Frosting and Friendship

by Lisa Schroeder

“Come in,” Madison calls out. The music gets quieter.

  Mom opens the door and we peer inside. Madison is sitting at her desk. Dirty clothes are scattered across the floor and all over her bed. On her nightstand are a whole bunch of dirty dishes.

  “Madison, I need you to take your sister to the store, please.”

  “But, Mom, I’m—”

  “Please don’t argue. I need you to get up and take her right now. It’ll only take a few minutes and then you can get back to whatever it is you’re working on. And when you’re done with that, you get to clean your room. For goodness’ sake, Madison. It smells like a cat died in here.”

  Madison scrunches up her nose. “Gross. No, it doesn’t.”

  I nod my head. “Yes, it does. I’d start digging around for Oscar if I hadn’t just seen him in the family room. It really does stink.”

  Madison stands up. “Okay, okay, so I’ve been super busy and haven’t had time to clean.” She looks at me. “Give me a minute to change out of these shorts. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “Thank you, honey,” Mom says.

  Five minutes later, we’re in the car, on our way to the store. “What are you up to?” Madison asks me.

  “Isabel expects me to make the dessert for Sophie’s party,” I tell her. “So I want to try and make this strawberry cake I just saw on TV. It doesn’t look too hard.”

  She shakes her head. “Lily, maybe you should tell your book club friends you’re not a baker. I bet they’d understand.”

  “But maybe I am a baker,” I say. “Maybe I just haven’t practiced enough. You know what Dad says. Practice makes—”

  “Perfect? Look, you know I’m a big believer in practicing myself. But here’s the thing—sometimes there are things we just aren’t good at doing. I mean, what if I told you I wanted to be a ballerina? Would you tell me if I practice enough, I’ll be good enough to perform the Nutcracker come Christmastime?”

  I look out my window and watch raindrops skip across the glass. “Maybe,” I say quietly. “I mean, who knows? Anything is possible, isn’t it? Mom and Dad have told us that our whole lives. Are you saying you don’t believe it?”

  Madison pulls into the Safeway parking lot and parks the car. After she turns the motor off, she looks at me. “Lily, that’s what parents are supposed to say. It’s okay if you’re good at some things and not so good at others. I mean, look around. Who’s good at everything?”

  I think for a few seconds, and only one person pops into my head, though I’m sure there must be plenty of people. “You?” I say to my sister.

  She laughs. “Oh, that is funny. Do you really think I’m good at everything? Come on. Don’t you remember how I sing? What’d you say I sounded like last time I tried to sing with you?”

  “A seal with the flu.”

  “Right. And what about my decorating skills? Or my cleaning skills? You saw my room—nothing to brag about there.”

  I grab my purse and start to get out. “Okay, okay, maybe you’re right. But I want to feel like I fit in with the Baking Bookworms. I like those girls, and I want them to like me. I want to be good at baking, Madison. So I’m going to see if Chef Smiley can teach me. It doesn’t hurt to try.”

  “All right. Hurry up and buy what you need,” she says as I get out. “I have a paper to write and a room to clean, thanks to you, Miss Baker-Wannabe.”

  I grab a grocery cart and make my way through the store, crossing things off my list. The recipe calls for sifted flour, and I remember what Chef Smiley said. With the right tools and the right attitude, baking is a piece of cake. I throw a flour sifter in my cart, because I’m pretty sure we don’t have one at home.

  I buy the stuff with the money Mom gave me and hurry back to the car. Madison gives me a hard time about taking forever, but geez, I had to make sure I got everything on my list.

  When we get home, Madison retreats to her room and I go to work making the cake. I cream the butter, sugar, and gelatin together with the mixer, just like Chef Smiley said to do. Then I separate the eggs and add the yolks, followed by the whipped egg whites. I mix the flour and baking powder together, and stir that in with the milk. I add the vanilla, and the only thing left to do is puree the frozen strawberries.

  I get the blender out, put a bunch of strawberries in along with some water, and hit blend.

  “Lily!” Mom yells behind me. “You don’t have the . . .”

  But it’s too late. Bright red strawberries go everywhere—on the counter, the cupboards, the floor, the ceiling, and yes, some get on me too.

  I push the off button and turn around to face my mother.

  “Oh, honey,” she says, trying not to laugh, which I guess is better than yelling at me. “Always make sure to put the lid on the blender.”

  I am so embarrassed. And everything was going so well. “Yeah, I think I know that now.”

  I look down at my white shirt, dots of strawberry juice all over it. It’s probably ruined.

  “Why don’t you go change your clothes?” Mom says. “I’ll start cleaning up in here.”

  “But what about the cake? I’m almost done with the batter. I just need to add the pureed strawberries and bake it.”

  “Do you have any berries left?”

  Thankfully, I’d dumped only half of the big bag into the blender. “Yes. They’re in the freezer. Can I finish really quickly and then go shower?”

  “All right,” she says, wetting a rag in the sink. “I’ll work around you.”

  I blend more strawberries, this time keeping everything inside the blender. I pour them into the batter and mix it well. Then I put the parchment paper in the bottom of the pans, just like Chef Smiley instructed. He said it keeps the cakes from sticking. He also said the batter makes enough for three pans, but we have only two, so I split the batter between the two pans. After I pop them in the oven, I set the timer and thank Mom for helping to clean up.

  “You’re welcome,” she says. “Come and help me when you’re finished, okay?”

  “I think I might take a shower. If I’m not down in twenty-five minutes, can you check the cakes? Check them with a toothpick. It should come out clean.”

  “Okay,” she says, grabbing a stool so she can get to the ceiling.

  “I’m really sorry, Mom,” I tell her again. “Hopefully, the cake will taste delicious and you can have a big piece.”

  She holds up her hand with her fingers crossed. “That’s what I’m hoping for!”

  Chapter 9

  glazed doughnuts

  A TRUE JOY

  I’m heading to choir, and I’m so tired, I could probably lie down in the hallway and take a nap. Okay, maybe not. After all, the hallway is where hundreds of kids walk and it wouldn’t be very nice to take a nap where I’d be trampled. Not to mention the fact that I’d be sleeping in dirt.

  But I am so tired.

  Last night, after I took a shower and dried my hair, I went downstairs and smelled something bad. Mom was nowhere in sight. The timer was beeping and the cakes were done. They weren’t burnt, but the oven was filled with smoke because I guess I filled the cake pans too full. The bottom of the oven was covered with burnt batter that had dripped from the pans as the cake rose.

  My mother had stepped away to take a call. When my mom gets on the phone, the sky could be falling and she wouldn’t notice.

  After I opened the windows to clear out the smoke, I considered my options. I could call the whole thing a disaster and throw out the cakes. Or I could frost the cakes even though they weren’t perfect and see how they tasted, and then decide if I wanted to attempt it all over again for Sophie’s party.

  I decided I wanted to see my recipe through to the end. I’d already put in a lot of work, plus I was curious how the cake would taste. Mom came back a while later and felt really bad. While she frosted the cake, I finished wiping down the kitchen.

  The cake was not pretty, due to the layers being uneven. When I took a bite, I thought for sure it would tast
e as bad as it looked. What a surprise when it turned out to be delicious! Mom and I were still up when Dad got home, and he thought it tasted good too.

  Now I’m trying to decide if I want to try again on Sophie’s big day, or look for a different recipe. Maybe something a little easier. I figure I’d have to make two cakes in order to feed thirty people, which means I’d have twice the chances of messing up.

  “Hey, Lily,” Belinda says as I enter the choir room. She never really talks to me. Weird.

  “Hey,” I say. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine.” She smiles. “How’s the audition practicing going?”

  I try to sound happy. Confident. “Oh, it’s going really well.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Really? That’s great. Are you guys going to audition with your cupcake song?”

  I cross my arms. “Oh no. We want to save that song for the Spring Fling. Because it’s . . . special, you know?”

  She smirks. “Right. I’m sure it is.”

  “What about you guys? Have you decided what song you’re going to play in the audition?”

  She casually picks at one of her fingernails. “No, not yet. We have over thirty songs to choose from, so it’s not easy. We want to perform one that shows our experience and our depth as musicians.” She looks at me. “We really want to win.”

  I gulp. Thirty songs? Depth as musicians? What does that even mean? I’m not sure how to reply and lucky for me, the bell rings, so I don’t have to.

  We start to move toward the risers, where we’ll take our places, but Mr. Weisenheimer calls out, “Kids, I brought doughnuts for you today. Come over and get one and take a seat in the chairs. I want to talk to you for a few minutes before we start singing.”

  I make my way toward the table with the boxes of doughnuts. Everyone is smiling and laughing and thanking Mr. Weisenheimer for bringing us an unexpected treat.

  After we’re all seated and munching away, he stands in front of us and smiles. “Wow. What a bunch of happy kids. Wish I could bring doughnuts for you every day.”

  “You should!” someone from the back calls out.

  Everyone laughs.

  “You all know that I think you did an amazing job at the winter concert. And I’ve talked about how I want the spring concert in May to be even better. And while we’ve worked hard on the technical aspects, like breathing, pitch, and tone, I haven’t spent any time talking about what I believe to be most important when it comes to singing. Does anyone want to take a guess as to what I think is most important?”

  No one answers.

  He walks over to the dry-erase board on the wall and writes the word “Joy.”

  “I want to talk to you about singing with feeling and pulling on the heart strings of the people listening to you. Just like you’re eating those doughnuts with joy, I want you to sing with joy. To feel the music with your entire body and to let your audience in on what you’re feeling.” He pauses and looks at us. “Yes, you have to have a certain amount of talent to go far as a singer. But I truly believe that talent will only get you so far. The people who go to the top are the people who sing because they love it more than anything else. And it shows.”

  Belinda raises her hand. “I disagree.”

  Our teacher nods and smiles. “Okay. How come?”

  “Without talent,” Belinda says, “and I’m talking true talent, you’re nothing. You’ll get nowhere.”

  “You may be right,” Mr. Weisenheimer says. “But my point is, be excited about what you’re doing. Don’t just go through the motions. When you’re singing, feel the song and let the audience see and hear and feel those emotions as well. Understand?”

  I think I understand, so I nod my head, along with most everyone else.

  “All right,” he says. “Then let’s do what we love to do, shall we? Let’s sing!”

  * * *

  After school, Isabel calls me. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, looking through the cookbooks again, eating an apple.

  “I just wanted to check in with you,” she says, “and let you know the invitations are all passed out. I’m already starting to get replies from people about whether or not they can come. I’ll try to have a final count to you by Monday or Tuesday. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” I say. “That’ll be fine.”

  “Have you decided what you’re going to bake for the big day?”

  I laugh nervously. “Not yet. I’m trying out some recipes, hoping to find something really wonderful.”

  “You know,” Isabel says, “I was thinking that it should be something chocolate. Sophie loves chocolate. She even loves chocolate chips in her pancakes.”

  When I slept over at Sophie’s house one time, we had chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast. Isabel’s right. The dessert needs to be chocolate. That means the strawberry cake is definitely out. I think of the white-chocolate raspberry cheesecake recipe Chef Smiley is supposed to talk about on Sunday. “Do you think white chocolate is okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I think so. I mean, chocolate is chocolate, right?” In my mind it is. Isabel continues. “I’m going to buy the decorations this weekend. We still need to come up with a plan to get Sophie to your house. So let’s think about that. Maybe you can call her and invite her over there to do something. I don’t know. But we need to come up with an idea soon, so Sophie doesn’t make other plans for that night.”

  I tell her I’ll brainstorm ideas and we agree to talk again on Monday.

  After we hang up, I give myself a pep talk because I want to believe everything is going to turn out fine. Maybe even better than fine. I’ll find a delicious chocolate dessert and Sophie is going to come to my house and be totally surprised. She’ll be so impressed with everything I did for her, our friendship will be just as strong as the one she has with Isabel.

  Here’s the thing about pep talks given by yourself and to yourself. It’s too easy to roll your eyes and say, “What do you know, anyway?”

  Chapter 10

  cocoa fudge cake

  MUSIC TO A CHOCOHOLIC’S EAR

  After dinner Friday night, while Mom goes to watch Dad’s last night at the Wallflower, I decide to bake a chocolate cake from a recipe I found in one of our three cookbooks. Mom said it would be okay, since Madison is home, but she made me promise not to burn the house down.

  Obviously, my mom has a lot of confidence in my baking skills.

  I have about thirty minutes before Zola and Abigail will arrive for practice. I figure it’s enough time to get the cake batter mixed up, and then it can bake while we’re practicing.

  The recipe is called cocoa fudge cake, probably because cocoa is one of the ingredients. I love hot cocoa as a drink, so I figure I’ll love the cake too. After I put on an apron, I pull out the flour, sugar, the can of hot cocoa powder, baking soda, salt, and shortening from the pantry. I get the eggs and milk from the refrigerator and the vanilla from the cupboard where we keep the spices.

  I measure the ingredients out one by one and put everything in a large mixing bowl. I’ve just added the last ingredient, the teaspoon of vanilla, when the doorbell rings.

  Both Zola and Abigail are standing on the porch when I open the door.

  “Hey. Cute apron,” Abigail says as the girls step inside.

  “Thanks.” I look down at the apron I’m wearing. It’s yellow and pink with little daisies all over it. I’m pretty sure this is the first time it’s been worn. After all, my mom doesn’t need to wear an apron to drive to the bakery.

  “What are you baking?” Zola asks as I lead them into the kitchen.

  “A cocoa fudge cake,” I say as I stick the beaters into the mixer. “I’m having a birthday party for a friend from theater camp here next Saturday, and I’m trying to figure out what dessert to serve. As soon as I get the cake in the oven, we can go downstairs.”

  Zola looks behind me. “Dude, it doesn’t look like your oven is preheating. My grandma, the best cake maker on the planet, says you always have to prehe
at the oven.”

  I set the mixer down and turn around. “Thanks. You’re right. I forgot.” Once the oven is turned on, I go back to the ingredients. The recipe says to beat on low speed for thirty seconds and then on high speed for three minutes after that. I don’t have a watch, so I eye the clock on the microwave as I mix.

  When I’m done, I start to walk toward the sink, holding the dirty beaters, when Abigail asks, “Hold on, Lily. Aren’t you going to lick the beaters? That’s the best part of making a cake.”

  I run my finger up the side of one of them and taste the batter before I hand both of them off to my friends.

  “Wow,” I say. “It’s really sweet. Do you think it’s supposed to be that sweet?”

  Zola and Abigail both taste the batter and eye me suspiciously. “How much sugar did you add?” Zola asks.

  “One and a half cups, just like it says. I was really careful with every single ingredient. I want this cake to turn out, you guys. Actually, I need this cake to turn out.”

  Abigail shrugs. “It’s probably fine. I mean, it’s not horrible. When it bakes up, I bet it’ll taste good. I haven’t ever tried a chocolate cake made from scratch. It’s probably supposed to be really sweet. Right?”

  Zola doesn’t say anything as she takes the beater from Abigail and tosses both of them in the sink. She has her drumsticks stuck in the back pocket of her jeans. She looks so awesome, with her hair in adorable cornrows. And she’s wearing her polka-dot shoes again. It’s like you can tell she’s in a band just by looking at her. I look down at myself, with the cute apron, and realize I look nothing like a person in a band.

  “All right. Get that cake in the oven so we can go make some music,” Zola says when she turns around. I pour the batter into the cake pans and slide them into the oven just as the oven beeps that it’s done preheating.

  I set the timer for thirty minutes before we head downstairs.

  “Belinda told me the New Pirates have thirty songs written,” I tell the girls when we get to Dad’s studio. “Can you believe that? We barely have one.”