by Jen Malone
“Right,” he says.
Mom and Dad follow me upstairs to collect my computer. I delete all of the “fun” reminders from my phone and hand that over to them too. After they leave, I drop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s white, like the rest of my room. And there’s not a single boat-related thing in here. It’s like my refuge from my family.
After everything that’s happened tonight, I feel weirdly calm. Almost good, actually. Like maybe I was trying to do too much before. And now that I’ve decided to cut out all of the unnecessary stuff, I’ll have more time what’s important—school and getting into the right college.
Nothing else.
Rate the Cake!
Rank each item on a scale from one to five hearts
(one heart is “blech” and five hearts is “super scrumptious!”)
Name: Vi
Cake Flavor: dark chocolate peanut butter
Appearance: Like it just came from a fancy bakery in New York.
Texture: Kind of crumbly. (Texture can make or break a cake!)
Flavor: I need to get this recipe & add something to make it less crumbly. Pudding, maybe? Or applesauce?
Overall: YES!!!!!!! (But fix the crumbles.)
Name: Sadie
Cake Flavor: carrot
Appearance: Sooo pretty with the curled shredded carrot bits on top.
Texture: Spongy, which is weird but pretty good actually.
Flavor: I didn’t expect the icing to be cream cheese! But it was still good.
Overall: I think this might not be the best choice for a wedding because it’s not universally loved. Might be more practical to go with chocolate, which is a total crowd pleaser.
Name: Becca
Cake Flavor: raspberry lemon
Appearance: Looks delectable.
Texture: OUCH!
Flavor: OUCH!
Overall: DOUBLE OUCH!!!!!
Name: Lauren
Cake Flavor: Boo. We miss Lauren. Xoxo, Becca
Appearance:
Texture:
Flavor:
Overall:
Becca
Daily Love Horoscope for Scorpio:
Who cares. Who’s gonna be interested in a brace-face?
Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
No, seriously. OWW! Braces = lifetime of pain.
Lifetime, two years. Two years, lifetime. Same thing, if you ask me. Also:
OWWWWWWWW!
I really, really, really, really, REALLY hate braces. Really. It’s only been two days and already I could start a Museum of Gross Things with the little bits of gunk I’ve pulled out of my cages. Whoever named the metal brackets “cages” was so right-on, too. My pretty, shiny, smooth teeth are totally caged in, like pearly zoo animals I’m not allowed to feed.
I hate this. It makes me want to laugh/cry that we spent the first half of my sleepover (the part before my two besties embarked on a crime spree and became juvenile delinquents) gorging ourselves on all the foods I wouldn’t be able to eat with braces, like caramel apples and popcorn, but we didn’t even consider mashed potatoes and mac ’n’ cheese and Hershey’s Kisses and string beans (what? They’re good, even if they are veggies) and ruffled potato chips and meat loaf and basically ALL FOOD EVER. Because it hurts to eat ev-er-y-thing.
Mama says I should quit my whining and give it a couple of days, like Dr. Bernstein suggested, before making any snap judgments, but hello. Snap judgments are like gut feelings, and everyone says you should trust your gut feelings. Mine are saying I’m not even gonna be able to enjoy the wedding cake we’re supposed to be sampling with Alexandra Worthington after school.
CAKE! Cake should always be happy. It’s like a rule or something.
Oww.
I’m pacing the sidewalk outside Marks Makes Cakes because the last thing I want to do is run into Linney Marks when I’m this cranky. I really abso-posi-lutely cannot be responsible for my actions in my current state. I debate wandering over to Merlin the Marlin since I’m stuck on some new song lyrics I’m working on and, for some weird reason, talking things through with an inanimate statue always helps. But then I spot Vi on her bike.
“I still can’t get used to your new look,” she says, once she’s pulled up next to me.
I clamp my lips closed but . . . oww. Even that hurts, because I keep catching the inside of my lips on the stupid cages. I wish I could fall asleep like Snow White and wake up when it’s time to get these things off. Except I’d have to bite into a poisoned apple for that to happen, and the thought of biting into any apple is . . . well, just . . . oww!
“Do you have the rating cards or does Sadie?” I ask. (Sadie thought it would be fun to rate each cake as we tasted, and she made up these cute little cards we could all use.) Only it comes out more like, “Oof oo ave oof ating ards oof oes adie?”
Vi tilts her head. “Huh?”
I use my fingers to unstick the inside of my lips from my braces and settle my top lip above the brackets. This is sooooo not gonna fly long-term. I repeat my question, but Vi is too busy giggling to hear me. She throws her arm around my shoulder and says, “Don’t worry. They just take some getting used to.”
Easy for her to say. She isn’t the one who could fund a small war by melting the contents of her mouth.
Sadie rounds the corner next, swinging a shopping bag from one hand. She waves when she spots us. If anyone would know about dropping everything and running when a client calls, it’s Mrs. Pleffer, but she was still pretty mad that Sadie left Becca’s without telling a grown-up. So now Sadie’s off screens for two weeks, but at least she can leave the house.
Technically, Lauren could be here too, because her parents said RSVP business was an exception, but she’s auditioning for Poster Child of Grounding and figured she could earn extra brownie points by living a monklike existence of school then homework followed by homework then school.
I love her to pieces, but she and I have polar-opposite viewpoints on grounding. I offered to give her survival tips since Mama and Daddy punish me for something practically every other day (example A: I just barely escaped losing screen privileges for allowing my friends to leave my sleepover without letting an adult know, even though it TOTES wasn’t even my fault), but she wasn’t interested.
Her loss.
Sadie turns to me with something that’s halfway between a smile and a grimace. She’s been following my braces saga pretty closely because at her last appointment Dr. Bernstein said he was still on the fence about whether she’d need them or not.
“Any better today?” she asks.
I make a face. “I managed applesauce for breakfast. It only hurt a medium amount.”
Sadie looks horrified. “Oh. Um. Wow. I really hope it gets better soon. You’re kind of scaring me.”
I shrug and tuck my lyrics notebook into my purse. “I’m just telling it like it is, like any good friend would.”
“Yes,” says Vi. “We all know Becca would never exaggerate at all, ever. She’s not the least bit melodramatic or anything.”
Both my friends smile. Whatever. I’m too cranky to be a good sport about their teasing. “Should we go in?” I ask, holding the door for them.
The Markses’ bakery smells like the North Pole married the Nutcracker suite—all buttercream frosting and gingerbread deliciousness. I fully expect the Sugar Plum Fairy to pop out of the back room instead of Mrs. Marks. I for real don’t understand how Linney could be so nasty when she grew up around so much sweet. (Luckily, I don’t spot Girl Evil at all.)
We tried really extra hard to steer Alexandra away from having a traditional wedding cake alongside her dessert bar, just so we wouldn’t have to deal with Linney, but since she couldn’t be swayed, even I have to admit Linney’s mom does have the best bakery in town. Maybe even anywhere.
“Hi, girls. Am I glad to see you! Your client is already here and was rather, um, insistent on inspecting my kitchen and offering some, er, suggestions. I’ll let her know you’re
waiting!” Mrs. Marks’s smile looks way too plastered on to be legit. Yikesies.
She waves her hand at metal chairs at a little cafe table tucked into the corner, and we’re still figuring out how to cram around it when Alexandra appears, wiping her hands on a bright green Marks Makes Cakes apron she is, for some reason, wearing.
“You three are late!”
Sadie glances at the clock above the register. “Um, according to this, we’re five minutes early, Miss Worthington.”
“Precisely. Which is ten minutes late. All planners must be present and accounted for fifteen minutes prior to any scheduled meeting time. It’s line item twenty-seven on the addendum to the contract I sent over last week.”
Sadie squirms a little in her chair. “Sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”
Alexandra slips her apron over her head and drops it across the cupcake display case. “Good. See that it doesn’t. Now, I gave the bakery a few instructions for the décor I’d like to see on our cakes for today. She had some nonsense about not decorating the samples as we’re just here to taste the flavors, but that’s ridiculous. How will I know if I want real flowers or sugar flowers if I haven’t seen them displayed for me? I was informed this will take some additional time, which is just fine as I have lots of other details to discuss with you.”
Yowza. I already felt sorry for Mrs. Marks, having to have Linney for a daughter and all, but now I feel doubly triply bad for her. Alexandra thumps a giant binder onto the table, and Sadie cringes like she’s seen this monstrosity before.
Poor Sades. She’s definitely been getting the worst of the wedding-planning stuff since it’s her phone we use as our business number, and also because the rest of us kinda figure she knows what she’s doing best out of all of us, on account of the years she spent helping her mom. But maybe we should have been more helpful. I’m for sure going to be waaaaay better from now on. I mean, that is if I can take time away from my new favorite hobby—checking my pocket mirror to see what’s stuck in my braces now.
Alexandra flips to a tab in the middle and flops the book open to a page of photos of women in old-timey dresses. “Okay, girls, now here’s what I’m thinking. We send a ‘look book’ to all of the guests, composed of outfits I would consider appropriate for them to wear in order to match our vintage theme.”
Vintage theme? Is this a new one? Because last I knew it was rock-and-roll and before that it was fairy tales. I’ve forgotten the ones that came before those; there’ve been so very many!
Alexandra doesn’t even take a break for air. “For example, here are a slew of early-nineteenth-century fashions that would work well. Perhaps you girls could compile a list of shops in each guest’s home city where he or she could procure cloches and elbow-length gloves.”
I only know a cloche is a fancy hat because I consider it my duty to be fashion-forward, but I’m guessing Vi has never heard that word. In. Her. Life.
Sadie opens and closes her mouth a few times and then just nods. I gape at her, and when she catches my eye, she gives me a look like Shh, let me handle this!, which I am really not so sure about, but I nod too, mostly because she’s my bestie and also because one of the little rubber bands in my mouth is doing something distracting and weird.
Next, Alexandra stares at Vi for, like, five whole seconds and then reaches over to touch her ponytail and says, “So, I want to get your take on something, girls. I’ve asked the blondes in my wedding party to dye their hair brown for the occasion because I want to be the only blonde in my photos. But I’m wondering if I should extend the order to all the guests. You know, in case the photographer wants to get some shots from above. Speaking of which, I think we might need to rent a glider for some aerial shots. I was considering a helicopter, but they’re so loud, and since gliders don’t have engines . . . or maybe a blimp? Know where we could rent a blimp around here?”
I’m pretty sure my (sore) jaw is on the floor. I steal a quick glance at Sadie and Vi, and they are studying the linoleum like someone dropped a contact lens. I quickly duck my head down to do the same before I have to be the one to break it to her that the town’s only wedding photographer gets so motion sick that just being on a boat makes him barf (exhibit A: the fateful Little Mermaid wedding that got Sadie f-i-r-e-d). Which means I’m eleventy-billion percent sure he isn’t going up in a blimp. Or a glider. Before any of us can figure out how to yank Alexandra off the cray-cray train, Mrs. Marks appears with a small cake in each hand.
“Who’s ready for a sugar buzz?” she sings. We all sigh at the sight of the decorated awesomeness. I’m pretty sure everyone else’s are happy sighs. But mine is way more of a why did I have to ruin my life and get braces so that I’m not even sure if frosting will hurt my teeth? It looks so innocent and squishy, but then again so did the applesauce this morning. Alexandra reaches across the table and grabs a fork out of Mrs. Marks’s hand, along with one of the cakes.
“What flavor is this one?”
Mrs. Marks still has her plastered smile. “That’s raspberry lemon. This other one here is carrot, and I have my dark chocolate–peanut butter one just about ready.” She sets four plates in front of us and passes me, Sadie, and Vi the other forks.
“It’s so nice you girls have this party-planning company. I wish my Linney would find a fun hobby like this.”
Writing songs is a hobby. Vi’s beach volleyball is a hobby. Sadie’s obsessive organizing of school supplies is a . . . well, no, that’s just plain weird. But either way, forcing hair dye on unsuspecting wedding guests is not a hobby. It’s WORK. Besides, her precious Linney totes has a hobby too. It’s called “torturing the rest of us.” Sadie just smiles at Mrs. Marks and politely thanks her while Vi mashes her lips together, probably to keep from saying what she really thinks about Linney.
Alexandra is ignoring us and closing her mouth around a forkful of raspberry-lemon cake. She puts it down without comment and reaches across the table to the cake at Sadie’s place. She swaps plates and digs into the new one. Eww. She didn’t even wipe her fork off or anything. I’m suddenly seeing how this cake tasting is gonna unfold.
Mrs. Marks looks super nervous, probably because Alexandra isn’t giving any reaction at all. Like, at all. “I’ll be right back,” Linney’s mom says, and disappears into the kitchen again.
By the time she comes back a minute later with the final cake, Alexandra has taken three more bites of the others, and still: zip zero nada change to her facial expression. She also hasn’t offered any to us, so we’re just sitting with our forks in our hands looking like we’re on a hunger strike or something (which actually might not be that bad of an idea with this whole Great Braces Saga stuff).
Mrs. Marks puts the last cake in front of Alexandra this time, like she knows we’re basically not even needed here. Alexandra takes one bite, then puts down her fork. She turns to Sadie and says, “What’s the status on those éclairs we talked about? Have you found someone to go to Paris and get them yet?”
Paris?
“Paris?” I ask. I sit way up in my seat because PARIS. Eiffel Tower, Champs-Élysées, most amazing place on Earth (I’m pretty sure).
Sadie kicks me under the table. “I thought we had abandoned that idea, Miss Worthington. I was going to ask our friend Philippe to look into a recipe, remember?
“Philippe?” I ask. I sit way up in my seat because PHILIPPE. Floppy hair, adorable accent, most amazing boy on Earth (I’m pretty sure). It sounds like I should have been sitting in on more of these wedding-planning meetings. I’m just saying.
“Right,” Alexandra says. “But if we get them, will we have too much chocolate if I go with this last cake?” Before anyone can answer her, she butts in on her own question and answers, “No. That’s just silly. There’s no such thing as too much chocolate. Maybe we should do a chocolate fountain, too. Write that down, Sadie-babe.” She turns to Mrs. Marks and passes her a half-eaten cake. “We’ll take the chocolate peanut butter.”
Mrs. Marks sm
iles a huge smile that’s totes real this time. “Perfect. This is a crowd-pleaser, I promise. Let me get the order form.”
She turns to walk away and Alexandra calls after her, “Oh, and I need it to be nut-free. My fiancé is deathly allergic to peanuts.”
Mrs. Marks pauses right in the middle of a step and turns around extra slowly. “Uh, you do realize this is a peanut-butter cake. It’s made with real peanut butter. I can’t see any—”
“Bride’s day, bride’s way!” Alexandra interrupts. She turns to me. “Am I right, Red? You look like someone who gets her way a lot.”
I’m, like, totally incapable of speech (which, if you ask Daddy, never ever happens).
Mrs. Marks resumes trying to explain to Alexandra how it’s not possible to make a nut-free peanut-butter cake, but she is so not having that. Nope. Not one bit.
Alexandra says, “Maybe you could hunt down some nut-free peanut-butter flavoring you could use instead.” Then she turns to Sadie and adds, “E-mail my cousin Trent at his lab and ask him to invent something that would work here. And don’t let him tell you he can’t spare a day away from his infectious-disease study. He can. Tell him the wedding is in just over two weeks, so he needs to get a move on. And keep me updated. I’ll get you his e-mail.”
With that Alexandra stands up, flips the tail of her long sweater, and flounces out, with a little fluttery hand-wave thing.
Oh. My.
Vi and Sadie are about as tongue-tied as I am, so I do the only thing I can possibly think of. I pull the carrot-cake plate over to me, spin it to find an untouched sliver, then stab it with a fork, and stuff a piece in my mouth.
Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
Vi
SUPER-EASY GRANOLA BARS
Ingredients:
1 cup dates (pitted)
1 cup almonds (unsalted, roasted, chopped)
11/2 cups rolled oats
1/4 cup peanut butter
1/4 cup honey
Put the dates into a food processor and chop them for about one minute. Then put them into a bowl with the oats and almonds. Warm the peanut butter and honey in a small pot on the stove (use low heat). Stir the warm peanut butter and honey, and then pour the mixture on top of the oats, almonds, and dates. Mix all the ingredients together (you might have to break up the dates). Put the mixture into an 8" x 8" dish or a small pan (hint: line the dish with parchment paper so the bars don’t stick to the bottom). Flatten the mixture by pushing down on it. You want the mixture to be as even-looking as you can get it. Cover the dish with plastic wrap and place it in the refrigerator for at least 15–20 minutes. Once the mixture has hardened, you can remove it from the pan and cut it into approximately 10 bars.
