The Great Kitten Cake Off

by Anna Wilson

  ‘Thing is, Mads, it’s the BAKING that is kind of important in all this,’ I pointed out. ‘When have I ever baked anything edible in the whole time we have known each other?’

  Mads stopped typing, thought for a moment, then said, ‘Cookies in Year 2.’

  ‘From a packet. Under the close supervision of Miss Bates! And even then they tasted rank.’

  ‘That’s cos you had Play-Doh under your fingernails.’ Mads chuckled. ‘You hated washing your hands back then, so you just lied and told Miss Bates you had. The cookies ended up with tiny bits of blue and green in them!’

  ‘Miss Bates said what a lovely idea it was to add chopped-up Smarties – and then she tasted them!’ I guffawed.

  ‘She nearly threw up – she looked as though she had been poisoned!’ Mads added with a squeak.

  We descended into one of our epic giggling marathons, the application form forgotten for a moment. Just then there was a loud hissing and yowling coming from under the desk.

  ‘What’s he done now?’ I jumped off the chair and dropped to my knees.

  Kitkat had somehow got himself tangled up in the wires connecting the computer to the WiFi and printer. Dad was always nagging Mum to do something about the mess under the desk. I could see why now. It was insanely dusty and the wires were all knotted and confused – even more so now that my kitten was tied up in them.

  ‘Oh, you idiot,’ I said. I stretched my hand out towards Kitkat, but his eyes grew wide with panic as he struggled and got more and more tangled.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mads asked from above me. I could hear she had gone back to typing.

  ‘Can you give me a hand?’ I asked. ‘Kitkat is stuck in all the wires. I’m going to have to unplug something.’

  ‘OK, just a minute,’ Mads replied. She was typing at lightning speed now.

  ‘Mads, Kitkat is getting pretty stressed and it’s not that nice down here.’ I coughed. ‘I’m getting dust up my nose.’

  ‘OK . . .’ More typing.

  ‘Mads!’ I shouted.

  Just then the phone rang.

  The sound made me start and I banged my head on the underside of the desk.

  ‘Ow!’ I crawled out, rubbing my head, and went to pick up the phone, gesturing at Mads to sort Kitkat out.

  She nodded vaguely and carried on typing.

  I picked up the phone with an exasperated ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  Mum. She always says, ‘It’s me.’ Luckily I do not know anyone else who answers the phone in this way, or else it could be very confusing.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, still rubbing my head.

  ‘Are you all right? You sound a bit off.’

  ‘Yeah, fine. What do you want?’

  ‘Charming!’ said Mum. ‘I’m calling to say I’m going for a run straight from work. I’ll be back in time to make supper. OK?’

  I was shaking Mads by the shoulder and mouthing: Get Kitkat!

  Mads frowned and mouthed: What?

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Did you get that?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Yeah. I think so,’ I said.

  ‘Are you up to something, young lady?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Miiaooow!’ cried Kitkat, emerging triumphantly from under the desk. He was trailing ribbons of thick dust behind him, but free from the cables, at least.

  ‘What was that?’ Mum asked in alarm.

  ‘Nothing . . .’ I said, nudging him towards the door with my toe.

  ‘I can hear typing. Are you on the computer?’ Mum asked. ‘You’d better not be in the study with that kitten. The last time he went in there he got his paws tangled in the cables under the desk and got panicky and peed all over them. What are you doing in the study anyway?’

  Peed on them? No! I sniffed the air experimentally. ‘It’s just Mads. She wanted to look at The Cake Off application forms,’ I said.

  ‘Cake Off?’ Mum said. She snorted. ‘Rather Mads than you! Can’t see you turning your hand to baking anything, missy.’

  Why was Mum never supportive of anything I wanted to do? She would happily cheer Charlie on for attempting to break the World Record for having the most snails on his face or entering Mumbles for My Pet’s Got Talent, but when it came to me, well, everything was just a big joke.

  ‘Have a nice run, Mum,’ I growled. ‘See you later.’

  I firmly pressed the button on the phone to cut her off.

  ‘Finished!’ Mads announced.

  The cursor was hovering above the ‘send’ button on the screen. ‘So, are you ready, bakers?’ said Mads, faking a Sam-and-Sid voice from the show. ‘Are you steady, bakers?’

  I thought about Mum laughing at the idea of me baking. I thought about how fed up I had been lately. I looked at Kitkat, who did look suspiciously as though he might have peed under the desk after all. Then I thought of Charlie and his stupid obsessions and Dad with his pathetic jokes.

  Mads was right. This was just what I needed.

  ‘The Dream Team?’ I said. ‘Why not?’

  Mads grinned and clicked on ‘send’.

  A message immediately came back:

  Thank you for applying for The Charity Junior Cake Off. Only succesful applicants will be contacted by our production team. in the meantime, you had better get practising . . . So, what are you waiting for? BAKE

  ‘So, did Mads enter The Cake Off?’ Mum asked at tea.

  ‘We both did,’ I mumbled.

  Charlie said, ‘YOU? BAKE?’ and made a big show of spluttering into his spaghetti Bolognese. (Mind you, that could have been because it tasted like slimy worms in a mud sauce. Yet another epic culinary fail from Mum.)

  I ignored Mum and said, ‘Shut up, Chazzer.’

  Dad grinned and said, ‘Sounds like a great idea. At last a chance to have your cake and eat it too!’

  I groaned. ‘Da-ad.’

  ‘Unless you think Charlie’s right and that it’s a half-baked idea!’ Dad chortled.

  I slammed down my fork and glared at my family. ‘It was Mads’s idea, and I reckon it’ll be cool. Why is it that every time I come up with something you laugh and make pathetic jokes, but whenever Charlie thinks of some crazy plan you say it’s cute and you give him loads of encouragement?’

  ‘Maybe it’s because I am interested in things I can actually do, like making films,’ said Charlie primly.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I said, turning on my little brother. ‘Remind me what you were filming today? Hamster Massacre, wasn’t it? Or was it Revenge of the Killer Kitten? Where is Kitkat now, by the way? Have you checked Mumbles’s cage recently?’

  Charlie went white and leaped from the table, pushing his chair away with a loud scraping noise.

  Mum and Dad said nothing as Charlie ran from the room calling, ‘Kitkat? KITKAT!’

  ‘So how did you and Mads cook up this plan?’ Dad began chuckling again.

  ‘WHY can’t you just take me seriously for once?’ I shouted.

  ‘Oh, Ells Bells,’ said Dad, using the nickname he knows makes me cringe. ‘Don’t be so uptight. We’re only teasing.’

  ‘You are seriously winding me up now,’ I said.

  Mum gave another of her derisive snorts. ‘You have to admit it is a tiny bit amusing to think of you creating anything anyone would actually want to eat. Let alone bake something good enough for that TV show,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, right. And what do you call this meal?’ I asked, jabbing my finger at my plate. ‘Spaghetti BOG-lognese?’

  Mum gave me a dirty look.

  ‘Just saying,’ I said carelessly.

  Dad grimaced. ‘She’s got a point, Kate.’

  Mum got up from the table. ‘Well, don’t expect any help from me,’ she said. Then she turned and added, ‘Just saying.’

  This is always Mum’s way of scoring points off me – to copy the way I speak. Or the way she thinks I speak.

  ‘Mads is going to teach me, actually,’ I said. I got up from the table, leaving my tea barely touched,
to make a point. ‘She’s a great cook and she thinks I’ll be brilliant at the decorations you need to do to wow the judges.’

  ‘That’s true. You are very creative,’ said Dad.

  At last, a positive comment.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be the icing on the cake!’ he added.

  ‘Please stop,’ I said. I turned to Mum. ‘So is it OK if we do the cooking here after school and at the weekends? You know what Mads’s mum is like about making a mess in her kitchen.’

  ‘Yes. I think you would describe her as “like, well stressy”, isn’t that right?’ said Mum.

  ‘D’OH!’ I cried. ‘You two drive me INSANE!’

  The next day I arrived at school to find a bunch of Year 9s standing at the gate handing out fliers.

  I looked around for Mads but there were so many people crowding round it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. (Except, who would seriously ever want to do that?)

  I always feel pretty self-conscious around the Year 9s. They are only one year above us, but they seem so much more sophisticated. Especially Georgie Watson and her gang, with their perfect hair and shiny nails and super-tiny skirts. Not to mention their sharp-as-knives put-downs that always make me want to become invisible on the spot.

  ‘Sign up today!’ Georgie was shouting. ‘Great practice for the real thing! And all proceeds go to the amazing charity, SportsFundUK . . .’

  ‘Hey, Ellie!’ Mads squealed in my ear. She had come up behind me. ‘Today’s the first day of the rest of your life, my friend,’ she said, giving me a hug. ‘We need to have a super-workshop-planning session later. I’m thinking, “Task: Cake Off”.’

  ‘Definitely! Let’s get past this lot first, though,’ I said. I took her elbow.

  Mads shook my hand off her arm. I turned to ask her what was wrong and saw that she was staring at the Year 9s with a thoughtful expression. Georgie was still shouting something about ‘signing up’ and shoving fliers at anyone who walked past, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying any more as there was too much noise from the people around us.

  ‘Mads?’ I tried to get her attention. ‘Come on! Let’s go.’

  Mads wasn’t listening, however; she was staring vacantly at Georgie. Or maybe it was not Georgie she was looking at, I realized, as I saw who was standing next to the older girl.

  It was her twin brother, Ted.

  Mads’s face had gone a deep shade of pink and she started fussing with her hair and fluttering her eyelashes.

  ‘Um. Mads, I don’t think . . .’

  Here we go again, I thought, as I watched my best mate break away from me and sashay over to try to make eye contact with Ted.

  Mads has been known to have some monumentally disastrous crushes in the past. I mean, don’t get me wrong – Mads is super-pretty and lovely and bubbly and fun – but she always sets her sights on boys who could never possibly be interested in her. Everyone knows that it is totally uncool to flirt with anyone in the years above.

  ‘Mads!’ I tried again to get her attention.

  Luckily Georgie stuffed a form in Mads’s hands before she could get close to Ted and snapped, ‘Move along, let other people through,’ before fixing another charming smile to her face and starting up with her ‘Roll up, roll up’ routine.

  ‘Ellie, look at this!’ Mads yelled as she raced back and shoved the flier at me. She was practically squeaking with excitement. ‘This is perfect! It’s like it’s meant to be . . .’

  I ignored her babbling and grabbed her free hand, managing to pull her away from the crowd of Year 9s while she waved desperately in Ted’s direction. He finally saw her and smiled.

  ‘Oh . . . my . . . gosh . . .’ she breathed. ‘Did you see that, Ells? Ted Watson just smiled at me!’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I muttered. I yanked her into the main school building and made for the locker area.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she swooned.

  I opened my locker and began hurling books inside.

  Mads had got sidetracked from our Cake Off plan already, I just knew it. One smile from a boy, and it was no longer my life she was interested in spicing up.

  ‘Isn’t this incredible? It’s like the most amazing coincidence,’ Mads was saying. She leaned back against her locker and gazed dreamily at the ceiling.

  ‘What?’ I said irritably.

  ‘This,’ she said, turning to me and flapping the piece of paper Georgie had given her.

  I took a look at the brightly coloured leaflet. The letters screamed out at me:

  IT’S THE GREAT OAKWOOD HIGH CHARITY CAKE OFF!

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ I said. ‘We enter this and you get to flirt with Ted Watson.’

  ‘No,’ Mads said. Her hot and bothered face betrayed her real thoughts, however. ‘I was thinking of you actually. Well, us anyway . . . This Charity Cake Off will be fantastic practice for us.’ She pointed at the rest of the wording. ‘It’s even raising money for the same charity as the TV show – SportsFundUK! It’s a sign.’ She sighed.

  ‘Everyone in the school is going to be thinking the same thing,’ I grumbled. ‘We may as well give up now.’

  ‘Oh, just read the leaflet,’ said Mads impatiently.

  FANCY YOURSELF AS THE NEXT MILLY BARRY OR PETE JOLLYSPOON? YOU COULD BE OAKWOOD HIGH’S ‘TOP BAKER’!

  BAKE A ‘SHOW PIECE’ CAKE, RAISE MONEY FOR CHARITY AND HAVE FUN TOO.

  ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS PAY £2 TO ENTER, THEN . . . WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? . . . BAKE!

  ‘Seriously, Mads? Year 9? Baking in front of Year 9? You really are bonkers. Do you have a death wish or something? There is no WAY I am baking in front of Year 9. In fact, why don’t you just do this without me? Imagine Georgie and her crowd watching me chuck flour all over myself or whisk a load of eggs up my nose or—’

  ‘Will you just chill?’ Mads interrupted. ‘It’s a cake sale? You do the baking at home. There’s nowhere to cook in school, is there?’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I muttered.

  Mads raised one eyebrow. ‘So. All we need to do is bake something and take it along.’

  ‘You make it sound so simple.’

  ‘It is. We can brainstorm some ideas for a really fab Show Piece. Come on, you know you want to, Mrs Artistic. Think of all the fun you can have with Writing Icing and piping bags. You could make the most creative cake anyone has ever seen. It’ll be sure to catch the eye of the judges.’ She leaned into me and gave me her most winning, Cheshire Cat smile.

  Mads is so flipping persuasive once she gets a plan in her. She loves brainstorming, too. Brainstorming, workshopping, writing lists: she is the queen of organizational skills. She will go far.

  ‘Think of it like this,’ she went on. ‘We can use it as a dry run for when we go on the real Cake Off.’

  I shut my locker and looked nervously over my shoulder. ‘Shh! Not so loud.’

  Mads frowned. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t want anyone to know we’ve entered, that’s why,’ I hissed.

  Mads tutted. ‘I don’t get you. You have been moaning about wanting to spice up your life, and then when an opportunity comes along, all you do is complain about it.’ She looked hurt.

  What if she was thinking about me in all this?

  ‘OK, I’m sorry, Mads,’ I said. I put a hand on her arm. ‘I did think it was a really cool idea when we filled out the application form. I’m just getting a bit freaked now, that’s all. I mean what if we really do get a place? Me and you on The Cake Off? With Milly Barry? On national TV? And –’ it was time to voice what was really worrying me – ‘what if they don’t let us work as a team? I can’t bake to save my life – as my family have been quick to point out.’

  ‘Yeah, well, what do they know?’ she said. ‘You can do this, Ells. As for feeling freaked, don’t worry! We applied together, didn’t we? So we’ll either both get in, or neither of us will.’ She grinned and put her hands on my shoulders. ‘If the worst happens and we have to compete against each other, we can
still help each other out. I’d be just as happy if you won as if I did.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said, feeling relieved. ‘Our friendship is bigger than some silly baking competition. We are the Dream Team.’

  ‘Too right. And imagine how infuriated Charlie would be if you got to go on TV!’ she added with a grin.

  ‘Yeah.’ I grinned too. I looked again at the form for the Year 9 Cake Off. ‘I am definitely going to need all the practice I can get, I guess,’ I added reluctantly.

  ‘So it’s a yes then?’ said Mads.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘But only if you promise to help me and not use this as an excuse for flirting with Ted Watson.’

  The bell rang for lessons.

  ‘Pinky promise,’ said Mads, offering me a little finger. Her eyes were wide and innocent-looking – rather how Kitkat looks when he knows he has done something wrong, in fact.

  I should have taken that as a sign. A warning sign.

  Mads persuaded me to go into town with her after school to get some ingredients from the cookery shop, Cakeland.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I doubt Mum has much in the way of cake ingredients. Um . . . Mads, are you sure you don’t want to practise baking at your house?’ I was starting to feel nervous about cooking at mine with my family there to get in the way and laugh at my efforts.

  ‘You know we can’t,’ said Mads. ‘I practically have to walk around the place on my hands these days to avoid bringing dirt inside.’

  I laughed. ‘You mum’s not that bad!’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you had to live with her,’ Mads replied. ‘Hey, if you don’t want to bake at yours, how about we go to your gran’s? Grans are great bakers, everyone knows that.’

  ‘What?’ I spluttered. ‘Sorry, but I was under the impression you had met my gran? I think you must be confusing her with someone who knows even the slightest thing about cooking.’

  ‘Fair point,’ said Mads. ‘That prune-loaf thing she gave me two years ago is still giving me nightmares.’