by Coco Simon
CHAPTER 1
S’More Surprises
Steady, Mia,” I told one of my best friends.
That’s because Mia Vélaz-Cruz was using a blowtorch, which is unusual for Mia since she’s more likely to be holding a makeup brush or a sketch pencil or a sewing needle. She’s very creative and artistic. And that’s what she was using the blowtorch for—to make art. Out of cake frosting.
The community college near our town, Maple Grove, had announced a baking contest a few weeks ago for kids ages ten to seventeen. You had to first send in a recipe for a cake, and if your recipe was chosen, you were invited to the college to bake your cake in their kitchens in the final contest round.
As soon as Mia and I heard about the contest, we knew we wanted to enter. We’re part of a cupcake baking business with our friends Alexis Becker and Emma Taylor called the Cupcake Club. Emma knew she had a modeling gig the day of the contest, and Alexis had a school business club fair she was helping to run, so Mia and I entered together.
Each baker was allowed one helper, and Mia and I agreed that I should bake and she should help. We’re a good team that way. I am food obsessed, so I’m good at coming up with recipes. And Mia can make any food look mouthwateringly delicious.
So, the recipe I came up with was a s’mores cake—a chocolate cake with layers of fudge and crumbled graham crackers in between. But the best part of the cake was the marshmallow frosting, which would top the cake with soft, fluffy peaks and then be browned with a blowtorch for that toasted marshmallow taste.
When Mia and I submitted the recipe, we hadn’t thought too much about the blowtorch part. It looked easy when chefs used them on TV. But in real life, a blowtorch is kind of scary.
Luckily, monitors from the college were walking around the kitchens, making sure none of us kids were hurting ourselves with knives or stoves—or blowtorches. One of them rushed over quickly when he saw Mia holding the blowtorch.
“Do you know how to use that?” he asked.
“My stepdad, Eddie, showed me how,” Mia replied. “He said it’s the wimpiest blowtorch he could find, and I just have to twist it a tiny bit to let the flame come out. Like this.”
Mia twisted the end, and a small flame burst from the torch.
The monitor nodded. “Good job,” he said.
As he looked on, Mia carefully burned the tips of the marshmallow peaks so they turned a toasty brown color. Soon, our kitchen smelled just like a campfire!
“That’s perfect, Mia!” I cried, clapping, and I saw the monitor smile.
An announcement came over the loudspeaker. “Five minutes until judging!”
I looked around our kitchen area. The college had a teaching kitchen for their cooking students. We each had a stainless-steel table as a work area, and an oven. Right now, our table was strewn with flour, powdered chocolate, and some spilled egg whites.
“I’ll clean this up,” I said. “Mia, just make the cake look as beautiful as possible!”
“You got it,” Mia replied. “Katie, it already looks and smells awesome. I think we could win.”
As I straightened up, I glanced at the competition. Nine other contestants had made it to the finals. A few of the kids looked younger than Mia and I, who are in middle school. Most of the kids looked like they were in high school. And I had to admit, some of the cakes looked amazing. This one girl had a white layer cake with these beautiful flowers and butterflies made out of fondant, a paste made out of sugar, all over it.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Some of the cakes out there look incredible.”
“Well, I think it all comes down to a matter of personal taste with these things, sometimes,” Mia said. “Who are the judges, again?”
“There are five judges,” I told her. “Two are professors here at the college, and then they got three food experts from the community. That’s what the entry form said. I didn’t read it too carefully.”
I’m not exactly what you’d call a detail-oriented person. I knew that I had to make an amazing cake and that the prize was five hundred dollars. That’s all I needed to know, right?
I noticed that I was nervously tapping my purple sneaker on the floor. I took a deep breath. This was it! We had baked our hearts out. I knew my cake was delicious. And thanks to Mia, it was beautiful. There was nothing left to do but wait to be judged.
I glanced at my station. The stainless steel gleamed brightly, and the cake looked perfect on a black pedestal cake stand. There wasn’t a stray crumb or fleck of icing anywhere.
Mia looked around. “Do you think this is what it will be like when you go to cooking school?”
“I guess,” I said. (Mia and I have a dream: After high school, we would both go to school in Manhattan. I would train to be a chef at one of the big cooking schools in New York, and Mia would go to one of the fashion schools there.) “This is a pretty nice kitchen. I don’t know if the school in New York will be fancier than this.”
“This is good practice, anyway,” Mia said. “We should enter the contest every year.”
Then we heard another announcement. “Let the judging begin!”
A bunch of judges wearing white chef’s coats entered the kitchen. A woman with a blond ponytail approached our table first. She was smiling and looked nice, so I relaxed a little—just a little.
“ ‘S’mores Cake,’ ” she said, reading aloud from the recipe card posted at our station. “What a clever idea. I was a Girl Scout, you know.”
Mia nudged me, and we were both thinking the same thing. We had definitely won this judge over!
She carefully cut a thin slice of cake, put it on a plate, and took a bite.
“Very moist,” she said. “The cookie crumble adds some nice texture. And the toasted marshmallow is wonderful.”
“Thank you!” Mia and I said together, and I felt like I was beaming from head to toe.
The next judge was a short woman who wore her brown hair in a bun. She didn’t smile at us. She read the recipe card and then tasted the cake. She nodded, put down the plate, and then started writing in a little pad. She didn’t say a word to us!
“Oh boy,” Mia said as the second judge walked away. “Does that mean she didn’t like it?”
“I’m not sure,” I whispered back. “Maybe that’s just her judging style.”
The next judge who walked up was a tall guy with dark hair. He looked vaguely familiar. And then I noticed his name tag: MARC DONALD BROWN.
That’s when the whole world froze around me.
Marc Donald Brown is my dad.
My dad, who left my mom and me when I was really little.
My dad, who moved back to New Jersey recently with a whole new family.
My dad, who e-mailed me saying he wanted to meet me, but I turned him down. I wasn’t ready.
And here he was, judging my cake.
Marc Donald Brown was smiling when he came to the table. Then he looked at me. I was wearing a name tag too: KATIE BROWN.
Marc Donald Brown got a weird look on his face. We both stared at each other.
Then my legs took on a life of their own. Some primal instinct took over and I ran. I ran as fast as I could out of that room, and I didn’t look back.
CHAPTER 2
So Awkward!
I stood outside in the college courtyard, gasping for air. I fumbled for my cell phone in my apron pocket and dialed the number of my mom’s dental practice.
“Oh, hey, Katie,” Joanne, the receptionist, said cheerfully.
“Can I talk to her?” I asked.
“Sorry, your mom’s in the middle of a tooth extraction,” Joanne said. “Are you okay? You sound upset.”
“No, no, I’m . . .” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say I was fi
ne. Because I definitely wasn’t.
“I’ll have her call you back as soon as she gets out, okay, hon?” Joanne asked.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. I ended the call and sat down on a bench. I needed a moment to think.
Mia raced up to me.
“Oh my gosh, Katie! I wasn’t sure why you ran out, but then I saw the name on the judge, and I figured it out,” she said. She put her arm around me. “You must be freaking out.”
“I am,” I said. I looked at her. “Mia, I’m sorry. I can’t go back in there. Forget the contest. Let’s just go home, okay?” My eyes started to fill with tears as I talked.
Mia nodded. “Of course. I’ll call my mom to pick us up. I left my cell phone inside. I’ll be right back.”
Mia ran inside, and I took some deep breaths, trying to process.
When Marc Donald Brown had first e-mailed me, he said he wanted us to meet and talk. He wanted me to meet his family. I just couldn’t do it. For one thing, I wasn’t sure how I felt about a dad who took off and then waited more than an entire decade before trying to see me again. Yeah, he sent birthday cards and stuff, but that’s about it.
And what did he do in that time? The guy who apparently couldn’t handle having a wife and a baby went out and found a new wife and then had three more babies—all girls. I know because Mia and I had this crazy idea to visit my dad’s restaurant in Stonebrook, Chez Donald. (It’s named that because he’s always gone by his middle name, Donald.) I guess I thought I could maybe spy on my dad or something first, to see what he was like.
But I didn’t even stay that long. I saw a newspaper article on the wall. I still remember the title. FAMILY MAN BRINGS FRENCH CUISINE TO STONEBROOK. There was a photo of Marc Donald Brown with his new wife and three little girls. No mention of me at all, but why would there be? I freaked out and ran out of the restaurant—just like I had done in the college kitchen.
“Katie?”
A man’s voice interrupted my thoughts. Marc Donald Brown was standing there.
“Uh, hi,” I said. My heart was pounding like crazy.
“Mind if I sit down?” he asked.
“No, sure,” I said. I couldn’t look him in the face. I just couldn’t. I looked down at my apron and kept fumbling with the strings.
“I’m sure this must be awkward for you,” he said. “It’s awkward for me.”
Majorly awkward! I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
“I didn’t know you were going to be in this contest,” he said. “Otherwise, I would have tried to reach out beforehand.”
“I didn’t know you were going to be a judge,” I mumbled.
“I still want to get to know you, Katie,” MDB said. “Not like this, though.”
“Oh, but you’re such a family man,” I found myself saying, remembering the article. “Don’t you need to spend time with your other three daughters?”
“This is the kind of stuff we need to talk about,” he said. “Just please consider it. We can meet somewhere, just the two of us. There’s a lot I need to say to you.”
Something in his voice made me look up. His green eyes looked kind of sad.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“Okay,” MDB said. He stood up. “By the way, your cake was delicious.”
Does he really think that, or is he just saying that? I wondered. Something inside me really hoped he was being sincere. For some weird reason, it was important that Marc Donald Brown knew I was a good baker. That I was good at something.
Mia walked toward me as he walked away, and she raised her eyebrows. “You okay?” she asked.
“I guess,” I said. “He still wants to meet with me. I’m not sure if I want to, though. It’s so weird!”
“Yeah, I can’t imagine,” Mia said.
I knew she couldn’t. Mia’s parents were divorced, like mine, but her dad never left the picture. Mia goes and stays with him in Manhattan every other weekend, and she spends half the summer with him, too. He’s not some stranger, like Marc Donald Brown.
Mia and I didn’t talk anymore. We were quiet until her mom came to pick us up. Mrs. Valdes smiled and said hi, but then she didn’t say anything either, so I knew Mia had told her what happened.
“Katie, you know you’re welcome to come to our house for dinner,” Mia’s mom said as we got closer to my house.
“Thanks, I’m okay,” I said. When the car pulled up, I muttered a good-bye and quickly ran out, let myself into my house, and then headed straight up to my bedroom.
Then I threw myself on my bed and cried and cried, and I wasn’t even really sure why.
CHAPTER 3
Decisions, Decisions
I didn’t even hear Mom’s key turn in the lock, and I didn’t hear her walk upstairs, either. The first thing I noticed was her hand on my back.
“Katie, what’s wrong?” she asked. “Did you lose the contest?”
The contest. I had forgotten all about that, actually. I sat up and wiped away my tears.
For a second I stared at Mom’s face. I always thought that she and I looked alike. We both had brown hair, even though mine was long and messy and hers was short and bouncy, and brown eyes. But now I wondered. Marc Donald Brown had brown hair. Did I look like him, too?
“It’s not the contest,” I said finally. “I left the contest.”
“You left? Why?” Mom asked.
“Because Marc Donald Brown was one of the judges,” I told her.
Mom’s eyes got wide. “Oh,” she said. Then she hugged me. “Oh, Katie. That must have been so upsetting for you. I’m sorry.”
I felt the tears coming again, but I held them back.
“I ran out,” I told her. “He came out to talk to me. He asked me to meet with him again. But I’m not sure if I want to.”
Mom sighed. “So you ran out, and he came out to find you?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Well, that was decent of him,” Mom said. “I do worry about you getting hurt, hon, and I’m sure you do too.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, why does he want to see me after all this time? Isn’t he busy enough with his other three daughters?”
And what if he doesn’t like me as much as he likes them? I added to myself. What if he meets me and then never wants to see me again?
“I know it must hurt that he has another family,” Mom said. “But I think it’s a good thing that he wants to reconnect with you, Katie. It’s up to you, but maybe it will be good for you. It might give you a chance to work out this chapter of your life.”
Mom was making sense. I thought about all those years that I had wondered what it would be like to have a dad who did things with me. Wondered why my dad had left. Maybe if I talked to him, I’d get some answers.
“I might do it,” I told her. “I’m just not sure yet.”
“Let me know,” Mom said. “And if you want me to reach out to him, I will.”
I hugged her. “Thanks, Mom.”
Mom kissed me on the forehead. “I think we could both use some Chinese takeout.”
“Vegetable lo mein,” I said. “And chicken with broccoli. And wonton soup. And an egg roll.”
Mom laughed. “That’s my Katie. Don’t worry. I’ll get us a feast. And then maybe we can go for a run in the morning.”
Mom left to call in our order, and I went to the bathroom to splash water on my face. I felt a lot better. This whole thing with Marc Donald Brown was pretty stressful. But I could always count on Mom to make things right.
I was feeling even better the next day, especially after spending a fun night with Mom, eating Chinese food and watching a movie in our pj’s, and then going for a run the next morning. You would think that when you’re running, you’d have nothing to do but think about your problems rolling around in your head, but for me, it’s just the opposite. When I’m running, all my problems fly out of my head. My mind focuses on the thump-thump of my feet against the path in the park and the birds flitting and swooping f
rom tree to tree.
I did some homework for the rest of the day and then chilled out before my Cupcake Club meeting that night. Mom made us chicken soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner, and then she dropped me off at Mia’s house.
There was an amazing smell coming from her house, and when Mia opened the door for me, the smell got stronger. I waited for her little white dogs, Tiki and Milkshake, to stop yapping and jumping on me before I asked her about it.
“Eddie made this amazing chicken for dinner,” Mia explained. “Chicken breasts rolled up with stuff inside and then cooked in delicious sauce.”
Eddie came out of the kitchen just then. “It’s called a roulade,” he explained. “I saw it on a cooking show. But you probably know all about roulades, Katie, since you’re such a good cook yourself.”
I felt myself blushing a little. “Yeah, we made them at cooking camp during the summer.”
“Then you have to try mine!” he said, grabbing me by the arm. “I need your expert opinion.”
Sorry, Mia mouthed as he pulled me into the kitchen, but I didn’t mind. Eddie is Mia’s stepdad, and he’s supernice. He’s always ready to help the Cupcake Club, whether we need a ride somewhere or extra hands to help frosting cupcakes.
Eddie took one of the roulades off a platter on the counter and put it on plate, then placed it on the table along with a knife and fork.
“Sit, eat!” he said. “Your meeting hasn’t started yet.”
“Yes, but it’s going to start soon, so don’t keep Katie forever,” Mia told him. “I’ve got to set up for the meeting.”
“This smells great, so it won’t last long,” I promised.
Even though I had eaten dinner already, the smell of the dish made me hungry, and I dug in. Mia was right. It was yummy, stuffed with spinach and cheese and topped with a creamy sauce.
“This is soooo good,” I told Eddie after a few bites. “The chicken comes out supermoist when you cook it this way. There’s nothing worse than dry chicken.”
Eddie beamed. “Excellent! Now I’ve got the Katie Seal of Approval! Now, please excuse me while I start the dishes.”
