Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! (15 page)

“H
ey, Gran.”

My grandmother looks up from what she’s doing, which is … something mysterious. A tiny piece of cake is suspended on the end of a fork, and she’s pouring some thick pink liquid over it.

“You’re just in time to learn to make petit fours!” Gran grins at me, delighted.

“I’ve already tried one,” Mom says from her usual place at the end of the counter. “They’re delicious.”

“Cool.” I stow my bag and poster board beneath the counter and go wash my hands. “Are we getting the piano fixed?” I gesture to the workman hovering over the old upright.

“Tuned,” Mom corrects. “I don’t think it’s been tuned in —”

“Thirteen years!” Gran chirps. She places a hand to the side of her lips and whispers to me, “Honestly, I practically forgot the thing was sitting there.”

“So what’s this stuff?” I ask, pointing to the vaguely icing-like goo.

“Fondant,” Gran explains. “Let me show you.” With a deft hand, she uses a small cookie cutter to slice out a square of sponge cake. When she lifts it out, I see that it’s actually two layers of cake with raspberry jam in the middle. Then she places the tiny cake on the fork and ladles the pink fondant over it. “Now we let this dry, and we can decorate it with tiny flowers.”

“They look more like candies than cakes.”

“Fairy-sized treats,” Gran says, and I am flush with a vivid memory — making a fairy house in the woods with Gran and leaving a small cake for them. Pink icing, a tiny red flower on top.

“Have we made these before?”

“Oh, once or twice, perhaps. When you were a small girl.”

I try my hand at the fondant — it doesn’t come out as evenly as Gran’s — and reach for another small square of cake. Mom watches me for a moment. “Is that a new necklace?”

“Dang!” I’ve dropped the cake into the fondant. Gran hands me a spoon, and I fish it out. “Now it’s a blob.”

“It’s all right, darling, just try again.” Gran hands me another piece.

“Where did you get it?” Mom asks. She’s still talking about the necklace.

I feel a two-second temptation to lie, but reject the idea. “Annie gave it to me.”

“Annie?” Mom cocks her head.

“Dad’s new … friend.”
Ugh
. The word tastes foul in my mouth.

“Ah.” Mom turns back to her computer, and I feel Gran’s sideways glance at me. Luckily, Mrs. McTibble comes in at just that moment, grouching about the weather, and Gran bustles off to help her — or at least commiserate with her, which is more or less the same thing.

Mom and I are at the far end of the counter. I’m really, really focusing on pouring fondant on the petit four I’m making. Out of the blue, Mom says, “Do you like Annie?”

I don’t look up from my work. “I don’t hate Annie,” I reply.

Mom nods. “It’s okay if you like her.”

“Okay.” I place the petit four on a rack to dry. “But I’m not sure if I do.”

Mom presses her lips together, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “It’s nice she gave you that necklace.”

“She’s trying, I guess. Maybe too hard.”

“That’s understandable. She’s in an awkward position.”

I look into my mom’s warm brown eyes. “It doesn’t upset you to talk about her?”

“No, honey.” Mom shakes her head slowly, our eyes still locked. “People have to move on. We’re at a new place in our lives now. Things aren’t going back.”

For some reason, I feel my throat tighten, like something’s stuck in it, and my eyes burn. Just then, the piano tuner comes over to talk to Mom, and I surreptitiously swipe at my eyes. She writes him a check as Rupert and Chloe walk into the café.

“Oh, it’s tuned!” Rupert says when he sees the workman’s bag on the floor. “May I play something?” He’s asking me, which is hilarious, because I have no idea — it’s not like I’m in charge.

“Customers don’t want to hear banging on an old piano,” Mrs. McTibble grumbles, but Gran says, “Certainly, dear,” and settles Mrs. McTibble with a look.

I’m about to tell Gran that maybe it’s not a good idea — after all, we do have a couple of customers, and Mrs. McTibble just might be right. But then Mom’s phone rings, and when she sees who it’s from, she gives a little “Oh” of surprise and flashes me a look I can’t read. I watch her dash into the back to answer the call, and when I turn around Rupert is already sitting down at the piano bench. His fingers pause over the keys, as if he’s trying to remember something. Then an expression comes over his face like the look Marco gets when he’s thinking hard, and Rupert launches into playing the piano.

His fingers fly over the keys, rising and falling as the notes fill the café. They’re like birds, swooping and diving through the air, and the next thing I know, Chloe has begun to dance. She’s wearing a spring dress, and her skirt swirls around her as she twists and twirls her body.

My sister has always taken ballet, and her movements are graceful and fluid, but different from anything I’ve ever seen her do before. There is an open area at the rear of the café, and she fills it with her dancing the way that Rupert fills it with music. For both of them, it’s as if they’ve forgotten that the rest of us are here, or they don’t care.

Mrs. McTibble sits back in her seat, and Gwendolyn falls asleep in her arms, letting out a soft, happy snore. Gran props her elbows on the counter and watches, and someone opens the door to enter, but pauses in the doorway, unwilling to disturb the scene.

After a few moments, Rupert’s music slows, and the final chord sounds. Chloe comes to a graceful rest as the notes die away, and for a moment, silence reverberates in the café.

“Well,” Gran says finally. “That was lovely. Thank you, Rupert. And Chloe, you too.”

Rupert smiles shyly and Chloe curtsies. The customer in the doorway takes a step forward, and in the next moment, the spell is broken. We’re back in a café. But something has shifted.

Rupert has changed in my eyes. And so has Chloe. I feel as if I’m waking from a dream in which I felt sorry for Chloe for having a strange little companion instead of her old friends. Now I see that those friends were just like … like old shoes. Even if you still want to wear them, they don’t fit anymore.

Rupert fits.

I’m still mulling this over when Mom comes out of the back office, her face pale.

“Are you okay?” Chloe asks.

“Yes.” Mom looks down at the phone.

“Who was that?”

“It was Mr. Alper from Greater Valley Family Practice. The doctors’ office.”

“Oh.”

“He offered me the job.”

“Even though you snorted water through your nose?” I ask as Chloe lets out a whoop and twirls around our mother.

“I guess he thought that was funny.” Mom looks down at the phone, as if she can’t believe she just had that conversation.

“That’s great!” I rush over to give my mom a hug, and it’s only when I finish squeezing her that I turn around and see Gran watching us, a faint, sad smile on her face.

“Well. Congratulations, Margaret. He’s lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, Mother.”

And I see in her hesitant face that Mom isn’t sure this is the right thing. Even though it’s what she wanted — what we all wanted. Now she can earn enough money to save up and move out of Gran’s. She won’t have to manage the café anymore.

But.

But then we’ll move out of Gran’s.

“When do you start?” I ask.

“I told them I’d have to think about it.”

“You did?” And the rush of relief that floods my body is a surprise, even to me. I hug her again, more tightly this time.

“Why?” Chloe asks.

“I just want to be sure it’s the right thing before I make any decisions.”

I want my mother to do what she wants. Of course. She needs to be happy. But I can’t stand to think about leaving Gran’s house. Not yet.

I know it’s selfish … but I guess I just don’t want anything else to change right now.

Freak-outs

(makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

Try these when you’re feeling freaked, or just in the mood for something different. Very, very different.

INGREDIENTS:

8 whole cloves garlic

1/3 cup canola oil, plus more to coat garlic

1 cup milk

1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup sugar

1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

2/3 cup semisweet chocolate chips kosher salt, for sprinkling

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with cupcake liners.
   
2. Toss garlic cloves in a little oil and place on a baking sheet. Roast in the oven until browned and soft. Remove from oven, and let sit until cool enough to mash into a paste.
   
3. Whisk the milk and vinegar in a bowl, and set aside for a few minutes to get good and curdled.
   
4. Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a large bowl, and mix.
   
5. Place the chocolate chips in a microwave-safe bowl and heat for 30 seconds. Remove from microwave and stir. If they aren’t melted, heat again in 10-second increments, stirring each time, until fully melted.
   
6. In a separate large bowl, mix the curdled milk with the sugar, vanilla extract, and oil, then add the garlic paste and melted chocolate. With a whisk or handheld mixer, add the dry ingredients a little bit at a time, stopping occasionally to scrape the sides of the bowl, and mix until no lumps remain.
   
7. 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. Frost with Fudgy Frosting, and then sprinkle a few flakes of kosher salt on top.
   

Fudgy Frosting

INGREDIENTS:

1/3 cup semisweet chocolate chips

1/2 cup margarine, softened

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

3 tablespoons cocoa powder, unsweetened

1/2 cup powdered milk (non-flavored, otherwise the texture will be grainy from the larger sugar crystals)

1 cup confectioners’ sugar

1 tablespoon milk (to thin frosting, if needed)

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. Place the chocolate chips into a microwave-safe bowl and heat for 30 seconds. Remove from microwave and stir. If they aren’t melted, heat again in 10-second increments, stirring each time, until fully melted. Then set aside and allow to cool to room temperature.
   
2. In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, beat the margarine until light and fluffy. Beat in vanilla extract and cocoa powder until combined.
   
3. Slowly beat in the powdered milk and confectioners’ sugar on low speed. If the mixture seems too firm, drizzle in a little milk; if it’s too watery, add more powdered milk in small increments. Beat on medium speed until completely combined.
   

“A
re you nervous?” Mom asks as we walk toward the upstairs conference room, where the meeting is to be held.

“A little.” I don’t want to admit that I’m nervous just
walking
there — I’ve never been in that room before. “I’m just glad I don’t have to do the talking.”

“Meghan’s going to give the presentation?”

“Yes.”
Thank goodness
, I add silently. In third grade, I flunked an oral report on
Bambi
. When I got to the part about Bambi’s mother dying, I started to cry, and then I had to sit down, and my teacher gave me an F.

I’ve hated oral reports ever since.

“Speak of the devil,” Mom says — Meghan is standing in the hallway. When she sees me, she darts over and takes my arm.

“Are you okay?” I ask her. Her eyes and the tip of her nose are red.

“I’m going inside,” Mom says, reading Meghan’s face.

I nod and turn back to my friend. “What’s wrong?”

“I just had a huge fight with my mom,” she whispers. “She’s freaking out that I’m trying to stop her.”

“Ohmigosh.” I don’t know what to do, so I give her a big hug, which is pretty awkward, given that I’m holding a huge sign. A few people gape at us as they walk into the meeting.

Meghan puts her palms to her cheeks, as if she’s trying to stop them from burning. “You’ve got to help me,” she says.

“Anything.”

“You’ve got to give the presentation.”

“Anything else.”

“I mean it, Hayley. I can’t do it!” She pulls a pile of index cards from her jacket pocket. Her hands are shaking, and I feel her fear. This is a side of Meghan that I’ve never witnessed before — she always seems so confident, so happy. It’s strange to think that she’s afraid of her own mother, but I can see the desperation in her eyes when she begs, “I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”

Her fear transfers to me, almost like a blood transfusion. Suddenly, I’m sweating and my breath is shallow. I can’t do this! I’m the sidekick — the person holding the sign, not the person making the speech! “Meghan — you’re the one who’s good at this stuff!” Her face reddens and her eyes fill, and I’m feeling horrible, but still I blurt out, “I can’t do it.”

She turns a darker shade of red. “You have to.” Meghan’s stare presses down on me and I feel small. “You’ve done harder stuff than this, Hayley.” Her voice is like the crack of a whip, and I almost shrink away from her. Meghan’s angry, and I don’t really blame her. But her voice changes suddenly, and she’s almost pleading. “I’m asking you as a friend to do me this favor.”

The word sinks into me. As a friend? I blow out a sigh. This is a Meghan I barely know — frightened, almost needy — and for a moment I wish that I’d never put that cupcake in her locker. “Okay,” I say finally.

“Okay, like, you’ll do it?” Her face is cautiously hopeful, and I realize suddenly that she wasn’t sure I’d say yes. But of course I’m saying yes. Didn’t she help me when I couldn’t remember my locker combination? Didn’t she help me when I saw Devon with Artie?

“I’ll do it.”

She hugs me, hard.

“Don’t squish the sign!”

“Of course not.” Meghan takes the poster right out of my hand. “I have to hold it, don’t I?” She grins, and wipes her face with her sleeve. “Do I look horrible?”

“You look great.”

Meghan rolls her eyes. Then she fluffs out her purple bangs and straightens her hot-pink tunic. She takes a deep breath and reaches for my hand.

“Just remember,” I tell her.

“What?”

“Nineteen, twenty-three, twenty-nine.”

She doesn’t exactly laugh, but she lets out a little huff — an almost chuckle — and I know she understands what I mean. Then she smiles at me and sniffs through her pink nose, and we walk into the meeting together.