“How about ‘banoffee’?” Violet suggests.
Gretchen makes a face.
“Maybe not.” Alison laughs.
“What about ‘marzipan’?” Violet tries again.
“Too complicated,” Gretchen says.
“‘Buttercream,’” I say quietly.
“What’s that?”
“‘Buttercream.’”
Gretchen looks at Violet, who nods. “Yeah,” Gretchen says. “That sounds good.”
“Fine,” Alison says. “Now that we’ve got that over with, are we going to cook something, or what? Those free samples aren’t going to make themselves.”
I get up from the table and retrieve the little marble-covered notebook from the book stand. “This is the recipe book we’ve been using,” I say. “It’s really special—at least, I think so.”
Violet nods.
I hand it to Gretchen as if it were a flag of truce. “What do you guys feel like making?”
Gretchen and Alison flip through the book. “I can’t believe someone took so much time to write all of this,” Alison says. “And the pictures—they’re so cute! Let’s try the Knave of Hearts Strawberry Tarts.”
“I’d rather do Hansel and Gretel’s Gingerbread,” Gretchen says. She lowers her voice as if someone might leak her preference to the PTA. “Gingerbread is my favorite.”
Leaving them to get started, I check what’s in the cupboards and the fridge. To my surprise—why am I surprised by anything that happens in Rosemary’s Kitchen?—there’s lots of fresh fruit in the fridge, including cartons of strawberries and blueberries, kiwis, and even a little basket of cherries.
“I think we should start with fruit tarts,” I say. “We can do gingerbread next time.” I glance at Gretchen to make sure she’s okay with that.
“Fine.” She shrugs. “Whatever.”
I take the fruit out of the fridge. Violet looks surprised too, but like me, she just goes with it.
“Okay,” I say, “now, first, everyone wash their hands. Then, someone needs to wash and cut the fruit, someone needs to make the custard, and someone needs to make the pastry for the tarts, and... Oh, before I forget, we need to preheat the oven.”
The tasks get easily assigned. I team up with Gretchen to make the pastry dough. Together we find the ingredients and measure them into a bowl.
“Did your mom teach you to cook?” Gretchen asks me.
“No,” I say. “She doesn’t cook at all really. She doesn’t have time.”
Gretchen stiffens, and I wonder what I’ve said.
“I mean, she’s too busy making fun of me,” I add.
She stops measuring. “I never really got why you were so angry. Your mom made you into a star.” She frowns. “And then, you completely changed. It was as if you didn’t have time for any of your friends, or anything at school anymore.”
“That’s totally not it.” How could Gretchen, of all people, get things so wrong?
“Well, what then?”
I tip the flour into the bowl. “You know, before she started, I thought I was pretty normal. I sometimes did stuff I wasn’t proud of…you know, embarrassing stuff. But it didn’t seem like a big deal. But then, Mom started broadcasting everything. It was front-page news that I farted at Christmas dinner and scratched my eczema in my sleep. And she’d go on about what underwear I wore and what my gym clothes smelled like. Suddenly, all that stuff seemed huge—it was all I could think about. I felt like everyone was looking at me and laughing.” I shove the bowl toward Gretchen. “I mean, do you really think that makes me a star? Do you think I didn’t have time for any of my friends so I could get more of that?”
Gretchen shrugs. “To be honest, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, you totally helped on my campaign, and then you disappeared as soon as I won. I thought maybe you were jealous—but then, why didn’t you just run yourself? You totally could have won.”
“Me?”
“I mean, you were cool! Smart and talkative and stuff. Everybody thought so.”
“I thought I was the ‘most boring girl in the world’—your words, not mine.”
“Come on, Scarlett, I didn’t really mean that. I was fed up, that’s all. You never even said congratulations when I won. I had no idea what I’d done wrong.”
“Well, emailing my mom didn’t help.”
Gretchen puts her hands on her hips. “I thought your mom was totally cool when she started that blog. And for the record, she emailed me, not the other way around. I am the PTA rep after all. She asked me stuff about you because you stopped talking to her. I assumed she was just worried. I said maybe you weren’t feeling well because it was your time of the month or something. I had no idea she was going to start writing about it.”
“So it was all a misunderstanding?”
“Maybe.”
I add the cubed butter and stir it in. I stop waiting for an apology that isn’t going to come, and wonder if maybe I should be the one to say sorry. Maybe I was a little quick to drop her as a friend—just the way Stacie did to me. Maybe I should have tried to tell her how I felt six months ago. Maybe, maybe. But maybe it isn’t too late.
I stand back and let Gretchen rub the butter into the flour. “I’m glad you won the election,” I say. “And I’m glad you’re here now.”
“Yeah,” she says.
“It’s just…the mom stuff has been awful for me. Before the blog, I guess Mom and I did get along—or at least, we were kind of normal. But now, it’s ‘Help! My Daughter This’ and ‘Psst! My Daughter That.’ All I know is—she can’t find out about this.”
“She won’t find out from me.” Gretchen pauses for a long second. “I promise.”
“Okay.” I hope I’m not foolish to believe her.
• • •
I close my eyes and take a bite of fruit tart. My tongue tingles at the different tastes: the pastry light and crumbly, the custard rich and wobbly, and the fruit shiny and fresh (arranged neatly by Violet) on top and covered in a sticky apricot glaze. By the time we finish up for the evening, the four of us are kind of normal together. I have to admit that four people seems more like a real club than just Violet and me. I’m relieved when Gretchen volunteers to put the fruit tarts in the cafeteria at lunchtime. (“Well, no one will think I’m involved, will they?” she says.)
Once the fruit tarts have been put away, Violet, Gretchen, and I clean up the kitchen (Alison manages to spend most of the clean-up time answering texts). We double-check that we’ve left no trace we were ever here, and when it’s time to leave, I lock the door and replace the key under the mat. Then we all repeat the secret password: “Buttercream.”
Chapter 23
Too Good to Be True
Things can’t be going this well. I mean, this is my life after all. The next day, everything proceeds without a hitch. Gretchen and Alison say hi to me in the hallway, but that’s it—acting friendly but not too friendly. Violet smiles at me from across the room as usual. Gretchen volunteers to help the teacher photocopy something, so she doesn’t even need the bathroom pass. And in the cafeteria at lunchtime, there are no fights or vomiting. Everyone lines up and gets their piece of fruit tart, and makes “mmm-ing” noises and whispers how awesome it is, and how cool the Secret Cooking Club is. Best of all, Nick Farr still seems to be a fan. I join the line for a slice of fruit tart, and overhear him saying something to Gretchen. “You know, I wish I knew how to cook stuff like this.”
For a split second, I have a little fantasy—that all the noise in the room hushes up, and everything goes into slow motion. Then, the universe is just me and him. I boldly walk up, tap him on the shoulder, and say, “Why don’t you join us?”
But of course, I don’t.
Instead, I try to be happy that Nick Farr and everyone else seem to like the fruit tarts and respect the club Violet and
I started, even if they’ll never know I’m involved. Or so I hope, anyway.
Because when lunch is over and things are back to normal, I’m aware of a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that won’t go away. To quote one of my mom’s favorite sayings in her blog: “Things that seem too good to be true usually are.”
• • •
After school, the four of us meet up at Mrs. Simpson’s house. We all say the password “buttercream” on our way in, giggling a little at how silly it is to have a password. Everything is the same as when we left it the previous night. Gretchen and Violet are talking about how much everyone liked the tarts. Alison gets the little recipe book off its stand and starts flipping through it.
I leave the kitchen to lock the front door—I’d forgotten to do it when we came in. A hear what sounds like a van idling outside. I can’t see anything through the stained-glass panel in the door, but I have the same strange feeling I had earlier—this can’t last. My heart thumps in my chest.
The others are laughing and talking loudly in the kitchen. I’m about to go and rejoin them when I hear a voice outside the door. “You sure you can manage until the nurse comes tomorrow? I’m happy to help you inside.”
And then the shrill reply of a woman’s voice. “Nonsense. I don’t need anyone to help me do anything now that I’m home. You can send your nurse if you like, but I won’t let her in!” A key turns in the lock.
I stand there, paralyzed. The door opens and I’m face-to-face with an old woman: Rosemary Simpson.
She takes one look at me and lets out a strangled cry of surprise.
“Mrs. Simpson, please—it’s okay!” I rush forward and try to help her inside. Her hair is like wire escaping from a bun at her neck, and she’s leaning heavily on a cane.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” She holds up the cane with a gnarled hand and waves it at me. “Shoo…”
I step back to avoid the random swinging and hold up my hands. I’m aware of the others just behind me, peeking out of the kitchen door. “I’m Scarlett,” I blurt out. “Your neighbor. I, uh…I’ve been feeding your cat.”
Her eyes are bloodshot and wild. “Treacle? Where’s Treacle? What have you done with him?”
“Nothing,” I say. “The cat…Treacle? He hasn’t been here the last few days. But I came over to check if it—he—is back.”
“Treacle?” she calls out, craning her neck to look for him.
“He isn’t here.”
She whirls back on me. I cower another few steps backward.
Violet comes up to my side. “Hi, Mrs. Simpson,” she says, “would you like a cup of tea? We’ve got cupcakes left over from my birthday too. With buttercream icing and sparkles. They’re really nice.”
The old woman blinks and leans forward. Her wrinkled face goes white, almost as if she’s seen a ghost. “Cupcakes?” she says. “Buttercream?” She stares at the room around her like she’s trying to figure out where she is. Her eyes settle on Violet. “Yes, I’ll try one.” She hobbles toward the kitchen. “And tea with two sugars and a dollop of milk.”
Gretchen and Alison make a quick retreat and start setting out cups and the last of the cupcakes on a plate. Violet sticks close to Mrs. Simpson’s side, pulling up a chair for her.
Alison puts the plate of cupcakes in front of the old woman, and Gretchen makes her a cup of tea. I stand well back out of the way. It’s like the four of us are all holding our breath. Mrs. Simpson lifts the cupcake in her trembling fingers, holds it to her nose, and sniffs it. She closely inspects the icing swirls, the pink glitter, and the flower made of crystallized violets and rose petals in the center. For a moment, she frowns. Then she takes a bite.
It seems to take forever as she chews the cake with a clack of false teeth, and then swallows. I feel as though I’m on national television, waiting for the all-important verdict of the judges on Cake Wars. Using her cane as a pivot, she swivels around in her chair and looks straight at me.
“You,” she says, pointing a wizened finger. “You did this?”
My mouth goes dry as I try to speak. “You’re right, Mrs. Simpson. I started this. We shouldn’t be here—I know that. And I’m sorry. We’ll leave now and never come back. Or…you can call my mom if you want. Please don’t get my friends in trouble. It’s all my fault, not theirs.”
“No,” Violet says, “that’s not true. We all did it. It’s all of our faults.”
“Hush!” Mrs. Simpson doesn’t turn around, but keeps staring at me. “This tastes as though it has two teaspoons of baking powder in it. It should only have one. Don’t they teach you girls any math these days?”
“Um…I thought I put in one,” Gretchen says. “I must have made a mistake.”
“And the buttercream is too solid.” She turns to Violet. “You should have used a dash more milk. And a hint of vanilla, I think.” She licks her wrinkled lips. “Other than that…it’s passable.”
“Passable?”
She turns away from me back to the others. “You’ve shown that you can follow a recipe.” Her voice takes on a lecturing tone. “You can stir things together, put it in a pan, and stick it in the oven.” She tsks. “And by the way, the oatmeal bars you brought me were underbaked in the middle. You should have cooked them longer at a lower heat.” Her hawk-like gaze turns to Violet. “And the crystallized violets were an interesting twist, but they made the whole thing too sweet. The bottom line is that you’ve found my kitchen and had your fun experimenting with your pastries and desserts. But now…” She crosses her arms.
The word seems to echo around the room.
I bite my lip. She’s going to tell us to leave—
“…now, you need to learn how to cook.”
Chapter 24
Stick to the Ribs
Gone are the cupcakes and banoffee pie; the oatmeal bars and fruit tarts are a dim and distant memory. Mrs. Simpson says we need to learn how to cook for real, and she isn’t kidding.
“You can’t think you know how to cook just because you can whip up a few desserts.” She gazes at each of us, her sunken blue eyes twinkling. “You girls these days are too skinny. In my day, we had rationing because of the war.” She shakes her head like the memory hurts. “There was no sugar and no sweets. We all learned how to cook food that ‘sticks to the ribs.’”
I nod politely. Suddenly, I’m very hungry for real food.
She flips the pages of the notebook, pausing and considering.
“Do you know what I craved the most as a girl?” Mrs. Simpson says, her bushy eyebrows raised.
We shake our heads.
“Eggs. That’s what. Real eggs, perfectly cooked, and everything that goes with them. But all we had back then were powdered eggs. You don’t know how lucky you are.” She purses her lips. “Now I use only the freshest of ingredients—that’s one of the secrets of being a good cook.”
“Is that the secret ingredient?” I ask shyly.
“No.” My question seems to startle her. “Not that.” Her eyes suddenly appear glassy and far away. “That’s something else entirely.”
For a long moment I worry that I’ve spoiled everything. I look at the floor, hardly daring to breathe.
“So, we’ll start with this one.” Recovering, she props open the recipe book on the stand. Relief flows through me. The recipe on the page is for Chicken Licken’s Eggs Benedict. “If you can’t cook an egg properly, then you may as well get out of the kitchen.”
• • •
The four of us go through a whole dozen eggs, cracking them into cups, before Mrs. Simpson is even halfway satisfied with our egg-breaking technique. Even Gretchen is sweating by the time we end up with a load of eggs in cups ready to poach. Mrs. Simpson assigns Gretchen to do the poaching and prepare the sliced ham, Violet and Alison to bake the muffins, and me to make the hollandaise sauce.
While Mrs. Simpson is helping Gretchen get the equipment out of the cupboards, I turn to Violet. “Looks like we have another new member.”
“It’s all a little weird, isn’t it?” Violet keeps her voice low.
“What?”
“That she’d just let us stay and keep on cooking.”
I shrug. “Maybe it was the oatmeal bars.”
“Or she’s just lonely,” Alison says. Flour puffs everywhere as she tips it into the bowl.
“Anyway,” I say, “let’s just go with it for now.”
It’s as if we’re under a spell. An hour goes by, then another. Nothing else seems to matter—if we’re expected at home or have homework or had other plans. The muffins bake, the hollandaise sauce gets whisked up and made. Mrs. Simpson tells us stories about how people cooked during the war, and about how when she was a girl, they didn’t have supermarkets or microwave-ready meals or anything like that. While she mostly lets us continue with following the recipe, occasionally she cackles the odd instruction or bangs her stick against the floor to make a point. The four of us scurry around like old-time kitchen maids.
Somehow we manage to finish making the eggs Benedict. My stomach is rumbling because it’s almost eight o’clock and none of us have eaten anything. Violet stacks everything on the plates: muffin, ham, egg, and a little swirl of hollandaise sauce for decoration. The four of us sneak glances at each other as Mrs. Simpson sits at the table and cuts a piece of what we’ve made. I think we’re all holding our breath—I know I am.
She raises the fork to her lips and pops the bite into her mouth. She chews slowly and deliberately, the skin on her neck wobbling as she finally swallows it.
Then she looks up. “Well,” she says, waving an exasperated hand, “don’t just stand there staring. Sit down and eat.”
The other three scramble to sit at the table, but I stand there, my hands on my hips. “But aren’t you going to say if it’s any good?”
She slowly turns to look at me, still chewing. She pats her lips with a napkin and takes a sip of tea.
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