“Why would I ever have to write something in scientific notation?” Marco demands.
I consider this a moment. “Um, because you’re a scientist?”
He looks at me evenly, with those calm black eyes of his. “Let’s say that I’m a professional soccer player — now why would I need scientific notation?”
“To graduate from middle school?”
He sighs. “Then I may not graduate from middle school.”
“It’s not that hard,” I tell him. “You’re overthinking it. Look.” I pull out my notebook and turn to the homework. “See, you just need to count the decimal places.”
I work with him for a while, until the bus pulls up in front of the school. Unfortunately, Mr. Carter assigned forty problems.
Marco looks panicked. “Still thirty more.”
“Why didn’t you work on it at home?” I ask.
“I did,” Marco insists. “But it took me forever to finish the reading for English, and then there were those social studies questions….” He runs an impatient hand through his dark, floppy hair. “Listen, Hayley, can I borrow this homework? Just for homeroom — then I’ll give it back.”
It’s not copying, I tell myself. It’s helping him. Besides, if he doesn’t finish, Mr. Carter will give him a zero. Homework is sacred to Mr. Carter. His motto is “Much and Often,” and he counts your homework grade as fifty percent of your final grade.
And besides, Marco is my friend. Am I really going to tell him no?
“Sure, Marco.” I pass him my notebook, still open to the homework. “No problem.”
I know I shouldn’t say that about my teacher. I should have respect for him. And I try. I really do.
But he’s mean.
He doesn’t look mean. On the first day of class, I thought I was lucky. Mr. Carter is young — for a teacher — and has blue eyes and thin blond hair that’s starting to pull back from his forehead like a wave returning to the ocean. He dresses well, always in khaki pants and a button-down shirt that looks like it was ironed by someone who knows what they’re doing. That first day, he looked like the ideal teacher — organized, young, and reasonably smart. But that wasn’t the whole story.
Mr. Carter isn’t the kind of teacher who’s mean to everyone. I have one of those, too — Miss Timmons, who’s about twice as old as Yoda and has the same wardrobe. But I don’t think she’s a dirtbag. She’s mean, but she’s fair about it. She’s mean to everyone equally. Mr. Carter, on the other hand, plays favorites: He’s only mean to the kids who aren’t good at math. Here’s the thing — I’m good at math, so Mr. Carter leaves me alone. But I still think he’s a dirtbag.
Yesterday, he was teaching us the basics of scientific notation. Mr. Carter read the concept out of the book, and then wrote a problem on the board. He asked if anyone wanted to come up and show us how to work it. I put up my hand. So did five other people. But who did he call on?
Marco.
Marco looked up, his lips pressed together grimly. It wasn’t the first time Mr. Carter had called on him when Marco was clearly lost. In fact, this is one of our teacher’s favorite tricks. So, as usual, Marco trooped up to the whiteboard, book in hand. He picked up a marker and stared at the problem for a moment, hesitating. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.
“What’s the matter, Marco?” Mr. Carter asked. “You can’t count?” His face was this ugly sneer, lip curled. “Go sit down. Tanisha, can you help us?”
Tanisha Osborne nearly jumped out of her seat. Marco handed her the marker, and she did her usual Tanisha Technique of narrating how she arrived at the answer while she solved the problem. “Okay, so, if we’re looking for the scientific notation of 3,750, first we take the first digit —” And blah, blah, blah. She wasn’t trying to be annoying, but she was succeeding.
Marco just looked at the floor all the way back to his desk. Scientific notation isn’t even the hardest thing we’ve done all year. But I don’t think Marco is trying anymore. I wouldn’t, if Mr. Carter had embarrassed me as often as he’s humiliated Marco.
So part of me is glad that I gave Marco my homework. Maybe he’ll see that this stuff isn’t so hard. Maybe it’ll help him understand.
Besides — like I said — Mr. Carter is a total dirtbag. If he were a better teacher, this wouldn’t be my problem.
“Einstein said it,” Meghan is saying as I plop my lunch tray beside hers and take a seat. “I believe it. End of story.” She crunches into a stick of celery, as if that’s the last word on the subject.
I recognize the boy across the table from her: Ben Habib. He’s super cute, in a nerdy way. He’s got huge black eyes and short black hair cropped close to his head and rectangular glasses. But he’s so shy, I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged more than two words with him.
“But the equations show that it’s possible that neutrons move more quickly than light,” Ben says. “Aren’t you even interested? Hi, Hayley,” he adds as an aside.
“Hi.”
“I’m not buying it,” Meghan insists, ignoring me while simultaneously making space for me beside her. “They’ll find a mistake in the calculations. Mark my words.” She stabs the air with her celery.
Ben laughs softly. “Consider them marked.” He stands up, flashes me a silvery braces smile, and heads over to a table full of his friends.
Meghan lays her head on her palm and munches her celery dreamily. “He’s so amazing,” she says with a sigh. She turns to me and demands, “How many people in this school like to talk about Einstein?”
“Two,” I tell her. “You guys were made for each other.”
I actually don’t mean anything romantic by this comment, but Meghan blushes. Her pink skin looks pretty with the green bangs and wisps framing her face. Meghan is no great beauty. She has a round, chubby-cheeked face and a wide nose. But she’s always wearing something funky, and she’s almost irresistibly cute. “I’m going to tell him how I feel,” she announces.
I nearly choke on the pizza I’m eating. Meghan told me a few weeks ago that she was crushed out on Ben. I guess I hadn’t really realized how serious she was. I chew for a moment, then ask, “Is that a good idea?”
“No,” Meghan admits. “It’s a horrible idea.”
Meghan takes a sip of milk, then stares off into space, eyes narrowed, for a few moments. “I’m going to do it, anyway.”
“Meg —”
“I’ll send him a secret-admirer letter.”
“Still a bad idea,” I inform her.
“Yes, but not as bad.” How can she cheerfully agree with me while simultaneously pulling a piece of paper out of her messenger bag? How? She scribbles Dear Ben at the top, then draws a heart.
“You’re a lunatic!”
“Relax, Hayley — this isn’t pumpkin theft! No laws are broken, nobody gets hurt.” Her dimples show as she scribbles away.
I take another bite of pizza to stop myself from saying, “Except maybe you.”
What should I do? I wonder. Grab the paper and toss it in the trash? “At least wait until tomorrow before you give that to him,” I say.
“I’ll pop it in his locker at the end of the day.” She starts folding the note into an elaborate shape. For a few moments, I can’t tell what it is. Finally, it takes form — a heart with wings.
I decide not to say anything else. Arguing with Meghan is like arguing with a truck that’s about to run you over: You may have a good point, but that’s not going to stop it.
Maybe she’ll forget about it by the end of the day, I hope. Maybe she’ll change her mind.
“So what about you, Hayley?” Meghan asks. “What about Devon?”
“Shhh!”
Meghan laughs. “Nobody’s listening!” she insists as I look over my shoulder.
She’s right. Nobody is paying the slightest bit of attention to us. Besides, the cafeteria is so noisy, we might as well be in a soundproof booth.
“I don’t know,” I admit finally. “He came to the café yesterday.
”
“Oooh!” She lifts her eyebrows.
“With Artie.”
“Eeew.”
“Yeah, exactly.” I take another bite of pizza.
“Wow — she’s so jealous of you,” Meghan says, which makes me choke on my pizza again.
“Jealous? Are you living in a parallel universe right now? She thinks I’m scum.”
Meghan shrugs. “Okay.”
“Why would she be jealous of me?”
“Because you’re funny and smart and make awesome cupcakes?” Meghan suggests. “And because people like you, and they think Artie’s an idiot?”
“Lots of people like Artie.”
“Okay,” Meghan says again, with that same little shrug.
I don’t know whether I want to hug her or toss my pizza at her. She’s nuts. There is no way Artie’s jealous of me.
Still, it’s sweet of her to think so.
“Hello?”
“Hayley, it’s Dad.”
“I know, Dad. Remember caller ID? How are you?”
“I’m great. What’s new?”
“Not much. So — hey, can we go hiking on Saturday? All the leaves are about to finish changing colors. It might be our last chance.”
“Sure, sure — but I wanted to talk about Thanksgiving.”
“What about it?”
“Well, Annie’s parents have invited us to join them at their country club for dinner…. Hello? Are you there?”
“I’m just — for Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Yes.”
“What about Mom?”
“We agreed we would share holidays.”
“Okay … but … Thanksgiving in a restaurant? Doesn’t that seem —”
“Lots of people have Thanksgiving in a restaurant. That way you don’t have to have turkey. You can have whatever you like.”
“I like turkey.”
“You can have turkey.”
“With Annie?”
“Look, Hayley, it was a very nice gesture for her parents to invite us out to their country club. I expect you to say so when you meet them.”
“So — it sounds like we’re going.”
“We are.”
“Okay. Um, where is it?”
“Connecticut.”
“So they’re rich.”
“Not everyone in Connecticut is rich.”
“So they’re not rich?”
“No — listen, Hayley, that’s not the point.”
“Do you want to talk to Chloe?”
“I’d like to talk to you some more.”
“I don’t really have any news.”
“Okay, Hayley. Fine. You can put Chloe on. Love you.”
“Bye.”
Rain Forest Cupcakes
(makes approximately 12 cupcakes)
Sometimes what you really need is a tropical vacation. But when you can’t have one, a tropical cupcake can work, too.
INGREDIENTS:
1 medium very ripe banana, mashed well
2/3 cup coconut milk
1 teaspoon coconut extract
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup canola oil
1-1/4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup chopped toasted macadamia nuts
1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips
INSTRUCTIONS:
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with cupcake liners.
In a small bowl, whisk together the banana, coconut milk, coconut extract, vanilla extract, granulated sugar, brown sugar, and oil.
In a larger bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and mix.
Add the dry ingredients to the wet ones a little bit at a time, and combine with a whisk or handheld mixer, stopping to scrape the sides of the bowl a few times, until no lumps remain. Add the chopped macadamia nuts and chocolate chips, and combine completely.
Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way and bake for 18–22 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.
Peanut Butter–Butterscotch Frosting
INGREDIENTS:
1/2 cup butterscotch chips
1/2 cup margarine or butter
1/3 cup creamy peanut butter
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups confectioners’ sugar
INSTRUCTIONS:
Melt the butterscotch chips in a small bowl in the microwave, then set aside to cool to room temperature.
In another bowl, using a handheld mixer, cream together the margarine or butter with the peanut butter until completely combined. Add the vanilla extract, and then slowly add the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches, mixing completely before adding more.
Add the melted butterscotch and beat on high speed until the frosting becomes light and fluffy, about 3–7 minutes.
The bell over the door jingles, and I look up from frosting my French-toast cupcakes. A dark-haired man with a mustache is standing at the counter. He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a brown corduroy jacket with jeans, and he looks familiar….
“Well, hullo!” Gran says cheerfully. “Came back for another scone, I see.”
I nearly drop my cupcake when I realize that it’s Officer Ramirez.
He smiles. “And a cup of coffee, please.”
“I’m glad you policemen don’t all fancy doughnuts.” Gran nods in approval.
“I love doughnuts,” Chloe pipes up from her perch at the end of the counter. “But they aren’t as good as Gran’s scones.”
“Or Hayley’s cupcakes,” Rupert adds.
I gape at him. Rupert has started talking more, but it always surprises me when he does.
“You should make doughnut cupcakes,” Chloe suggests.
“What’s that?” I ask. “A cupcake with a hole in the middle?”
“No clue. That’s your job. Figure it out — and when you make them, you can tell everyone it was my idea.”
Officer Ramirez laughs just as my mother comes out from the back room, frowning at the phone. She stops in her tracks when she sees him, then smiles. It’s a tight smile, though, like it’s covering something.
I nibble my fingernail, then get annoyed with myself, because now I have to wash my hands before I can go back to frosting the cupcakes.
“Is everything all right, Margaret?” Gran asks as she passes Officer Ramirez his scone.
“It’s just —” Mom waves her hand, then huffs out a sigh. “I just got off the phone with William. He wants to take the girls on Thanksgiving.”
Gran looks indignant. “Well, he can’t!”
Mom smiles a little sadly. “It was part of the terms of the divorce, Mother.”
“We aren’t going to have Thanksgiving with you?” Chloe looks like she’s about to cry.
Mom touches her arm. “You will, sweetie. You’ll have dinner with us here, at noon. Then you and Hayley can join him afterward.”
I feel my heart sink. I’m not sure I want to have two Thanksgivings. I was really just hoping that the one with my dad’s new girlfriend’s family would get canceled. I mean, does that sound Thanksgiving-ish to you?
“It’s good you agreed to share the holiday,” Officer Ramirez puts in. Not that anyone has asked him. “I don’t get to see my son at all on Thanksgiving.”
Chloe is aghast. “You spend Thanksgiving alone?”
“I usually volunteer at the soup kitchen,” Officer Ramirez explains. “It puts things in perspective.” He looks at his mug, then takes a long sip of his coffee.
We’re all quiet for a moment.
“I wish I could spend Thanksgiving alone,” Rupert says suddenly. “Instead, all of my Polish relatives come over and pinch my cheeks and holler and laugh and sing. It’s noisy.”
“You don’t like noise?” Gran asks.
Rupert shakes
his head. “I like to read.”
“Well, at least they’re your family,” I say to him. “And you have just one Thanksgiving.”
Chloe stares down at the floor.
“Hayley —” Mom starts, but I tug off my apron and place it on the counter.
“I’m going out for some air.” The door jingles as I push my way out onto the street.
Two Thanksgivings.
I like turkey — but not that much.
5. Watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV. Be sure to check out the people who dance in the street around the floats. They’re always dressed as presents or candy canes, or something else equally ridiculous. You can tell they hate it — it’s awesome!
4. Gran’s cinnamon buns, which we always have for breakfast that day.
3. Post-turkey walk. We used to walk around our neighborhood after dinner. Some people have Christmas lights up already, and it’s lovely.
2. Playing the Thankful Game. We go around in a circle, naming things we’re thankful for. Each person has to remember what everyone before has said, then add something new. We usually go around two or three times, and it’s nice to remember how much we have to be happy about.
1. Stuffing. Mom just uses the kind that comes in a box, but it’s sooooo gooooood.
So — those are the things I’m thankful for. But … are we even doing those things this year? We’ll be off at some random country club while we’re supposed to be on our walk. And we’ll probably have to eat our first turkey while the parade is still happening. Will Gran make the cinnamon buns? Will we have time to play our game?
I think I can count on the stuffing, at least.
Even so, this is starting to sound like a holiday I barely recognize — one where the fun things have been sucked away, and only the name remains.
Am I supposed to find a way to be thankful for this?
Because I’m trying.
But it’s not working.
Cornbread Cupcakes
Confectionately Yours #2: Taking the Cake! Page 3
