I don’t ask to see the photo, but I can guess what image the camera has caught. The illusion that we’re some kind of loving, happy family.
Chapter 15
The Dark Side
Late that night, I sit on my bed, staring at the white bag from the Apple store. My heart tells me I should go downstairs and give it to Mom—tell her it’s not right that I take it. She can work out how to return it to him, or keep it herself—that’s up to her. But my head…
I lie back on the pillow and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars that someone else’s dad or mom put up on the ceiling that’s now mine. Ever since Dad left, I’ve tried to be strong—not to think about him or miss him. And for the most part, I’ve done it. I’ve tried to be a good daughter, a good sister, a good student, and a good friend. And for the most part, I’ve done all that too.
And I really have tried to cope with the changes: Mom’s blog, and the damage it caused our relationship, followed by my meeting Mrs. Simpson and then losing her. And then there’s the Secret Cooking Club—and all the new experiences, friends, and joy that it’s given me—but also the fear that those things could be snatched away. And to top everything off, there’s Mom’s wedding, the TV thing, my new stepdad-to-be Em-K, and the new life that we’re going to have together.
I know I’m lucky—in comparison, my life is amazing and I have so much to be grateful for. In the back of my mind I’ve always known that, sooner or later, I’d have to come to grips with the “Dad situation,” and the hurt it caused me. And I’m not going to be bribed by a new computer or anything else. But if it makes him feel better to give it to me, then who am I to complain?
I take the laptop out of the box and run my hands over its sleek, white lid. Inside, the computer is silver with a black keyboard. I power it up and follow the setup prompts, amazed at how fast and sharp it is, and the fact that it actually belongs to me. It’s perfect—and so much more than I ever dreamt of.
The screen prompts me to set up my default email account. I type in my address and password and open the mail icon to access my inbox. There’s a “welcome” message that I delete immediately, and one other message.
It’s from Dad.
For a second, I hover the cursor over the delete icon. But deep down, I know that’s not the right thing to do. I’ve turned on the computer, personalized it—gone over to the Dark Side. Now, I guess I owe it to Dad to see what he has to say.
I click on the email and read through it.
Dear Scarlett,
I said at dinner that I thought you might find it easier writing to me than talking to me, but the truth is, it’s me who finds that easiest. You may not believe it, and I may delete this sentence after I write it because it sounds like a cliché—but the truth is that not a day goes by when I don’t think about you and your sister—and your mom—and wish that things might have been different. That I might have been different.
But regrets are not productive, and I’m sure you’ve heard enough about my excuses and how sorry I am. So, I’m going to draw a line in the sand and pretend that we’re starting over, you and I.
I want to be part of your life, Scarlett. No—scratch that—I want to deserve to be part of your life. I know that I’ve got a mountain to climb—and I wish I could say I was strong enough to do it. But in truth, Scarlett, I’m not very strong or very good—and I think you know that. But I’d like to try. Please, don’t delete my emails. Just give me a chance.
Love, Dad
By the time I reach the end, tears are rolling down my cheeks fast and furiously. It’s as if the skin has been ripped off my chest and my heart exposed, beating and raw, to the open air. I close the message. I know I should delete it—what business does he have coming back into my life just when things were going in a whole new direction?
But instead, I file it in a new folder that I create: “Dad.”
The Secret Cooking Club
April 24
So this week, a weird thing happened. My real dad turned up wanting to see me—long story—and I ended up making him a birthday cake. It was a chocolate cake, with raspberry jam between the layers. I decorated it with buttercream icing and covered the whole thing with sprinkles. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a classic of cake decorating. But he liked it a lot, and that’s the thing that matters most. Now I wonder if maybe he liked it too much…
POST DELETED
April 24
I’m writing this post from my brand-new computer. It’s a shiny new Apple, and it’s amazing. But the thing is, I’ve had kind of a weird week, and…
POST DELETED
April 24
Sorry for the quick post today—I’ve got lots of homework! I’ve found a fantastic recipe for spring fondant fancies. I’ll post it soon! If you give it a try, make sure you post a photo. Off to do some more grammar now (yawn)! But first, I’m going downstairs to make myself a nice cup of hot chocolate with cinnamon and sprinkles on top.
The Little Cook xx
Chapter 16
The Next Level
“How did the cake turn out?”
My pulse jolts as Nick comes up to me on my way to class. His hand brushes mine—I’m not sure whether or not he meant it to—but either way, my skin tingles.
“Good.” I come to a stop. People push past us in the crowded hall. I cock my head. “Maybe too good.”
Nick nods. I’m pretty sure he gets my whole dilemma. “Did you take a photo for the Instagram page?”
I take out my phone and show him the photo snapped by the waitress—Mom emailed it to me this morning. His eyes widen.
“Ah,” he says. “Maybe it was too good.” He looks up at me. “Your hair looks nice, though.”
“Thanks.” I try to hide my blush. “The whole evening was really weird. No—scratch that—my whole life is weird these days.”
“Well, maybe things would be better if you came back to the club. It might help to get away from the wedding stuff.” He glances down at the phone in my hand with the photo on the screen. “There is still going to be a wedding, right?”
“Yeah, ’fraid so.” I tell him about the day spent at the awful posh boutiques and then the Bridal Center. I’m expecting him to sympathize with me, but instead he laughs. “You have to let all of us know when it’s going to be on TV,” he says. “We so have to get together to watch it.”
“I definitely won’t be watching it,” I grumble. “And I can name at least two other people who won’t be watching either.” I flick my head down the hall to where Gretchen has just arrived with Alison. Gretchen looks at me, puts up her hand and whispers something to Alison. I feel a pang in my stomach. How could things have gone so wrong? “And those same people won’t want me back in the club either.”
“You’re so wrong, Scarlett.” Nick shakes his head. “I just don’t get you and Gretchen—I mean, you two are so alike.”
“Alike—no! You must be nuts.”
He laughs. “Neither of you see it. Maybe that’s your problem.”
The bell rings. “Anyway,” he adds, “there was talk of meeting up after school. Come and join us.”
Okay—I’ll be there! I feel like shouting.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. With a shrug, I turn and walk away.
* * *
I’ll think about it. It’s like somehow Gretchen has taken over my body and her words are coming out of my mouth. Could Nick possibly be right? I mean, Gretchen is stubborn, proud, and opinionated, and she knows how to stand up for what she believes in. If anything, I wish I could be more like her.
As the teacher writes our math assignment up on the board, I wonder what I would think if I were Gretchen and she were me. Would I see “me” as stuck up, trying to hog all the limelight just because my mom has some kind of B-list celebrity complex? I guess it’s possible. Even though it’s completely wrong.
; But I’ve misunderstood Gretchen in the past too. Once, I thought she was ignoring me because of Mom’s blog, but it turned out I was wrong—she thought it was me who was acting stuck up. Either way, Nick said they would have me back in the club if I wanted to. And I seriously want to.
I pack away my notebook and steel myself to try to catch Gretchen between classes. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over all these months, it’s that my life is always a lot better with the Secret Cooking Club in it.
* * *
Just before lunch, I get a text message from Annie—the assistant to Producer Poppy. She wants me to call and set up a time to come in to the studio and be filmed making the wedding cake. Just reading the message, I feel the familiar wave of nausea at the idea of being in front of a camera. I’m about to delete the message when out of the corner of my eye, I see Gretchen coming out of the girls’ bathroom—alone, for once. I shove my phone in my pocket and walk quickly toward her before I can chicken out.
“Gretchen?” I say.
She stops and turns around.
“Do you have a quick sec?”
“Okay.” There’s wariness in her voice. “Your hair looks good.”
“Thanks.” I pull her off to the side as kids swarm by on their way to the cafeteria for lunch. But as soon as we’re alone, my confidence drains away. Gretchen puts her hands on her hips, not cutting me any slack.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For what I said before, and for walking out. It’s just…I don’t know…things are really stressful right now. I guess I didn’t really think.”
Gretchen stares at me, but her face seems to soften a little bit. “I know you do lots with the club and the blog, Scarlett,” she says. “And you deserve the recognition you get. But sometimes, I think you forget that the rest of us want to help too.”
I hang my head. “I know. And it’s so unnecessary. It’s just, there’s a part of me that misses the way it was. When it was just us—you know? Cooking in Rosemary’s kitchen. Trying new things. Doing it for fun…” I sigh. “And when it was still our secret.”
She nods slowly. “I know what you mean,” she says. “But it was never going to stay that way. We took the club to the next level and made it something that lots of kids could do. And now, maybe this TV thing is taking it even further. But I think you need to decide—if it’s you, or us.”
“I know. And I have decided. This was never something I wanted. I know I need to talk to the producer woman, but I’m just so bad at these things.”
She laughs. “No you’re not. I mean, you’re ‘The Little Cook.’ You need to tell them what you want to do.”
I roll my eyes. For Gretchen, talking to adults is easy-peasy. But not for me.
“Come up with a plan. Then pitch it to them.” She makes it sound so obvious.
“A plan? Like what?”
“I don’t know. But we can talk about it. We’re meeting up today after school. Can you make it?”
“Yeah.” I start to feel a little bit better.
“Good. We were going to meet at Alison’s house—unless you think we can use Rosemary’s kitchen?”
“We can—I’m sure. In fact, the wall’s been knocked through between our two houses.”
“Really?” Gretchen raises an eyebrow.
“They’re supposed to be putting in a door, but it hasn’t happened yet.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll let the others know.”
As Gretchen walks away down the hallway, I feel like we’re two sides of the same person, who have somehow managed to bungle each other’s lines.
* * *
Violet rushes up to me after lessons. “OMG, it’s true, right? You’re back?” She throws her arms around me in a bear hug.
“I’m back.” I breathe in the smell of her apple shampoo, feeling better than I have in days. I don’t dwell on the little niggling thought that she sort of chose the others over me.
“That’s fab,” she says, smiling like her old self. “We’ve missed you.”
“I missed you too,” I say. “What are you making today?”
“Something for the school cafeteria, I think.” She looks unsure. “Gretchen’s kind of been running the show. Though Naya’s got good ideas too—and she’s not afraid to give her opinion. And I’ve been busy with these…” She fumbles in her bag. “Here, look.”
She takes out a sketchbook and flips forward a few pages. I look over her shoulder, my eyes widening in amazement.
“You drew these?” I stare at the sketches she’s made on the page. Layer cakes and braided breads, fruit tarts and cupcakes. The drawings—done in pen, filled in with colored pencil—look good enough to eat. She’s written out the recipes, labeled the ingredients, and drawn little arrows saying what goes where.
She nods. “Do you like them?”
“They look amazing.”
Violet beams. “Do you really think so?”
“I know so. When did you have time to do them?”
Her face clouds for a moment—or maybe it’s my imagination. “I did most of them late at night. I’ve kind of been having trouble sleeping—”
My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text message. I quickly check the screen—it’s Mom, asking me if I’ve spoken with the assistant producer yet. I shove the phone back in my pocket as an idea suddenly strikes me. I look down at Violet’s sketches again just as she closes the notebook and puts it back in her bag.
“Hold that thought and let me make a phone call,” I say to her. “But I’ll see you later—okay?”
Chapter 17
A Summer Fête
After school, I go straight home and dump my bag. As I go through the hole in the wall, I wonder when the door will be put in. Mom’s too busy and preoccupied to be bothered about it, and I suppose it makes sense to wait until after the wedding—in case something goes wrong. Not that it will…
Treacle eyes me warily from his basket as I cut up some trash bags and tack them over the jagged edges of bricks and plaster that have been knocked through. “It’s like a great big cat flap,” I explain to him. He swishes his tail like I’m not making any sense. But I know what I’m doing. I don’t want Mom catching a glimpse of what we might be getting up to—once I explain my idea to the others, that is.
I’ve just managed to cover most of the opening when the others begin to arrive: first, Gretchen, Alison, and Nick; then Violet’s “crush,” Fraser, then Naya. I pass around a plate of homemade dark chocolate and orange cookies that were made by Nick and Fraser, while we wait for Violet (who had to stop off home before coming here). When Violet finally arrives, I poke my head back through the flap of trash bags and make sure that Mom’s nowhere to be seen. Just like Violet said, when I come back to the others, Gretchen has already taken charge.
“So,” she says, “what shall we make today? Does anyone have any ideas, or new recipes to try?”
Naya and Violet both shoot up their hands. Naya’s brought a recipe for tomato, spinach, and cheese tartlets that she and Alison want to try. Violet takes out her sketchbook and shows them a drawing she made of some white chocolate and cranberry muffins drizzled with royal icing and demerara sugar.
“Your drawings are so amazing, Violet,” Gretchen says. “If we have all the ingredients, we can make both.”
Nick and Naya go to check the cupboards. I sit at the table and tentatively raise my hand.
“Yes, Scarlett,” Gretchen says, sounding like a principal. “By the way, welcome back.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Um, I don’t want to speak out of turn, but I…um…had an idea. I want to run it by you.” I look at Gretchen, then at the others. “All of you.”
“Go on, then,” Nick encourages.
“Well, it’s about Mom’s wedding. You know? And the TV show she’s doing.” I seem to swallow the words. I can’t look at Gretchen.
“Yeah?” Violet says. “They’re going to film you doing the cake, right?”
“Right. But actually, I had another thought.” I lower my voice in case Mom has somehow managed to enter our kitchen without my hearing. “It’s not definite yet, but I had a quick chat earlier with the assistant TV producer. Her name’s Annie. She seems nice.”
“So what’s the idea?” Alison prompts.
“Well, the TV station is paying for different bits of the wedding—like the cake and the food. They were going to get some fancy caterers to do the food—canapés, main courses, desserts—all that stuff. But I was thinking…” I take a breath, “that we could all do it—together.”
“Really?” Violet says. “They’ll buy us everything we need?”
“Shh.” I point to the thin layer of trash bags covering the hole in the wall. “I thought it could be the Secret Cooking Club’s big secret. Mom can’t find out. I don’t even want the main producer of the show—some loud woman called Poppy that I met over the weekend—to know. Not yet, at least.”
Gretchen puts her hands on her hips. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“That you could be on TV too!” I say. “We all could—those of you that want to. I mean, think how great it would be. We could do an amazing menu, and Violet could do the drawings, just like the artist on Bake Off.”
Violet’s face shines. “OMG, I’d love to do that.”
“So this would be part of the bride show?” Naya asks.
“Yeah—it’s about brides preparing for their special day. It totally fits. But like Violet said before, any old bride can get food done by caterers. But not every bride can have a wedding feast made by the Secret Cooking Club.”
Cake and Confessions Page 8
