Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! (13 page)

I
’m surprised to see Artie standing at the row of sinks when I walk into the girls’ bathroom the next morning. “Hey!” She gives me a huge smile and releases her auburn hair, which she had been holding piled on top of her head. It bounces past her shoulders.

“Hi.”

She notices me looking at the makeup she has piled on the steel shelf in front of her. “Mom only lets me wear gloss,” she explains, motioning to the eyeliner, eye shadow, and mascara. “I keep telling her that everyone wears it, but you know how she is.” She shrugs, as if to say,
What choice do I have?

I don’t really know what to say. My mom and I have never discussed makeup, really — mostly because I tried it once and thought it felt slimy. Frankly, I’m just too lazy to wake up extra early and smear a bunch of goop on my face. But I know one thing: If Mom said no, it would never even occur to me to go behind her back and do it anyway. I mean, I might argue with her about it, if it was something I really wanted.

So I’m standing there, wondering if Artie is being brave or not, when she says, “Thanks for leaving those cupcakes last night. They were awesome.” She turns back to the mirror and reaches for eyeliner, then opens her mouth wide and squints one eye as she lines the bottom lashes on the other. “Devon thought it was a little weird that you just ducked out without saying good-bye, though.”

Three giggling sixth graders push through the bathroom door like toothpaste gushing through a tube. They don’t even seem to notice that Artie and I are there as two of them head to the mirror to do their hair and one heads into a stall.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your movie.”

“That’s what I told him.” Artie starts applying eyeliner to the other eye. When she finishes, she stands back to survey her work. “Is this even?”

I step up to the mirror and stand beside her, looking at myself and my best friend reflected back at me. Some of the girls in our grade look like they’ve put on their makeup in the dark, or maybe tried to apply it with a garden trowel — it’s either caked on or done in weird colors and looks, in my opinion, horrible.

But Artie looks like a movie star. She’s already pretty, but the brown eyeliner brings out the hazel color of her eyes, and the mascara has made her pale lashes seem dark and lush. Her complexion has always been rosy, and the light blush she has applied gives her a pink glow. Her hair is loose around her face, and I’m surprised to realize that my friend isn’t just pretty — she’s stunning.

Beside her, I feel like I’m fading away, becoming invisible. My wavy hair and bangs seem childish, and my skin is pale after a night lying awake, worrying about the cupcake crisis. I am also, I notice, getting a pimple between my thick, straight eyebrows. I’m thicker than Artie, who seems light and slender in just the right way.

I catch Artie’s eye, and she gives me a little half smile, almost as if she feels sorry for me. “Do you want to borrow anything?” she asks, indicating the makeup.

I look at it, momentarily tempted. But I wouldn’t know what to do with it. “No, thanks,” I say, and she goes back to smearing something on her lips.

The first bell rings, and in a whirl, the giggling sixth graders wash their hands and swirl out the door, leaving me and Artie alone. “Oh, by the way, Hayley, I won’t be at lunch today. Devon and I are going to run lines.”

This hits me with a chill, and before I know what I’m doing, I hear myself say, “So — is Devon your boyfriend now?”

Her eyes flick to mine in the mirror. “Why?”

“It’s just —” But I’ve started, and I know that if I don’t say anything now, I’ll never say anything. And if I never say anything, the distance between us will just grow and grow until we can’t reach each other anymore. “I just … used to have a crush on him, that’s all. So it’s a little weird for me.”

Artie’s eyes flick back to her own reflection. She closes the cap on her lipstick and rubs her lips together. “I know.”

For a moment, I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. My heart is beating double time. “You know that it’s weird for me? Or that I had a crush on Devon?”

“Both.” Artie drops her makeup into a flowered bag and zips it closed.

“Oh. But you don’t care?”

Artie turns to look at me, a condescending smile at the corner of her lips. “What’s the big deal, Hayley? You knew that I had a crush on Marco, and it didn’t bother you.”

“But I didn’t — I never meant —” I’m sputtering, as if she’s thrown cold water all over me.
I didn’t even want him to kiss me! I never asked him to feel that way!

“So can I help it if Devon likes me, not you?” Artie grabs her makeup bag and pats me on the shoulder, like I’m a little girl who just lost a sack race. “It’s time to grow up, Hayley.”

She walks out of the bathroom, leaving me standing there alone.

The homeroom bell rings, but I hardly hear it. I don’t cry. For some reason, I can’t — instead, I feel nauseated, as if I’ll throw up at any minute. I steady myself at the sink, then run some cold water, splashing it on my face, over my mouth.

In the mirror, my eyes look blank.

I feel the way I did when I found out Dad was moving out.
Artie doesn’t care about me. Artie cares about Artie, just like Dad cares about Dad.

It’s a lonely thought, and it makes me realize that the little world I’m living in is a place I never really knew, or understood.

I
stay in the bathroom for fifteen minutes, skipping homeroom altogether. I wouldn’t normally do that, but I just can’t bear the thought of walking into the room late and having everyone stare at me as I sit down. One year, for Easter, Gran and I poked holes in eggs and blew through them until the yolk and whites spilled into a bowl. That’s how I feel right now — emptied, like my insides have been scooped out and scrambled, leaving my outside brittle and fragile.

When the bell rings, signaling the end of homeroom, I step out of the bathroom and join the swarm of students heading to class. I head toward my locker, and just as I am about to reach it, an orange locker door closes and I see Meghan’s grinning face.

“Now who on earth would do this for me?” she asks, holding up a cupcake. Taped to the wrapper is a note that reads, E
AT ME
, I’
M GLUTEN FREE
! “And how would that person know my locker combination?”

The knot that my guts have been tied in starts to loosen. I even manage a smile. “I don’t know — isn’t it all prime numbers? Anyone could have guessed that.”

“Right.” Meghan laughs, creasing the space between her eyebrows. She takes a bite and chews it thoughtfully. “Delicious,” she says.

I spin the combination and yank open my locker. “I’m glad you like it.”

She looks down at the cupcake. “Nobody’s ever done this for me before. I’ve been to so many birthday parties, and nobody —” She shrugs, takes another bite.

“It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“Yeah.” Meghan dips a finger into the frosting, licks it off the tip. “I guess that’s kind of the point.”

I don’t really know what to say. “So, uh — your mom called my mom last night.”

Meghan looks surprised. “Why?”

“Apparently she wants to ban sweets in school. No more cupcakes, no more bake sales —”

“What?”
Meghan’s screech is so loud that a group of eighth-grade girls looks over. Then they put their heads together and start whispering. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. You didn’t know?”

“Of course not! Gah! If she’d told me, I would’ve disconnected the phone lines! This is terrible — now everyone is going to think this is because of me.”

I don’t point out that it kind of
is
because of her.

“
That’s
going to make me popular! I’m already borderline with about half of the school because of the Purple Pinto thing,” Meghan rants.

“I thought you didn’t care what anyone thought about you,” I say.

Meghan looks shocked, as if I’ve just said something crazy. “What gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know — the way you dress, the way you just say things …”

Meghan considers this for a moment. “I care what people think,” she says. “I guess I just usually don’t change my mind because of it.”

“So — are you going to do something about it?”

“Aside from freak out? I guess I’ll have to talk to my mom.” Meghan rolls her eyes. “That should be fun.”

The second bell’s about to ring, so I grab my book and notebook and slam the locker with a clang. “Let me know how it goes.”

“I will.”

I start to head off, and Meghan calls after me, “Thanks for the cupcake, Hayley!” at the top of her voice.

I laugh, feeling people’s eyes on me as I walk down the hall.

This is one case in which I don’t mind.

“H
ello?”

“That didn’t work.”

“What didn’t work?”

“Talking to my mom. She gave me one of her standard ‘Meghan Markerson, I Am Doing This for Your Own Good and for the Good of the School’ lectures.”

“So that’s no help.”

“It’s worse than no help — it totally backfired. She’s completely dug in. This is my sister’s fault.”

“How is that possible?”

“Alexis is flunking out of high school. She has this sketchy boyfriend, and she doesn’t listen to anything Mom says, so Mom yells at me instead of her.”

“Wow.”

“It’s a fun time around my house lately.”

“Yeah. My sister’s a little weird, too.”

“How so?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She has an imaginary friend —”

“I had an imaginary friend until I was ten years old!”

“You did?”

“Yeah. It was a horse.”

“Are you serious? Did it … talk?”

“Of course not, it was a horse. Anyway, it was a little hard to bring it to school, so I had to invent ‘Through Power,’ which meant it could go through walls, and stuff.”

“So my sister is less weird than you.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

Silence.

“So — what should we do about your mom? Just accept our fate?”

“Hayley! What kind of attitude is that? We can’t give up now!”

“What are we going to do? Start a petition?”

“Hayley, you’re a genius! Of course — that’s it! If we show that the whole school is behind us, we’ll be able to convince the PTO! I’m hugging you over the phone right now. Can you come over? We’ve got to plan.”

“Why don’t you come over here?”

“Sure. Where do you live?”

“Right over the Tea Room.”

“That’s five blocks from here! I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“See you.”

“Bye.”

“W
hat are you girls up to?” Mom looks up from her computer and watches us as we pour ingredients into the gleaming silver commercial mixer. It’s enormous — big enough to hold twelve quarts — and Meghan was the one who suggested we use it.

“Gran said we could.” I finish pouring in the sugar and turn it on.

“I did,” Gran verifies. She rings up a customer as Mom looks from my face to Meghan’s, then back again.

She takes a sip of her coffee. “That’s fascinating, but it doesn’t really answer my question. You just took a batch of cupcakes out of the oven; now you’re making more?”

“We’re making three hundred chocolate mini-cupcakes to give out at school tomorrow,” Meghan explains.

“Gluten free?” Chloe asks.

Meghan smiles. “You heard about that? Nah, these are just regular.”

“Why are you making three hundred cupcakes?” Mom asks, one eyebrow lifted.

“We’re starting a petition to save the cupcake!”

“Save the cupcake!” Chloe echoes. Rupert mumbles something, and Chloe dissolves into giggles at the end of the counter.

“What is it?” I ask, intrigued by the idea that Rupert might have a sense of humor.

“Are they endangered?” Rupert repeats, more loudly this time.

“Not if I can help it,” Meghan says. She tucks a lock of purple hair beneath the hairnet I gave her.

“Isn’t that a bribe?” Mom asks.

“Of course not!” Meghan huffs. “It’s an incentive! We just want everyone to remember exactly what they’d be giving up.”

“And it’s good publicity for the Tea Room,” I put in.

Gran twinkles, but Mom looks horrified, and I’m about to kick myself: Of course she doesn’t want to make enemies out of the PTO! But a moment later, her lips flip down into a thoughtful frown, and she shrugs. “Okay.”

The bell over the door jingles, and Mr. Malik bursts in, smiling. “How am I supposed to sell flowers when my shop smells like chocolate?”

“Would you like a sample?” I ask, holding out a small cupcake. We’re on our third batch now. We already frosted the first forty-eight with chocolate and a tiny flower on top.

“Oh! Why, look at this, it’s like a tiny tea cake.” Mr. Malik accepts the plate I offer him. It’s a small plate, but it looks huge with only the tiny cupcake in the center. “Just enough for a single bite.”

“They remind me of petit fours,” Gran says as she measures Mr. Malik’s loose tea into a paper cone.

“Ah, a symbol of a more civilized time,” Mr. Malik says as he sits beside my mother at the counter. “A time when people had time!” He looks judgmentally at my mother’s computer screen, but she just smiles at him.

“I should make a few for the shop.” Gran pours boiling water into the tiny green teapot that’s just big enough for her to share with Mr. Malik. “Or perhaps just enough to share.”

“Mrs. Wilson, that would be lovely.”

My grandmother smiles at Mr. Malik as she holds the teapot lid in place with her hand, then pours out the tea into two china mugs.

“Are these ready to go in?” Meghan asks, gesturing toward the mini-cupcake pan, which I’ve just filled with batter.

I nod, and she yanks open the commercial oven and pops the tray inside. She closes the door with a
thunk
and looks around the café. “You’re so lucky.”

“I am?”

“I just love this place.” She puts her elbows on the counter and leans her face into her hands. “The light just pours in, and the floor is so wide. I love the plants and the piano.”

I look around, taking in the café with new eyes. It’s cozy and filled with light, and the wide wooden planks on the floor creak comfortingly whenever you walk across the exact middle of the room. Half of the tables are full. Even Mrs. McTibble is there with her dog, letting her take small bites of her scone. Here and there, vibrant orchids — all from Mr. Malik’s store — tower out of their clay pots. The neglected piano stands quietly in the corner. It gets used so rarely that I often forget it’s there.

“You should have music here sometimes,” Meghan says.

Mom looks up from her computer again, and cocks her head. “What did you say?”

“I said you should have music in here sometimes.”

Mom thinks it over. “That might be nice. Maybe for Sunday brunch. A jazz band, or some such.”

“You should get the piano tuned,” Rupert suggests.

Where is this spurt of conversation coming from?
I wonder, as Mom nods and pecks onto her keyboard. “I’ll look into it.”

“That would be so fun!” Chloe claps her hands. “We could have concerts! Or maybe even a dance performance.”

“Don’t go crazy,” I tell her.

Meghan says, “Why not? The floor is wide enough.” She smiles at me, and I can almost hear what she’s thinking:
Your sister is
so
not weird
.

The timer chimes, and we pull the cupcakes out of the oven.

They’re perfect, and I feel a strange little surge of pride, as if my life is kind of okay, after all.