“You mean, like we’re some kind of underground network who are all taking turns making things?”
Violet’s eyes shine. “It would be cool, wouldn’t it? Especially if what we make actually tastes good. And just about anything is bound to taste better than cafeteria food.” She sticks out her tongue. “That rice pudding they serve every other day tastes like puke.”
“It looks like it as well.” I giggle. “All those lumps.”
“Gross!” She laughs too. “So, you’re in?”
“Well…” I have to admit, the idea does sound cool. And if a little sugar rush makes school a happier place, then who am I to complain?
“Unless you have a better idea?”
“I don’t,” I say. “Though I did think maybe we could bake something for Mrs. Simpson. If she’s still in the hospital, she must be hating the food too. We could bring her a pan of oatmeal bars.”
“That’s a great idea.” Violet says. “Let’s do it.”
“But I like your idea about school too,” I say. “As long you solemnly swear on your life that no one will know I’m involved.”
“Okay,” Violet says. “I swear.” We shake sticky hands to seal the deal. Then we eat another square each and drink another mug of hot chocolate.
“Um, Violet,” I say, licking the crumbs from my lips. “I think we might need another batch.”
Chapter 13
A Nameless Gift
Violet and I make two more batches of oatmeal bars, talking about all the things we could make next. The possibilities are endless, and it’s nice to have someone who’s as excited as I am. As I’m spreading the final layer of chocolate over the salted caramel, Violet comes to the table with a little jar. “I found these,” she says. “Crystallized Violets. It says on the jar they’re real flowers.”
The jar is filled with sparkly purple flower petals coated with glittered sugar. I open it and hold it up to my nose. They smell very sweet.
“Do you want to put them on top?” I say.
“Well, I don’t know. It might make for kind of funny oatmeal bars. But it could throw people off the scent that you had anything to do with it.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Violet arranges the crystallized violets in a swirl pattern. The purple sparkles look like magic dust. I don’t know how it’s going to taste, but Violet seems to have a flair for making things look pretty.
We put the oatmeal bars for Mrs. Simpson into Violet’s Easter basket. For the school ones, we fill up a big container with a picture of Peter Rabbit on it that we found in a cupboard. I wrap up the last two oatmeal bars for Violet and me to take home. I leave the little notebook of recipes on the book stand—it seems to have done a pretty good job keeping our secret so far, and it belongs in Rosemary’s Kitchen.
We’re in the middle of cleaning up when there’s a muffled ringing sound. Violet’s phone. She checks the screen and gasps. “It’s seven o’clock already. I have to go.”
“Seven?” I can’t believe it’s that late. I was planning to tell Mom that I’d gone to the library again, but it closes at five. The words flash in my head: “My Daughter Went Missing for Two Hours: Was She Smoking, Kissing, Drinking, or Shoplifting?”
I’ll have to think of something else.
I quickly finish the washing up while Violet wipes the counter. Whatever spell we’ve been under is broken. Now, all the problems with our plan seep into my head. What if the hospital won’t let us in? What if Mrs. Simpson is in a coma...or what if she passed away? What if someone at school sees me or Violet putting out the oatmeal bars? What if the crystallized violets taste disgusting? What if? What if…?
“I’m not sure about this,” I say. My chest feels as if it’s being squeezed by a giant fist.
“It will be okay,” Violet says. “I promise. Let’s just give it a shot.”
I force myself to take a breath. “Okay.”
Chapter 14
The Big Laugh-In
When I get home, there’s no sign that Mom’s even noticed I was gone. Kelsie’s sitting in front of the TV watching The Ice Princess, her eyes glued to the screen. Her mouth is crusted with dried chocolate from a half-eaten package of Pepperidge Farm cookies. The door to the Mom Cave is shut. I unwrap the oatmeal bar, cut it into two pieces, and set it on a plate in the kitchen. I don’t have my backpack or my homework, so I sit on the sofa next to my sister and eat a bag of potato chips.
As I’m trying to tune out my sister’s off-key rendition of the theme song, Mom bursts into the room.
“Oatmeal bars!” she cries. “I’ve been absolutely craving oatmeal bars all day. I mean, I didn’t know it was oatmeal bars I wanted exactly…” She brushes a strand of unwashed hair off her face. “But where on earth did they come from?”
“From me,” I say. “Some kids at school made them. They were giving out free samples.”
“I love the purple sparkly things,” Mom says, chomping happily on her piece of oatmeal bar. “And the caramel. It reminds me of something else my grandma—” Frowning, she cuts herself off. “You should do something like that, Scarlett.” She looks at the empty bag of chips in my lap. The cogs in her brain are clearly ticking. “Help! There’s a New Cooking Club at School and My Lazy, Deadbeat Daughter Won’t Get Off Her Rear End and Stop Eating Chips.”
“Yeah, Mom,” I say with a shrug. “I probably should.”
• • •
At school the next day, I sit at the back of math class, watching Gretchen and Alison text each other under the table. Just before lunchtime, Violet raises her hand and asks to go to the bathroom. She gives me a quick glance on her way out. I feel a little thrill of fear and anticipation.
In the cafeteria, I sit at a corner table and watch the kids coming in—some with their lunch bags, others taking a tray and getting a hot lunch (some kind of chicken goopy stuff with clumpy pudding for dessert). While on her “bathroom break,” Violet has placed the container with the oatmeal bars on the center table with a little sign that says FREE SAMPLES FROM THE SECRET COOKING CLUB. Violet herself comes into the cafeteria a few minutes later, flanked by a laughing Gretchen and Alison. I deliberately look away from them.
Someone approaches the basket—none other than Nick Farr. His brown eyes widen. He looks around quickly and takes a piece. And then he’s looking in my direction and smiling.
OMG. Nick Farr is looking at me. He’s walking toward me. Somehow he knows—he must. He…
…walks past me and sits at a nearby table with a group of his friends. I exhale sharply. What was I thinking?
“Check this out,” he says to his friends, pointing at the center table. “The Secret Cooking Club.”
“Killer,” one of them replies. He and another friend stand and walk to the center table. They each grab a little piece of oatmeal bar and eat it, and then another. Another of Nick’s friends comes up and pretends he’s going to grab the whole container and stick it under his shirt. More people come up in a steady stream: two girls who are part of the goth crowd, three star soccer players, two girls on the swim team, a couple of computer geeks, and then, horning their way to the front of the line, Gretchen and Alison.
Gretchen wrinkles her pert little upturned nose as she looks inside the container. Her voice is high-pitched enough that I can hear her over the din. “What are those things on top?” she says to Alison.
“I don’t know. But if I eat any of them, my face will break out!”
The girls make a point of flouncing off without trying any oatmeal bars. Their rejection ruins the mood. Except for the computer geeks who come back for seconds, the crowd begins to dwindle.
Suddenly, from one of the far tables across the room, there’s a loud snort of laughter. A few people turn to look. It’s a tall girl with a neon-pink streak in her black hair. She’s one of the goth crowd too. They aren’t the kind of kids who
ever smile, but that’s exactly what they’re doing. The girl whispers to her friend and hands her a tiny piece of oatmeal bar.
“OMG, it’s fab,” the friend says. Before I know it, everyone’s talking and laughing, and people are splitting their oatmeal bars apart to make sure everyone can try them. The good feeling seems to move like a chain reaction from one to the other. From person to person, table to table. The sugar rush seems to be making everyone happy.
Gretchen looks at Alison. I can tell they’re on the verge of trying to ruin everything, but then Nick comes up and whispers something in Gretchen’s ear. Gretchen gives him a flirty smile and goes back to the center table and takes an oatmeal bar. I watch as the transformation comes over her—she goes back to Nick and whispers something in his ear, and they both start laughing their heads off. It’s so loud that two teachers come over. They glance around, looking surprised, and then they smile too. The basket of oatmeal bars empties quickly, but the positive vibe is still there in the room. I’m even more shocked to realize I’m smiling at the whole ridiculous thing. I spot Violet standing near the door. She’s not laughing, but her bow-shaped lips are turned up in satisfaction. I walk toward her, but the bell rings, and by the time I get over to the door, she’s gone.
Chapter 15
Mrs. Simpson
The oatmeal bars are long gone, but that afternoon, there’s still a lively buzz in the classroom—more people than usual speaking up and asking questions in class, talking to people they wouldn’t normally talk to, and generally more smiles all around. When it’s time to go home, I meet up with Violet in the hallway. Together we push through the crowds to the front entrance, and out to the parking lot.
“Everyone loved the oatmeal bars,” she says. “Just like we hoped.”
“I know. I didn’t expect people to like them quite so much.” I shiver a little knowing that Nick liked them.
“Maybe it was the crystallized violets,” she says with a grin.
“Well, they definitely made a change from that gross pudding!”
“That’s for sure,” Violet says. “Anyway, we’d better get going.”
“Going? Where are we going?”
“To see Mrs. Simpson, remember? Do you know which hospital she’s in?” Violet’s question throws me.
“Um, no.”
“Well, Riverside Medical is closest, so let’s try there first. There’s a bus, I think.”
“Okay.” I shrug, knowing Violet’s right. Oatmeal bars or not, visiting Mrs. Simpson is the right thing to do. “Let’s go.”
The bus stop is around the corner from school, and we don’t have to wait long. Twenty minutes later, the bus drops us off in front of the hospital. It’s a busy, intimidating place, with cars and vans coming and going, old people and pregnant women meandering over the crosswalk, people in wheelchairs, and nurses in uniforms going in and out.
Violet leads the way inside. There’s a gift shop and a coffee kiosk in the lobby, and at one side, a reception desk. Violet goes up to the receptionist and speaks confidently, like she’s been in a hospital lots of times and isn’t even a little bit scared.
“We’re here to visit a patient,” she says. “Mrs. Simpson.”
The woman looks over her half-moon glasses at Violet and me. “Which ward is she in?”
“I’m not sure.” Violet looks at me.
“Her name is Rosemary Simpson,” I say, trying to sound like a grown-up. “Can you direct us to the right ward?”
The woman types something into the computer one finger at a time. It seems to take forever. Finally, she looks up again. “Are you relations?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I’m her niece. She’s my only aunt, and I’m really worried about her. My friend and I brought her a basket of treats we made.”
The woman frowns. “She’s in the Hessel Wing. Follow the blue line to B ward.”
We follow the painted blue line on the floor through bleak hallways, past outpatients hurrying to appointments in worrying-sounding departments such as oncology, radiotherapy, physical rehabilitation, and prenatal care. With our basket and backpacks, Violet and I are like two Little Red Riding Hoods wandering through a scary forest of machines, fluorescent lights, and sick people. Finally, the blue line ends in a door marked Hessel Wing, Ward B. I push open the heavy swinging door.
Inside is another reception desk with two nurses in pale-blue uniforms. One is shuffling through paperwork, the other is typing on a computer. I’m relieved when Violet goes up to the desk. She says who we are and who we’re here to see.
“Rosemary Simpson?” The nurse with the paperwork looks at the other nurse. “Is she allowed visitors?”
“I suppose so,” the other woman says, still staring at the computer screen. “But she’s been given a mild sedative. She has a concussion and needs to be kept here under observation.”
“Can we see her?” I say. “We brought her a basket with some oatmeal bars that we made.”
“She won’t be eating any oatmeal bars. But since you’re relations”—the nurse eyes me skeptically—“you can have five minutes to see her. And you can leave the basket here if you like.”
I get the feeling that if we leave the oatmeal bars, she and the other nurse will eat up what’s inside. Violet obviously thinks the same as she clutches the basket even more tightly.
The nurse points down the hallway. “She’s in room six. Be back here in five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” I repeat. Violet and I walk quickly down the hall. “What a horrible place,” I whisper.
Violet doesn’t answer. She seems lost in a world of her own. “Yeah,” she says finally as we reach the door to room six. Game show music is blaring loudly from inside.
I look into the room. There are two raised beds, one on each side of the room. In the bed closest to the door is a white-haired woman who’s staring at the television and eating a heart-shaped box of candies. There are lots of flowers and get-well cards on her bedside table. Clearly, she’s being well looked after. In the other bed is a gray figure, little more than a lump underneath the thin, blue blanket. There’s a breathing tube sticking out of her nose, an IV in her arm, and she’s hooked up to a monitor that is blipping slowly in the corner. There are no flowers or get-well cards anywhere.
I walk into the room. “Shh,” the white-haired woman says. “They’re about to solve the puzzle.”
On the television screen, a woman is turning over letters. “Too bad,” the host says to the losing contestant.
“Huh, it wasn’t bad luck at all—he was just dumb,” the old woman says, gesturing with the heart-shaped box. Her accent sounds British or something. She glares, as if noticing Violet and me for the first time. “Who are you?”
“We’re looking for Mrs. Simpson. Is that her?” I point to the blanket bulge, already knowing the answer.
“What’s left of her.” The old woman frowns.
“We brought this.” Violet holds up the basket on her arm. “We thought she might be sick of hospital food.”
The woman pops a candy in her mouth. “Nice of you, dear. But I don’t think she’ll be up to it any time soon.”
“Has she been awake?” I ask.
The woman flips through the TV channels with the remote. “Oh aye,” she says, her eyes wide. “She’s been awake—off and on. And let me tell you, it’s hard to get any sleep when she is.” She shakes her head and tsks. “Tussling with the blankets and moaning about her cat. She wants to go home, but her nephew won’t have it.”
“Nephew?” Violet asks.
“You mean Mr. Kruffs?” I say.
“Aye, that’s him. So you know him, do you?”
“No, but I’ve seen the election posters—”
“Election.” She snorts. “Well, good luck to him, that’s all I can say. Slipping in here, making her upset. I’ve thought
about asking to be moved to another room, but in here”—she laughs grimly—“one old dear is as good as the next.” She settles on a channel and turns up the volume. “At least she’s asleep most of the time.”
From the other bed there’s a loud groan and a rustling noise. The gray old woman under the blanket coughs and splutters, then wriggles in the bed like she’s trying to prop herself up on her elbows. Her eyes are open, but glassy, as though she’s not really seeing anything in the room. Her head turns slightly and she spies the basket. She leans forward and sniffs the air. Her blue eyes meet mine.
“Mrs. Simpson?” I whisper as Violet and I walk toward her. “We’ve made you some oatmeal bars. They’re chocolate and salted caramel.”
The old woman sinks back into the bed. Her eyes close again, her lips drawn into a thin line. But then she seems to smile. Her breathing grows even as she goes back to sleep.
“Maybe she’ll be able to try them later,” I say to Violet in a low voice. Violet nods and sets the basket down on Mrs. Simpson’s bedside table. I reach out and touch Mrs. Simpson’s gnarled hand. “Get well soon,” I say softly.
Violet and I tiptoe out of the room.
Chapter 16
Banoffee
Violet and I don’t say much as we ride the bus back. I secretly vow to avoid hospitals in the future at all costs. I keep thinking about Mrs. Simpson—a helpless bulge under a thin blanket. I know it was the right thing to visit her, but I kind of wish we hadn’t. I’d rather think of Rosemary Simpson as the amazing cook with the fabulous kitchen. She did seem to revive a little when she smelled the oatmeal bars, though. I hope she gets to taste them.
Violet stares out the window of the bus. As the sky grows darker and her reflection in the window sharpens, I’m startled to see a tear trickling down her cheek. I turn away not to embarrass her. The bus stops near the school, and we both get off.
“So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” I try hard to sound cheery.
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