The four of us leave the cafeteria. As we pass the office, I notice there’s a new bulletin board up, with the caption: “Don’t let the worry monsters drag you down!” There are some furry monsters peeking out of a zippered bag tacked to the board. The board then lists all the people you can talk to if you feel worried: a teacher, a school counselor, a good friend. For a second, I wonder what it would be like to get the heavy bag of worries off my back.
“How ridiculous.” Gretchen rolls her eyes at the board.
I look away, feeling silly that I took it seriously.
Naya and Gretchen go off to science. Violet and I both have PE. Just outside the changing rooms, I slow down and pull her aside. “Can I talk to you for a sec?” I say.
“Sure.” She narrows her eyes. “Are you okay? What’s up?”
“Sorry. It’s just…” I hesitate, finding it hard to share my worries, even with my best friend. “You have to swear not to tell any of the others,” I say.
She crosses her arms. “You know you can trust me—don’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Is this about Nick?” she interrupts, loud enough for half the school to hear.
“No. Shhh…” I pull her closer and lean in toward her blue-black hair. “It’s just that…well…my dad is kind of like…back.”
As the other girls file past us into the changing room, I tell her everything. From Mom running into Dad at the TV station, to the dinner, the new computer, and the emails. “I think she’s also had coffee with him a few times,” I say.
Violet looks thoughtful. “Maybe they’re just catching up.”
“They can do that on the phone, surely.”
“I don’t know—it might not be a bad thing if they’re friends. Especially if he’s back in town.”
“But that’s just it. Dad has been totally out of our lives for so long. It all just feels really weird that he’s back. And now, of all times.”
“Maybe. But your Mom loves Em-K, right?” Violet’s voice rises. “You know how we all thought they were a weird couple at first. But now, it just seems normal that they’re together.”
It’s true that for a long time after Mom and Em-K got together, none of us really “got it.” I mean, he’s a congressman—why would he want to be with someone like Mom? It’s not like it was going to help his political career to be dating a mommy blogger with two kids.
But that’s one of the things that, over time, I’ve learned to like most about Em-K. He’s not just in politics for his image. He really does care about trying to make things better, and he’s a real person underneath. If he’s with Mom, it’s because he loves her and wants to be with her—and us. The problem is, can I say the same about Mom?
I rub at my head that’s starting to ache from the whole thing.
“They’re arguing a lot too,” I say. “Just like Mom and Dad used to do.”
“Well, I’m sure the wedding and the TV thing are stressful. But your mom seems to really want this wedding.”
“Yeah, she does. But Em-K wasn’t too happy about the TV thing, and the rush to do the wedding in two months. But he went along with it. Then Dad turned up out of the blue, and things got worse.” I stare down at the grimy tiled floor of the corridor. “I just want things to be settled. And for this wedding to go ahead, and then be over. I’m scared that something’s going to go wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Scarlett…” Violet makes like she’s going to hug me, but my phone vibrates in my pocket. An incoming call.
I fish the phone out and check the screen. It’s a number I don’t recognize and instantly, I’m wary—could it be Dad calling from a landline? I let it go to voicemail, then dial in and listen to the message. It’s not from Dad, but rather from Producer Poppy, the boss of Assistant Annie.
Scarlett! I hope you don’t mind my calling you direct. My assistant told me your idea about the secret club—lovely! But I’m afraid it’s too much for the station to take on at such short notice. So let’s focus on getting you here to make the cake. We’ve got a kitchen in the studio for our celebrity chefs that will knock your socks off. Call me, okay?
The message ends. My stomach tightens in a knot. I pass the phone to Violet, and she listens to the message. Other than a tiny flash of disappointment, she doesn’t react and hands me back the phone.
“Don’t worry.” She smiles reassuringly. “You tried. Gretchen knows that. And we can still do the menu—maybe we can do a summer lunch at the old people’s home.”
“No…” The word comes out of my mouth sounding tortured.
“Hey! It’s cool. You’ll be a star. You’re going to have your very own celebrity kitchen and your own show.”
“But, Violet,” I whisper, “I don’t want any of those things. I just want to be part of the Secret Cooking Club.”
She shrugs. “Okay. But just remember, most people would love to be in your position.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” I say. More than anything, I must make her understand. “I know it sounds totally silly, but when we were in that bridal shop, and the cameras and the spotlights were on me, I felt sick—like my lunch was going to come up all over the dry-clean-only dresses. It was awful. And I’ve had it before—when I speak in front of assembly at the charity bake-offs. It’s the same feeling I had back when I was counting down the minutes till one of Mom’s blog posts. I think maybe there’s something wrong with me.”
Violet cocks her head. “You had stage fright. It can happen any time—like where your adrenaline kicks in and you feel out of control.”
“I certainly felt out of control.”
“My aunt Hilda says she feels that way sometimes when she’s meeting clients. She’s a real estate agent, so she has to show strangers around houses and talk to them on the phone and stuff.”
“So what does she do?”
“Yoga and meditation—stuff like that.”
I roll my eyes. “You think doing yoga is going to help me go on TV in front of millions of people, annoy all my friends, and cook something in a celebrity chef kitchen without my voice going hoarse and my hands shaking as I’m trying to measure out a teaspoon of salt?”
“Well, if it’s as bad as you say, then maybe yoga is worth a try.”
“No! What’s worth a try is calling Producer Poppy back. Maybe Annie didn’t explain it right. How fantastic it’s going to be. And if she still insists that it’s just me, then I’ll tell her I can’t do it. That…I don’t want to do it.”
“Okay, okay, I’ve got it.”
“Good.” I breathe out.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Violet says. “Let’s meet up after school. I’ve got something I need to do right after.” Her eyes grow dark, like it’s something she’s dreading. “I can come to your house about five. You can call her back, and I’ll be there so I can let you know how you did. Is that a deal?”
“It’s a deal.” I suddenly notice how quiet it is around us. “We’d better go in and get changed.” I pull a face. More than once, Violet and I have been late to PE because we were chatting and had to do ten push-ups each as a punishment.
Sure enough, we’re the last ones to get changed. As I’m shoving my school clothes in the locker and starting to put on my gym uniform, I realize how, once again, the entire conversation has been about me and my problems. Why can’t I be a better friend?
“What about you?” I say. “How are things going with Fraser?” I keep my voice low in case anyone’s still in the bathroom—I know Violet would be mortified if it got spread around that she liked him. “You guys seemed pretty cozy making the truffles the other day.”
“Oh that.” Maybe it’s her slouchy gym top, but Violet’s shoulders seem to slump. “I don’t know,” she says. “He hasn’t texted me in the last day or so. I guess it’s pretty hopeless.”
“Hey, don’t say that.” Ta
lking about someone else’s problems, I’m on more solid ground. “He seems a little shy. You have to work out how to get him to come out of his shell.”
We sit side by side on the bench and put on our sneakers.
“I…I don’t know. I just wish…” All of a sudden, the sadness I’ve noticed in Violet recently seems to be back in force. “Maybe it isn’t a good time—for either of us.”
“Look.” I grab her hand and pull her off the bench. She’s helped me by listening, so the least I can do is help her with her boy troubles. “Let’s kill two birds with one stone. When we meet up later, I’ll make my phone call, and then we’ll make something for Fraser.”
“Make something?”
“You know, like we talked about—we’ll bake him something for you to give him. Like a ‘welcome to the club’ gift, or something.”
She cocks her head sideways. “He’s not the only new member. There’s Naya too…”
“I know, but come on, Violet—you have to do something. I thought we could make him something Scottish—like shortbread cookies. That’s Scottish, isn’t it?”
Her face flushes. “I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s pretend we know. We’ll come up with a cool flavor, and you can pipe chocolate on the top. Fraser likes chocolate.”
Her eyes brighten. “Yes, he does.”
“So…you’re in?”
From inside the gym, a whistle blows. Late again—my arms are already aching from the thought of the push-ups.
“I’m in,” she says. We both take off at a run to join the class.
Chapter 21
The Worry Monsters
Things may not be sorted—far from it. But at least we have a plan. When I get home, I go to the kitchen to get a snack. Immediately the door to the Mom Cave slams. “You know how important this is to me!” Mom is yelling into the phone. I don’t hear the response, but then she says, “Well, if you don’t like it, then don’t turn up on the day!”
I wince, wishing I hadn’t overheard. Surely, Mom can’t be talking like that to Em-K—as in, the man she’s going to marry? They’ve been fighting a lot lately, but like Violet said, that’s just wedding nerves—it must be!
Inside the Mom Cave, things seem to quieten down—one of them must have put down the phone. I expect her to come out at any second, though I’m not quite sure what to say if she does. She won’t be happy that I haven’t sorted out things with the TV producer—quite the opposite. Now that Producer Poppy has ditched my brilliant idea, I feel like telling her that I won’t do the show at all. That will drive Mom nuts. And even if I did do the show, Mom won’t want any advice from me—like that maybe she should be a little bit nicer to her husband-to-be. She may not write her tell-all parenting blog anymore, but when it comes to relationships, she sees herself as the expert.
Still, she’s my mom, and if she’s upset, I should try to help. I’m about to go knock on the door and offer her a cup of tea when I hear her voice again—this time lower. “Oh, hi. Hope this isn’t a bad time. I just…thought maybe we could meet up for a drink. I could use one.” There’s a pause and then she laughs—a high-pitched laughter that I don’t remember hearing before. It’s not a good sound.
But before I can listen in any further, the doorbell rings. Relieved at the distraction, I go to answer it. It’s Violet. I take one look at her face, and know that something bad has happened.
“What’s the matter?” I say, alarmed.
“Nothing.” She looks down at the mat. “I’m fine.”
Two hours ago, when lessons ended for the day, she was fine. I went home, and she said she had something to do right after school. I don’t know where she went, but now she most definitely is not fine.
“Come on in.” I usher her. “Do you want some cake? I made one the other day to practice for the wedding cake—it’s raspberry ripple with white chocolate icing.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”
If I didn’t already guess that something is majorly wrong, this confirms it. If anyone has a sweet tooth, it’s Violet.
“Okay.” I lead her inside past the front room where Kelsie’s watching TV, into our kitchen, and through the wall to Rosemary’s kitchen. The huge stove that always gives off a little heat makes the room cozy and comforting. But today, it’s as if neither of us even notice.
“Sit,” I command. I go to the fridge and get out a jug of orange juice. I pour two glasses and sit opposite her. She takes the glass and stares at it without blinking.
“I hope this isn’t about Fraser,” I say. “Because we’re going to get that sorted out. I found a recipe for butter shortbread with cranberry and orange. Doesn’t that sound good? With chocolate piped over the top…” I trail off, feeling like I’m pleading for a lost cause.
“I think…” She bites her lip and turns away.
“Violet!” I come over to her side of the table and try to put my arm around her shoulder, but she shrugs me off. I’ve seen her upset before—when we’ve had a falling-out, when she’s argued with Aunt Hilda—and, whether she admits it or not, over the whole Fraser thing. But there’s something about seeing her like this…well, it scares me.
“Hey,” I say softly, sitting in the chair next to her. “Whatever it is, you know you can talk about it with me. You’re my best friend.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says. “I’ve done enough of that.”
“But it’s not Fraser—”
“No,” she snaps, jumping up from the chair. “It’s not Fraser or any foolish…boy crush thing.”
I stare up at her like she’s struck me. “Okay, fine, if you don’t want to tell me—”
“I’ve been seeing a counselor,” she blurts out. “After school. That’s why I couldn’t come right away.”
“A counselor?” I blink. Violet’s such a fun, happy person—so normal. “I thought they were for kids with…” I say without thinking. I can’t finish the sentence. Of course, she’s seeing a counselor—she lost her parents! I must be dense for not realizing it before.
“With what?” Violet stares at me. “Mental problems?”
“I was going to say ‘problems,’” I lie, knowing she’s hit the nail on the head.
“Problems.” Her laugh is bitter and hollow. “If that’s what it’s about, then half the kids at school would need to do it—wouldn’t they? Or even all of them.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I talked to the counselor because I don’t want my friends to think I’m some kind of freak.”
“I would never think that! You can talk to me. I mean…” I pause, ashamed. “I’m constantly going on about my issues.”
“It just sounds foolish when I talk about it. But it’s really messing with my head. I’m not sleeping, and I keep having nightmares.” She purses her lips. “About my parents.”
“Oh.” The room suddenly seems chilly. I rewind back to the first few days and weeks when I met Violet. She was new at our school, and I thought we could be friends because she didn’t know about all the baggage I was carrying with Mom’s blog. One day, I’d been whining and moaning about Mom and the blog and how bad I felt…Me, me, me. Violet was living with her aunt Hilda, and before that day, I’d never asked why.
When she told me—that both of her parents had been killed in a car accident—I couldn’t believe it at first. But I soon got the whole story, and all the awful details. Her dad had been killed outright, but her mom was in a coma for months before she died. I still can’t even imagine how it must have been for her. I mean—I’ve got my issues with both my mom and my dad. But I just don’t know how I could ever handle it if I lost both of them like that.
“I keep dreaming about the house where we lived,” she continues. “It’s so real…”
“And what happens in the dream?”
“My parents are the
re in the house. It’s like they aren’t…” she takes a breath, “…dead.” The word echoes around the room, seeming to suck the air away. “It’s like they’re living there, going about their lives, and I’m not there with them. It’s like…I’m the one who’s gone.”
I shiver. “What does the counselor say?”
She sinks back against the counter, looking at the floor. For a second, I worry she’s not going to answer; that even talking about it is proving to be too much.
“She says I need ‘closure,’” she says, finally breaking the silence. “That’s what they call it. It’s like, closing a door on the past, so that I can move on. I’ve never really accepted that they’re gone. That they’re not coming back. And for some reason, I’ve tangled things up in my mind that they might still be at our old house living our old life.”
I don’t know what to say, but I move closer to her.
“Which just sounds so…silly. I mean, I know they’re dead—I’m not dense.” Her face clouds with anger. “I was there with Mom at the end. And I went to the funeral. I heard the words the priest said at the ceremony. I saw…” she shudders, “…the coffins disappear behind the curtain. That’s what happens when people are cremated. Did you know that?”
“No.” I feel like icy fingers are squeezing my heart.
“Well, it’s true!” A tear rolls down her cheek.
I don’t know what to say, so I reach over and put my arms around her. This time, she doesn’t pull away.
I let her cry into my hair, feeling the warm tears soaking through my top. It’s like something inside of her has broken—something that was holding back her emotions like a dam blocks a river. And now, everything needs to come out. That much I understand. I stroke her sleek black hair, as she shudders and sobs against me. I don’t know how much time passes, but I know that I’ll be here as long as she needs me.
Chapter 22
Cake and “Closure”
Eventually, I persuade Violet to have a piece of cake and a glass of milk. Maybe it’s the sugar, or the soft, mellow flavor of the vanilla sponge rippled through with gooey raspberry, but it seems to calm her a little. I listen as everything she’s been holding inside her starts to come out.
Cake and Confessions Page 10
