I shook my head, glancing down at the box of pops I’d brought to lunch. “I can’t just go up to him and give him one. Totally awkward.” My cheeks cooked at the thought.
The lunch bell rang, and I sighed, thinking I’d gotten off the hook. I was wrong. As we were walking toward our lockers, Gwen spotted Dane at his. He was launching books into it, making sure every one made a loud bang.
“Here’s the plan,” Gwen whispered. “Leave him one anonymously. Stick it in his locker with a note.”
“No.” I shook my head violently, but then Dane slammed his locker shut and walked away. Gwen and Tansy instantly had me by the arms, one pulling me, one pushing me toward his locker. Before I knew what was happening, Gwen grabbed a cake pop out of my pastry box and stuck it firmly into one of the locker vents. Much to my horror, it lodged there, safe and secure. I was about to yank it out, but something stopped me. Maybe Tansy was right. Maybe Dane needed a sign of friendship, something that said his new school wasn’t so bad, after all. So, before I could stop myself, I quickly scribbled Welcome to Oak Canyon! on a slip of paper and wedged it into the vent next to the cake pop.
Giggling, my friends and I ran to our lockers. We grabbed our books quickly, and Tansy hurried off to math while Gwen and I walked toward the language arts building. Gwen had Spanish this period and I had English lit.
“So,” Gwen asked as we reached the door to Mrs. Brach’s English class, “are you going to show the Lemon Sunrise pops to your dad?”
I shrugged. “What’s the point? He won’t let me use them. He never does.”
“It’s worth a try,” Gwen said. “I’ll come with you to talk to him if you want, after school.”
I laughed. “Gwennie, you always come with me after school.” Gwen’s parents both work in downtown LA, and they usually don’t make it home until after dark. Gwen is pretty much a permanent fixture in my family. But my dad says sometimes children need extra family like they need extra toothbrushes, whatever that means. So Gwen hangs out with us almost every afternoon, which is more than fine by me.
She grinned impishly. “Hey, I’m trying to come up with a legit reason. Other than leeching snacks off your dad. Play along, please.”
I latched on to her arm, giving her an exaggerated hug. “Yes, oh please come with me. I desperately need your help. Please.”
She nodded, giving a victorious smile. “Thanks. It’s always nice to be appreciated.”
I laughed. “I’ll meet you at your locker after seventh.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of new projects and assignments, and then, finally, the first day of the new semester was over. I beat Gwen to the lockers, and while I was slipping my homework into my book bag, I glanced up to see Dane plucking my cake pop from his locker. I blushed, suddenly feeling completely ridiculous for putting it there in the first place. He held up the cake pop, inspecting it, then read the note.
I waited for a smile to break across his face. But it never came. He spun on his heel, walked right past me, and tossed the cake pop into the hall trash can. He hadn’t even taken a single bite.
My face went from bake to broil, and suddenly I knew it was going to be impossible for me to become friends with Dane McGuire. Because sometimes, no matter how hard you try, all the sugar in the world can’t sweeten up something gone sour.
“I cannot believe he threw it away,” Gwen said as we walked from school down Valencia Avenue. From the second I’d told her about the untimely death of my cake pop, Gwen hadn’t been able to talk about anything else. She was taking it way more personally than I was.
“Maybe he’s allergic to lemons,” I tried. “Or maybe he thought someone was playing a joke on him?”
“Or maybe he’s just a jerk,” Gwen said with finality. “Which is too bad, because he was off to such a good start with that gorgeous face of his.”
I shrugged, trying to pretend that it wasn’t a big deal. But the fact was, it was insulting. I mean, who turns down cake? Seriously. “I’d rather forget about the whole thing,” I said.
Suddenly, my cell phone chimed and so did Gwen’s. We exchanged questioning glances, then checked our phones. We each had identical e-vites in our inboxes.
In flourishing script bordered by pink hearts and roses, the invitation read:
“A soiree?” I snorted. “How did we even snag an invite, anyway? Sarah barely talks to us.” Then I got my answer. I checked the guest list and gasped. “Gwen, she’s invited the entire school.”
“Of course she did.” Gwen rolled her eyes. “Her backyard has its own zip code. It’ll be the most expensive party of the year.” She batted her eyes and curtsied. “Oh, whatever shall we wear to the ball, Princess Ali?” she said in a fake British accent.
“Surely not these peasant rags,” I responded, motioning to our clothes.
We both cracked up, and kept up our accents for the rest of the walk. But the second we stepped through the back door of Say It With Flour, I stopped laughing. Something was wrong. Normally, our kitchen was filled with the sugary scent of cookies baking. There was nothing in the world better than that smell. But today, the kitchen’s smell was off — a mixture of burnt toast and dishwashing liquid. And sure enough, when I looked in the sink, there were two scorched baking sheets soaking in sudsy water. I frowned at the mess, washed my hands, and grabbed my apron. Then I headed through the swinging doors into the main room with Gwen to find out what had happened.
Say It With Flour was the kind of place that people wanted to linger in. There was a quote from Don Quixote painted on the yellow wall behind the counter. It read, “With bread all sorrows are less.” That, plus the round tables, teal-colored booths, and ceiling strung with colorful tin lanterns, set the cheerful mood.
We had a small but steady stream of regulars, and many of them had known my father since he opened the bakery with my mother just before I was born. Some stopped in the morning and ended up staying for hours. To them, my father wasn’t just the shop owner; he was a friend.
I waved to Mr. Salez and Mr. Johnson, who were in their booth playing chess and munching on cookies.
“Hello, Alicia,” they said in unison without breaking their concentration.
Mrs. Kerny, the ninety-something widow who came in every day to share a cochinito with her Chihuahua, waved to me over her cup of tea.
Finally, I arrived at the corner booth, where Abuelita Rosa and Roberto were hunkered down over Roberto’s coloring book.
“Hola, niñitas.” My grandmother pulled Gwen and me into a soft hug, and I breathed in the doughy smell of yeast and sugar on her apron. There was a fine dusting of flour in the bun at the nape of her neck.
“Daddy’s down in the grumps,” Roberto said, mixing up words like he always did.
“Is he?” I grinned and ruffled Roberto’s hair.
Abuelita nodded. “He burned a whole batch of cookies already.”
“That was Dad? Wow.” When my dad started burning stuff, it was serious. “What happened?”
She clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “You need to ask him.”
In the front of the shop, my dad stood staring out the huge bay window, his face pinched and pale. I started toward him, admiring our window display. It was full of golden Mexican sweet breads, all nestled cozily together — corn-shaped elotitos with their yummy custard filling, flaky and puffed-up orejas with their funny ear shape, the jelly-filled pan fino loaves with their delicate ridges and cinnamony goodness.
And front and center, just like always, were conchas, with their beautiful pink and yellow swirling crusts. They’re baked with lots of butter, eggs, and sugar for sweetness and are made to look like giant seashells. Conchas were my mother’s absolute favorite. My dad told me that my mom used to eat three conchas a day when she was pregnant with me. So every day, my dad bakes a fresh batch of conchas and puts three in the front window, like a little bit of baked love, just for my mom. Even right now, even knowing the kind of mood my dad was probably in, the c
onchas made me smile.
I slid up next to him and wrapped my arms around him in a hug. “Hi, Dad.”
I was answered with a distracted pat on the shoulder, but he kept staring out the window. I caught Gwen’s eyes and sent her a silent message for help.
Gwen cleared her throat. “Hi, Javier!” she said, bounding over. “How’s it going?”
My dad blinked and looked up. “Hello, Gwendolyn.” One side of his mouth pulled down into a frown, the other side into a smile. Gwen was the only one of my friends who could ever get away with calling my dad by his first name. And my dad, in return, called her Gwendolyn, which she never, ever allowed anyone else to say out loud. It was a sort of surrogate father-daughter routine they’d adopted that they both secretly loved.
I gave Dad a kiss on the cheek. That made his frown disappear completely, but he sighed and shook his head, glancing back at the window. “Would you look at that?” he muttered. “A chain, here on Main Street. ¡Qué mala suerta!”
“Dad, what are you talking about?” I asked.
He stabbed a finger at the glass, and my eyes followed. I loved our quaint Main Street. There were the adorable boutiques and restaurants with bougainvillea-laden terraces. There was the fountain surrounded by bright pink geraniums. But across the street from our bakery I saw something new: Perk Up. It was a branch of the big coffee chain, and it was flying a garish orange GRAND OPENING flag from its front door.
“Whoa,” Gwen said, staring. “Something commercially caffeinated this way comes.”
“It’s so … ugly,” I said, taking in the sleek metal exterior, the monstrous percolating coffeepot above the store, and the slogan in large letters: GRAB A PERK UP PICK-ME-UP TODAY! On a street lined with mission-style archways and wrought iron, the ultra-modern coffee shop jolted everything out of place. “I didn’t even know there was a Perk Up opening here.”
Up until today, the storefront had been covered with an “excuse our appearance” tarp. Nobody knew what was being built there. But now the door was swinging constantly, with customers carrying Perk Up’s trademark orange coffee cups.
My dad grimaced. “This is the beginning of the end.”
“Armageddon is coming to Oak Canyon?” Gwen cried. “Well, I better hurry up with these orders, then.” She plunked down at a table, grabbed her jewelry caddy out of her bag, and got to work on her latest pair of earrings. Making handmade earrings and necklaces was Gwen’s biggest passion, and her mom had even set her up with an Etsy account. “Can’t have people meeting their doom without accessories.”
I laughed at Gwen, but my dad’s face stayed set in stone. “This is no joke,” he said softly.
“Come on, Dad, it’s not that bad,” I tried. “It’s just a coffee shop.”
He threw up his hands, and stomped back behind the sales counter. “Just a coffee shop. Just a coffee shop that sells coffee worth one dollar for five. It’s … it’s piracy! And meanwhile, the rest of us charge our customers a fair price. And what do we get? Overrun with monopolies!”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Occasionally, my dad had a tendency to blow things slightly out of proportion. I followed him through the swinging door that led into the bakery’s kitchen.
“Dad, I’m sure Oak Canyon will survive,” I said, hoping I could change his mood before something else went up in flames. “Every other town in Valencia County has a Perk Up.”
“Exactly,” my dad said. “It’s the biggest chain in Southern California. No one is going to buy our coffee over theirs, Ali.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but then shut it again. He was probably right. We didn’t sell Perk Up’s type of fancy espressos and mochas; we never had. “But we’re not just about the coffee,” I reminded Dad.
“True, but who knows what else Perk Up might start selling next.” He frowned at me. “If places like Perk Up take our customers, then what happens to us?”
“I don’t know,” I said quietly, but I didn’t like the thought.
My father rolled a tall aluminum baking rack toward me, then pointed to a big mixing bowl full of batter. “Can you get started on the polvorones, cariña?” he asked.
I nodded and dug into the batter, rolling handfuls into balls, then dipping the balls into a smaller bowl full of cinnamon. I started placing the cookies on baking sheets while Dad tested the oven’s temperature. Our bakery was probably the only one in Southern California that used a bona fide wood-burning oven. Yes, my dad hailed from the Stone Age. We had a genuine stone oven, complete with a bóveda (domed stone roof). No digital temperature readings for us. My dad could tell the temp just by sticking his arm inside the oven for a few seconds. He called it the art of being a master baker; I called it insanity.
“Maybe it’s not chains people want,” I said, handing him a tray of cookies ready for the oven. “Maybe they just want something new. Something … trendier.”
My father slid the tray into the oven and turned around, eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
I inhaled sharply, my heart performing triple-flips. Now was my chance. “Maybe we could try something a little trendier, too.” I swallowed the thickness in my throat and pressed on. “You know I’ve been making these cake pops, and the kids at school really seem to like them….”
“Cake pops.” He spat the words out, then threw a hand up in the air and marched back into the shop. “¡Ridículo!”
“Not ridiculous,” I said, my face warming as I picked up on the fact that everyone in the bakery had frozen, hanging on our every word. “Renata DeLuca says they’re the most popular dessert for kids under eighteen right now. We could maybe sell some here and —”
“No.” My dad cut me off. “That is not the kind of thing we bake here. Our regular customers are happy with what we have.”
“Our regular customers are senior citizens!” I cried. I sheepishly looked in the direction of Mrs. Kerny, Mr. Salez, and Mr. Johnson. “No offense,” I said to them.
“None taken, sweetie.” Mr. Salez chuckled.
“We don’t need silly cakes-on-a-stick,” my dad continued. “No one here would know what to do with such a thing!”
“I would!” Roberto piped up with a huge grin. “I ate three cake pops this morning.”
“Cake whats?” Mrs. Kerny asked blankly.
Gwen snorted a giggle.
“Perk Up, cake pops, landlords,” my dad muttered, yanking his apron off and tossing it under the counter. He rubbed his forehead like the whole conversation was giving him a massive headache. “I have to go to PriceCo for more eggs and flour. Rosa, Alicia, could you please watch the store until I get back?”
“Of course, Javier.” Abuelita Rosa was already standing up to come behind the counter before I had a chance to say anything. “We’ll see you later.”
Gwen looked up from her jewelry. “That went well, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, right,” I said flatly. I watched Dad cross the street to where his car was parked, his shoulders sagging, his gray hair turning silvery in the late afternoon light. Suddenly I thought about one thing he’d said that hadn’t made any sense.
“Landlords?” I looked at Abuelita Rosa. “What about landlords?”
Abuelita Rosa sighed and glanced at Roberto, then nodded to Mrs. Kerny to keep an eye on him. She motioned Gwen and me into the kitchen.
She drew her finger through the layer of flour on the baking island, making slow circles and avoiding my eyes.
“Your father found out today that the landlord is raising rent on the bakery,” she said. She patted her bun, absently giving it a fresh coat of flour. “That’s why he’s so upset. It’s not just Perk Up. The rent situation. It’s … not good.”
“What do you mean, not good?” My stomach began a slow, wrenching grind. “How much is the rent going up?”
Abuelita frowned. “A few hundred dollars a month. Alicia, the bakery is barely breaking even right now….”
I gripped the counter for support as the floor tilted beneath me. �
��What?”
“Lo siento. I’m sorry,” she said. “Your father didn’t want you to know. He knew you’d worry. The shop’s been struggling for the last year now.”
“B-but why?” I stammered. “We always have customers.”
Even before she could say anything else, I knew the answer. Yes, we had customers. But they were the same customers every day. We weren’t bringing in any new business at all. And we definitely weren’t selling out of our pastries and breads, either. None of our breads had any preservatives in them, so they didn’t stay fresh long. And how many times had I helped my dad deliver full bags to the soup kitchen in town because we couldn’t sell all we’d made?
“Well, Dad needs to talk to the landlord,” I sputtered, my mind racing in dumbfounded circles. “We have to do something.”
“I don’t know what, niñita,” Abuelita said softly.
“This is dire,” Gwen said. “Poor Javier.” She squeezed my shoulder. “Poor you.”
“We can’t close the shop,” I said firmly. “We can’t. That’s not even a possibility. Right?”
I looked from Abuelita to Gwen. Both of them were staring at the floor, speechless. And then Gwen snapped her head up and sniffed the air.
“Um, is something on fire?”
I slapped a hand to my forehead, then ran to the oven. Sure enough, there were the charred remains of two dozen polvorones, crisp and smoldering. It was the second time today we’d burned something at Say It With Flour. We’d just set a new record.
I opened my locker at school the next morning, and an orange slip of paper fluttered to the ground. I picked it up and turned it over. It was a coupon for a free pastry with any drink purchase at Perk Up. I groaned. I’d been trying to forget the bad news, but now everything snapped painfully back into focus.
“Hey,” Gwen said, appearing at my side. “So I was thinking … do you want to stage a coupon burning protest in the quad at lunch?”
I looked at the fistful of orange papers in her hand. “Where did all those come from?”
“Um, have you looked around?”
Cake Pop Crush Page 2
