by Coco Simon
Dear Cupcake Club,
Thank u 4 the cupcakes u baked 4 me.
I’m sorry if I was a difficult customer, LOL.
I’m sure we will reach an agreement at some point.
Dylan
It felt a little halfhearted, if you ask me. Note that she said “if I was a difficult customer” not “that I was a difficult customer.” That is pure Dylan. Anyway, I figured that my parents are the real clients and I knew we could find something that would work for everyone. I just felt bad about Emma and her gold flakes, not to mention embarrassed in front of my friends that I had such a jerky sister.
The others were nice about it, though, and in the end we were all laughing. Plus, they got me excited about my dress, and I actually tried it on and modeled it for my parents a few minutes after Dylan had left for practice. My parents loved it, and my mother said, “eh,” when I told her that Dylan would probably be really mad. My father twirled me around, and we both decided it was perfect for our dance. I only hoped Matt would like it as much as everyone else did.
My father and I were still twirling, and my friends and mother were talking in the living room, when Dylan suddenly rushed in, breathless. I froze.
“Has anyone seen my other sneaker?” she cried in despair.
Then she saw me and narrowed her eyes. “What are you wearing?” she asked.
All the courage I felt before about standing up to her left me. “Um . . . ,” I said.
“It’s her dress for your party!” Mia sweetly answered.
“Yes, doesn’t she look amazing?” Katie added.
Oh, great. I braced myself for a big speech from Dylan.
“What?” she shrieked before stamping her foot. “It’s pink! This is not one of the dresses that I picked out! You know what the party colors are—”
Before Dylan could launch any more ugly words at me, Mom grabbed her and pulled her out of the room. Again! My friends and Dad and I were all speechless for a minute.
“Whoops,” Emma finally said.
“I should not have said anything!” Mia said, looking really upset.
“Don’t worry, girls,” Dad said, “I apologize for Dylan’s rude behavior . . . again. Don’t ever turn sixteen!” He left the room to look for Mom and Dylan.
“Wow,” I said. “Sorry about that. I guess I knew it would come, sooner or later.”
No one knew what else to say, so we stood around awkwardly until Emma suggested that they leave. I hated for my friends to leave on such a sour note, but it was probably a good idea.
As the girls headed out the door, Emma turned to say, “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.” And we all started laughing, hard.
“Oh! Don’t forget these!” I said, handing each of them their black-and-gold party invitations. “Dylan can’t wait to see you all at her party next month! Just don’t forget to wear pink!” This got us all howling again.
“What are we doing tomorrow?” asked Katie once she stopped giggling.
“Is Dylan free?” Mia asked with a straight face, and we all fell down laughing.
When we finally stopped laughing, my friends left, promising to talk again later. I cringed at the thought of them discussing Dylan. Ugh. Emma was lucky she had brothers.
Mean sister + friends witnessing = total embarrassment
As mad as I was about Dylan’s behavior, I didn’t feel like asking Mom what happened when she talked to Dylan. I needed a break from thinking about her. All I could think about was working on Project M. T. But first I had to throw my Merrells to the back of my closet. “Buh-bye,” I whispered. “See you guys some time after never.”
Then I opened my locked drawer and took out my notebook, grabbing some forbidden SweeTarts along with it. I sat at my desk and first logged in my most recent encounters with Matt, noting who said hi first and (possibly) why. Then I turned on my computer and googled some studies about how to attract boys.
I found out some crazy stuff! Like girls care more about boy’s looks than boys care about girl’s. And that boys like faces that are symmetrical. That is their main thing, not that they actually realize it. Just the researchers did.
Hmm. I wondered about my face. Do I have a symmetrical face? Doesn’t everyone? I mean, I have two eyes, two eyebrows, two nostrils. I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked pretty symmetrical. But was I really?
I clicked on the lamp and propped my chin on my fists. I wanted to examine myself scientifically. Here’s the data I collected: My left eye was a little bigger than my right eye if you looked really closely. Also, my left eyebrow kind of had a pointed arch while my right one was more of a smooth arch. Eek! Was that bad? My nose looked the same on both sides, and my cheeks, ears, whatever. I couldn’t tell if one was off.
I went back to the computer. How symmetrical did you have to be? I googled again and learned that on a scale of one to ten, Angelina Jolie is only a 7.67 in symmetry. The researcher said she lost points because of those lips. Gosh. If Angelina wasn’t a perfect ten, that was not good news for me. I am no Angelina Jolie, that’s for sure.
I read on. Another article said boys liked makeup on girls, but only two kinds: foundation to even out skin tone, and eye makeup, to darken the eyes. My skin is pretty even, but eye makeup was something I could try.
I reached into my top drawer and took out an eye makeup kit that Mia had given me at a sleepover. It had dark shadow, light shadow, medium shadow, eyeliner, and mascara. I had no idea how to use any of them, but how hard could it be? If I needed help, there was a little map in the box that showed how to put it all on.
I suddenly decided I needed a total makeover.
Makeup + hairdo + new outfit = gorgeous and noticeable Alexis
I grabbed the eye makeup kit, along with the curlers from my grandmother, the new ice-blue shirt, and purple beads I already had, and hustled down the hall into the bathroom. I ran a shower, shampooed my hair, and then, following the directions on the package, I rolled my hair up in the curlers and used a blow-dryer. Next, I put on the blue shirt and beads, and began applying the eye makeup.
I used eyeliner to draw a thick line along my upper and lower lashes, just as I’d seen my old babysitter do when I was younger. I stood back to look at what I’d done. Wow, I looked a lot older! Then I leaned back in and brushed light shadow just below my (asymmetrical) eyebrows and then, following the diagram in the kit, medium shadow in the creases of my eyes, and finally, the darkest shadow along the rim of my lid. Finally, I opened the mascara and brushed my eyelashes to a staggeringly long length.
I stood back again. OMG.
I either looked like a raccoon or a supermodel. I couldn’t decide which. I turned my head all the way to the left and looked back at the right side of my face; then I looked back at my left side. I liked the left better. Next, I looked straight at the mirror and sucked in my cheeks, trying to look vampire-ish. Then I tucked my chin under and looked up through my eyelashes. That was the best look, I thought. The only thing ruining it was the curlers. I put my hand to my head and touched them. They were dry. Time for the big reveal!
I loosened the curlers without looking, then I flipped my head down and ruffled my hair with my hands, finally flipping my hair back as I stood up and looked in the mirror.
Uh, wow? I had a huge head full of curls—and it looked ridiculous! Or maybe it looked great? I didn’t know! I knew I looked different, that was for sure.
Just then there was a knock at the door. “Alexis, dinner,” Dylan called.
Yikes! I had been so busy making myself over that I forgot what time it was.
What do I do now? Wash it all off and pull my hair back into some kooky kind of ponytail? Or go down there as if nothing was different? I didn’t want to spill anything on my new shirt, though.
“What’s for dinner?” I called back.
“Grilled trout, broccoli rabe, and quinoa,” replied Dylan.
It sounded pretty stain-free. And it was only my family. They’ve seen me at my
worst.
So I smiled and winked at myself as I took one last look in the mirror. Then I gave myself a big spritz of the cinnamon bun perfume that Dylan had on her side of the vanity. Yum! I smelled like . . . the food court at the mall. Oh well.
“Ta-da!” I cried as I flung open the door, but no one was there.
Just then the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. It was Emma.
“Hey!” I called out, when I picked up the phone.
“Oh, hello, dear. Is that Alexis?”
It was Mrs. Taylor! “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Taylor. I thought you were Emma!” I said, laughing. “Are you calling for my mother?”
“Oh, no, don’t bother her. I’m just calling to RSVP to the lovely invitation to Dylan’s party! You were so kind to invite us all. We’d love to come.”
“W-w-we?” I stammered.
“Yes, Mr. Taylor, Emma, and the boys and I. It sounds like great fun!”
I couldn’t believe it! Matt was coming to Dylan’s party! I had visions of seeing him at the party, of him seeing me in my new, fuzzy, touchable dress.
“Alexis . . . are you still there?” Mrs. Taylor asked. Oops!
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s great that all of you can come!”
“Will you tell your mom for me, please?”
“Of course! She’ll be so happy. Thank you! Thank you so much!” I gushed.
Mrs. Taylor laughed. “Actually, we thank you! We’ll see you soon, dear.”
I did a victory dance after we hung up, then ran down the stairs. “Mom!” I yelled. I couldn’t wait to share the good news.
CHAPTER 9
The Beckers Try Harder
Mom!” I skidded in my sock feet into the kitchen, breathless. “The Taylors can come! All of them!”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, honey. Write it down in the RSVP notebook by the phone, then grab a plate,” Mom said without looking at me. She seemed extra focused on tossing the salad. “We have a lot to discuss.”
I frowned at what she’d said. Her tone told me someone was in trouble, and I knew it was not me.
But Dad did look up and did a double take when he saw the new me. “Whoa, tiger!” he said, laughing.
I wrote the first RSVP on the list and turned to face him. “Hello, Father,” I said casually—just as Dylan walked in and immediately screamed.
“Alexis! What on Earth did you do to yourself?”
At that, Mom finally looked up. “Oh, Alexis!” she exclaimed.
Suddenly I wasn’t so sure about my new look. “What? Don’t you like it?” I asked (fake) confidently.
Mom came over and lifted a curl. She let it go, and it sprang back against my head. “I love the curls!” she said. “I’m not wild about the makeup, though.”
“I’m trying to play up my eyes,” I said.
“Well, sister, they are played up, that’s for sure,” Dylan said with a snicker. Then she peered over my shoulder to look at the RSVP book. “Who called? The Taylors? Already? And they’re all coming? Ugh! What’s that smell? Are we having apple crisp for dessert?”
“It’s my perfume,” I said stiffly.
“All right, before any of this goes any further, I’d like you to get your food and sit down at the table. We are having a family meeting.” My mother was using her firm voice (parenting class), sounding the way she does when I talk to her on the phone while she’s at work.
Dylan huffed, but didn’t say another word as she sat down. I had to admit I was looking forward to seeing her in the hot seat.
“Girls,” my mother began, “we are not acting as a fully functioning family unit. There is discord, agitation, unhappiness, malice, greed, envy, you name it.” She looked at both of us until we returned her level gaze. As I was pretty guilt-free, I just sat there, but Dylan did squirm a little.
“Your father and I are disappointed in the turn things have taken. In our family, we do not condone speaking rudely to one another, nor treating one another dismissively or high-handedly, nor do we humiliate one another in public. The Beckers are loyal, supportive, and kind. The Beckers . . .”
“Try harder,” I finished. It was our family tagline. Ever since my mom had read The Seven Secrets of Successful Families, we had to have a motto as well as other “guiding principles.” Never mind that our tagline was the same tagline as some international car rental company.
“Exactly right,” Dad said, nodding.
“And there hasn’t been enough trying lately,” Mom added, looking at me.
I was surprised. Why me? “I have been trying!” I protested. “I made the cupcakes, I went to that smelly clothing store—”
“Okay, Alexis. We know.” My mother raised her hand. “Dylan—”
“Oh, it’s always me!” Dylan cried. “Why is she never in trouble?”
“Because I’m perfect!” I gloated.
“That’s enough, Alexis,” Mom warned. “You need to be more gracious. We have seen to your wishes, inviting your friends to the party and hiring you to create the cupcakes—”
“Wait! That’s not a done deal!” Dylan yelled.
“Yes, it is,” said my father sternly. “And you don’t have to yell.”
“But they haven’t even presented a good option yet—”
“I am sure that they will,” Dad replied as Mom nodded in agreement. “The Cupcake Club will be providing the dessert.”
Yay!
“That is so unfair!” Dylan said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “It’s my birthday party! I should—”
“Dylan, listen to me,” Dad said. “What is unfair is how you humiliated Alexis in front of her friends today. Twice. You put them through the wringer on timing and color scheme. Then you treated them like peons when you sampled their hard work. You acted like a spoiled brat and were totally ungrateful. These girls all look up to you, and any one of those wonderful cupcakes is worthy of your party. Then you were absolutely horrid about Alexis in her pretty dress. This party-planning has made you high-handed and inconsiderate. We understand that you want it to be a wonderful event, but nothing is perfect. You must understand that people will still like you even if your cupcakes don’t look like they were made on TV and your sister doesn’t match the color scheme!”
Dylan was looking down. It looked like Dad’s words were sinking in.
“The most important thing in life is how we treat people,” he continued. “And you have not been treating any of us nicely. So before things get any worse, your mother and I say stop! Stop it right now! And bring back the wonderful daughter we had before all of this started.”
I looked sideways at Dylan, but couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
A heavy silence hung over the table. Then finally, Dylan said, “I’m sorry,” in a very quiet voice. “It’s just . . . oh, never mind. I’m just sorry.”
My mother came around the table to give her a hug. She kissed her on the top of her head and said, “We love you, honey. The real Dylan. Not this party-planning nightmare person, do you understand?”
Dylan nodded, tears filling her eyes. My father reached over and took her hand. “We know you want this party to be special, and it will be,” he said. “We will all work hard to make it so. You just need to do your part and be gracious. Take a deep breath and know that everything will be fine. Okay?”
Dylan nodded again, then picked up her fork. I think she finally realized how mean she’d been lately. My parents and I chatted about random stuff as we ate, but we all finished quickly. I went upstairs to shower again and get rid of the makeup. Then I changed into my pj’s and went back to my room. When I got there, I found Dylan sitting at my desk! My Project M. T. notebook was on the table in front of her and she was staring at me.
“Oh my God,” I said.
CHAPTER 10
Is She Really My Sister?
Dylan had the notebook in her hand and started walking around me. “What is this?” she asked in a teasing voice.
I thought I might throw up. I stu
died Dylan’s face to see if I could tell which way this was going to go. Was she going to mock me? Pity me? Blackmail me?
“Um . . . ,” I said, stalling for time.
“Are you . . . Do you like someone?” she asked.
I decided to take a breezy, confident tone. “Well, what if I do?” I asked.
“So what is all this . . . math and stuff in here?”
“Oh, just data!” I waved my hand dismissively. The less she thought I cared, the less she would press me. Probably.
“Who is it?” she asked.
I didn’t know if the talk at dinner made her turn over a new leaf or if it made her resent me. I wasn’t sure I should tell her. What if she ended up using it against me?
“Um . . .”
“You can tell me,” she said encouragingly. “I won’t say anything.” Dylan even looked sincere, so I decided to tell her.
“Um . . . it’s Matt.” Maybe if I didn’t say his last name . . .
“Matt Taylor?” she guessed immediately.
I looked down at my feet and nodded, feeling my cheeks suddenly getting hot.
“He’s cute,” she said, and for some strange reason I was happy that she “approved” of my choice. “Does he know you like him?” she asked, flipping through the pages.
“No!” I said quickly, horrified by the idea.
“Do you want him to know?”
“What? No way!” I’d rather die.
“So where are you going with all this?”
“I just . . . I just want him to notice me. And like me, I guess.” There. I’d said it.
Dylan was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “Do you want my help?”
I eyed her suspiciously. “What do you mean?” I could just picture her telling Matt flat out that I liked him, and that would be a disaster.
“I know what it’s like to have a crush who hardly knows you exist, that’s for sure!” Dylan said, laughing.
I paused. Was this a trick?
Dylan continued, “I also know some stuff about boys and what they like. And about how to present yourself.” She looked at me critically. “And I do think you’re ready for a more mature look. The makeover you did wasn’t a bad idea. You just went too far, too fast.”
