on top of Gretchen’s. “I really could have used your support, but instead, you’re all just ganging up on me.”

  “Look,” Nick says, “everyone calm down. We’re all here for the same reason.”

  I feel tears prickling behind my eyes. “Are we? I’m not sure anymore.”

  I turn back to Gretchen. “I think you should finish your lemon tarts. Because there’s six of you and one of me. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who should stay and who should go.”

  I spin around and walk out of the kitchen, tears rolling down my face.

  “Wait, Scarlett!” Violet runs after me and tries to grab my arm, but I wriggle away.

  “No. Let me go. You take over the club. I quit.”

  “Come back—”

  I slam the door behind me.

  Chapter 8

  Under the Apple Tree

  I run toward the main road. The sky is steel gray and the wind has picked up; tears stream down my face and my hair whips into my eyes. Breathing hard, I slow to a walk. I go past the shops—the diner, the dry cleaners, the hair salon—dodging people on their way home from work. Just past a pub, I turn down a tiny alleyway that twists and turns, and eventually comes to a little park that used to be the village green.

  In one corner, there’s a bench underneath a gnarled apple tree covered with white blossoms. I sit, staring at the sky through the branches. The wind blows a few blossoms down on to my head.

  I know I’m probably acting silly—I should have stayed there and faced them. Tried to sort things out. But I feel like there’s a giant weight pressing down on me—the wedding, the TV thing—and now I’ve messed things up with my friends too. Maybe they’re right—maybe I am selling out. Maybe I am spending too much time on the blog and not enough time cooking, which is how everything got started in the first place. And then there’s other stuff too. Like Nick, and the fact that I’ve no idea what’s up with us—or
if there is an us. And Violet…something’s definitely bothering her, and I feel sad that she hasn’t told me. And the really bad thing is…well, that I haven’t asked.

  I swallow hard, but the lump that’s formed in my throat won’t budge. A couple of pigeons begin to circle overhead, ducking and diving around the steeple of the old stone church across from the park. I watch them, listening to the sound of the wind in the tree and the traffic.

  “Scarlett?” I jerk back to reality. Violet is walking toward me across the grass.

  “Hi.” A thousand emotions well up inside me, but I push them away. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “I didn’t.” She walks past me to the tree, touching the bark. “I come here sometimes when I want to be alone.”

  “Sorry,” I say, taking the hint. “I’ll go if you want me to.”

  “No, don’t.” She comes over to the bench and sits at the opposite end from me.

  “Okay.”

  “And actually,” she says, “today I came here because I was on my way to the shop to get some more edible glitter, and I spotted you.”

  In spite of everything, I can’t help but laugh. “I get it,” I say. “It would be tragic if you ran out of edible glitter.”

  Violet laughs too, and I start to feel a little better. But she stops before I do. I turn to face her. “Violet, is there something wrong? Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No, it’s nothing, really.” She waves a hand. “Just some bad dreams I’ve been having lately. I’m not sleeping very well, so I’m really tired.”

  “Oh, what are—”

  “Do you think that Fraser likes Alison?” she says, cutting me off.

  “Fraser?” I look at her in surprise. Fraser was our first “boy” member other than Nick. He’s a total computer geek. Which is probably why he figured out sooner than just about anyone else who was behind the Secret Cooking Club.

  He first “came out” as a member of the club during the bake-off we had at our school for a charity for the elderly. He’s been a regular ever since. He’s a really nice guy—originally from Scotland. I’ve never heard him say a bad word about anyone, and, now that I think about it, I guess he is kind of cute.