Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! (4 page)

I.

Don’t.

Want.

To.

Idon’twanttoIdon’twanttoIdon’twanttoIdon’twanttoIdon’t wanttoIdon’twantto.

ot.tnaw.t’nod.I!

A Dot Tint Now

Dawn It Not To

Tad In Town To

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going. Chloe is all excited — she wants me to bring Mom’s recipe for apple cake. It’s the one thing our mother knows how to bake. Chloe doesn’t even seem to have thought about how painful that would be for Mom. Not that I’m going to explain it to Chloe. I’m not that mean.

Look, I don’t want to sound like a jerk or a baby or whatever. It seems ridiculous to complain about apple picking. And I’m not really complaining about apple picking. I’m not even complaining about my dad, if that’s what you’re thinking.

It’s just …

Now that we only see him once a week, we’re supposed to Do Stuff together. But when he used to live with us, we never had to do anything. We could just hang out and make pancakes or read the newspaper or watch a Godzilla movie on TV. Dad never complained if I wanted to hang out with Artie or Marco, or anyone.

I didn’t have to cram in all of this quality time with Dad. He was just there. Or else he was at work, and I didn’t really think about him much. Now we have to Talk and Spend Time Together. Back then, we could just ignore each other or be together in quiet ways.

I guess it sounds bad to say that I miss having my dad live with us because I miss taking him for granted.

But that’s the truth.

Horrible me.

T
he noise of people chatting and silverware clinking floats through the air on a cloud of fried-food smell. I look over at the salad bar, where Artie hovers, debating with her usual thoroughness the choice between garbanzo and kidney beans. Her parents are all earthy-crunchy, and whenever Artie brings food from home, it’s something in the avocado-sandwich-on-homemade-seven-grain-bread family. My mom is more of a peanut-butter-and-jelly kind of mom. Today she packed a turkey sandwich, a slightly mashed pear, and a bag of chips.

“This is what I get for forgetting my lunch,” Artie says as her plate clatters onto the orange table. A healthy salad gleams before her, beside a whole wheat roll and an apple.

“Looks pretty good,” I say.

“They don’t even have any sunflower seeds to go on the salad!” Artie complains, spearing a grape tomato.

“And they call this place a school cafeteria?” I shake my head.

“I just like it how I like it,” Artie says.

“Yeah. I know the feeling.” I look down at my own sad little half-squashed sandwich. “Mom always puts too much mayo on my sandwiches.”

“Can’t you tell her to stop?”

“I’ve tried, but she doesn’t get it.”

“Annoying, but what are you going to do about it? You’ll just have to live with it.”

“Yeah.” I take a bite of my pear. “I guess I could pack my own lunch.”

“There’s an idea.” Artie makes a face.

It’s funny. I’ve never had this thought before. Isn’t that weird? Like, packing lunch has always been part of Mom’s job description. But why? Why not my dad? He makes good sandwiches. Even
I’m
a way better cook than she is — why shouldn’t I pack my own lunch? And why didn’t I think of this before, when Mom had a full-time job?

I look over at Artie, who doesn’t ever question her life. Her artistic parents who both work from home. Her handsome, popular brother. Her beautiful, brilliant sister who is applying only to Ivy League colleges. She doesn’t even seem to notice that not everybody’s family gathers around the living room to sing folk songs together after dinner while Mom strums the guitar.

When I was small, I used to wish I lived with Artie’s family.

But Artie doesn’t even know that her family is special, just like she doesn’t realize that her hair is gorgeous and her skin is perfect. If she weren’t my best friend, I’d probably hate her guts.

Someone plops down into the seat beside Artie and says, “Gimme a high five.”

I pause mid-chew. It’s Devon, all dimples and white teeth, and he’s holding up a palm for Artie. “Don’t leave me hanging,” he says, and it’s all I can do to not spit out my pear and high-five him myself.

But Artie just smiles and slaps his hand. “Why are we high-fiving?”

“Because they put up the callback list,” Devon says. “And you and I are on it.”

“That’s awesome!” I choke out, and a tiny piece of pear flies out of my mouth and lands on the table.
He didn’t see
that
, I tell myself, but I’m not sure it’s true because — for the first time in possibly ever — Devon’s blue eyes are directly on mine.

I sit perfectly still, trying not to shrink under his gaze.

“Devon, this is Hayley,” Artie says.

“Hi.” Devon smiles.

“Congratulations on the callback,” I tell him. “That’s great.”

“Thanks,” he says warmly. “It doesn’t mean anything yet, but …”

“But it could,” I put in, which makes him smile again.

He turns to Artie. “I see your friend is an optimist.”

“Usually,” Artie says, and I pipe in, “I’m very optimistic!” — which makes Devon laugh and me blush.

“Callbacks are scheduled for Monday,” Devon says. “I’ll see you?” He climbs out of the chair.

Artie nods, and I say, “I’ll make sure she’s there!” Devon waves at us, then turns and walks across the cafeteria.

The minute he’s out of earshot, Artie groans and covers her face in her hands.

“Whatwhatwhat?” I ask her, and for a moment I’m terrified that she’s going to say, “I’m in love with Devon,” but what she says is, “I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t make it.” Artie peeps through her fingers.

“Why?” I demand. “You have such a great voice! And you’re totally overdramatic.”

“Hayley!” she cries, but she’s laughing. “No, it’s just — I was so nervous at the last audition. And this is going to be even worse!” She twists a rope of her hair, then bites it.

“Stop flossing with your own hair,” I tell her. “It’s going to be great! Just try to have fun and everything will work out.”

“Jeez, you really
are
optimistic,” Artie says, shaking her head. “I guess I never noticed.”

“I’m not optimistic; I’m realistic. You’re incredibly talented.”

Artie holds her hair over her eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

One hazel eye peeks out at me. “Will you come with me? To the audition?”

“I don’t think they’ll let me in.”

“No, just — you could just wait outside.” Artie’s hazel eyes are huge. “Please?”

“Sure,” I say. “Of course.”

“You will?” Artie grabs my hand across the table. “Oh, thankyouthankyou!”

“It’s no big deal,” I say, but I’m secretly feeling a little bad because I said yes mainly because I knew Devon would be at the audition.

And also because I’m an amazing friend.

I guess that’s why — once more — I back off from telling Artie about my little … thing. Crush, I guess, though I’m not sure. All I know is that there’s something special about Devon, and I’m happy that I’m going to get to know him more, once Artie gets the part.

I guess maybe I
am
optimistic.

Shoot the Moon Cupcakes

(makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

These have a dreamy quality that I like. The green-tea frosting is mild and sweet, and tastes like something good is about to happen.

INGREDIENTS:

adzuki bean paste (found at specialty Asian markets or online)

1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour

2 tablespoons cornstarch

3/4 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

2/3 cup milk

3/4 cup sugar

1/2 cup yogurt

3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon almond extract

1/3 cup canola oil

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. Scoop the adzuki bean paste into walnut-sized balls, place onto wax paper, and cover with plastic until ready to use, so they don’t dry out.
   
2. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with cupcake liners.
   
3. In a large bowl, sift together the flour, cornstarch, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and mix.
   
4. In a separate large bowl, mix the milk with the sugar, yogurt, vanilla extract, almond extract, and oil. Then beat 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.
   
5. Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way, then place an adzuki paste ball in the center of each cupcake, pressing down to slightly submerge it in the batter.
   
6. Bake for 20–22 minutes, until cupcakes are slightly golden. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.
   

Green-Tea Frosting

INGREDIENTS:

1/2 cup margarine, softened

1/2 cup shortening

2–4 teaspoons matcha tea powder

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

3-1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar

1–2 tablespoons milk

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream together the margarine and shortening. Beat in the matcha tea powder and vanilla extract.
   
2. Slowly beat in the confectioners’ sugar, in 1/2-cup intervals, adding a little bit of milk whenever the frosting becomes too thick. Continue mixing on high speed for about 3–7 minutes, until the frosting is light and fluffy.
   

“W
hat smells?” Mrs. McTibble asks with a sour face. She’s holding her Lhasa Apso, Gwendolyn, and frowning down at our glass pastry case.

“Um, I just baked some cupcakes,” I admit. “They’re inspired by moon cakes — they’re a traditional Chinese —”

“No wonder it smells foreign.” She sniffs, then adds, “I’ll take one of those.”

“Really?”

“It’s nice to see something different in here.” She flashes a look toward my grandmother, who rolls her eyes.

“Well, if we start filling this place with new things, you and I will have to go somewhere else, Alice,” Gran says, and Mrs. McTibble gives her a starched smile.

For a moment, I forget myself and reach out to pet Gwendolyn, who snaps at me, as usual. “Sorry,” I mutter, then reach for a sheet of wax paper to pick up the cupcake with.

“She’s a
working
dog,” Mrs. McTibble reminds me sternly.

Right. Usually, dogs aren’t allowed in the café — it’s a health-code thing. But Gwendolyn wears a blue “helper dog” jacket at all times when she’s here, even though her helper status is pretty questionable. I mean, Mrs. McTibble carries her everywhere, and the old lady doesn’t seem to have any problems with her sight, hearing, or sharp tongue. So what’s Gwendolyn helping with, besides being Mrs. McTibble’s match in the grouch department?

I place the cupcake on a white plate and take it over to Mrs. McTibble’s usual table, beside the bay window. We don’t usually offer table service, but Mrs. McTibble is Mrs. McTibble, so we do things her way. She takes a prim little bite of the cupcake, and her frown lines soften. “Thank you, dear,” she says.

“Y-you’re welcome.” I stammer a little, because (a) Mrs. McTibble has never said thank you to me before and (b) she’s never called me dear before. She offers a little piece of cake to Gwendolyn, who sniffs and wags before gobbling it up.

Well, that was an unexpected triumph.

I help two good-looking college guys with their order — one gets a cupcake and the other a scone — and then wipe down the glossy dark wood counter. Gran isn’t paying me much to help in the café, but I don’t really care. I just like to be here, with the light streaming in through the bay window and the heavy wood tables. Gran has hung the walls with faded pictures of English flowers, and the whole place seems very quaint and old, which it is. She has been running the Tea Room for over twenty years. Mom told me that it was popular for a while in the late 1990s, but now it’s mostly just a fixture on the block that survives because of our regulars.

The bell over the door jingles, and my mother walks in. She’s wearing her red silk shirt and black pants, and has a black jacket slung over one arm. Her shoes are polished and her hair looks perfect, but her face seems harried. She looks at my grandmother, then at me. “I blew it,” she announces. Then she tosses her jacket over the smooth counter and steps to the coffeemaker.

“What happened?” I ask as Mom reaches for a teacup.

Mom shakes her head and pours coffee into the cup. “I snorted water through my nose.”

“What?” I screech, just as Gran says, “Oh, Margaret — how
could
you?”

“Mother! I didn’t do it on purpose,” Mom says, and it’s funny to hear her sound just like me. In fact, snorting water through her nose — that sounds
just
like me. I guess that sort of thing is genetic, like brown eyes and an inability to play soccer.

“It’s just — they gave me a bottle of water. And the interview was really going well, I thought. Then I said, ‘Believe me, Mr. Alper, if I can corral two kids and handle a full-time job, which I did for seven years, then I can organize your office.’ And I took a big drink of water. But then he said, ‘Sounds like you’re overqualified,’ and he had this dead serious look on his face, and it — I just laughed — but my mouth was full of water —”

“Oh, no,” I say. Really, I’m horrified.

“It came pouring down right in my lap. Nice guy — he dashed off to get me some paper towels.”

“That makes it worse,” I say.

Mom sighs and takes a swig from her cup, then makes a face and spits the coffee back. “Mother! What is this?” she demands.

“It’s coffee,” Gran replies.

“When did you brew it?”

Gran looks at the clock. “Eight this morning.”

“That’s almost eight hours ago!” Mom puts the teacup on the counter. “Mother — don’t you know you need to have gourmet coffee these days?”

“I’m English,” Gran replies. “What do I know about coffee? Besides, this is a tea shop.”

“If you want to have customers, you need coffee. Good coffee. In mugs, not teacups.” Mom looks at me as if to say,
Am I right?

“And iced coffee, maybe,” I suggest.

“This is why I need your help!” Gran insists.

Just then, I hear a laugh. When I look over, I see that the two handsome college guys have pulled their table over beside Mrs. McTibble’s. She’s smiling and telling them a story that involves a lot of gesturing.

“What’s that all about?” Mom asks.

“Cupcakes make people happy,” I tell her.

My grandmother raises a delicate eyebrow. “People, but not dogs,” she says, as Mrs. McTibble’s gesticulating is clearly putting Gwendolyn out of sorts.

The door jingles again, and in walks Chloe. She is looking like her usual rumpled self — I swear that her clothes are never wrinkled when she leaves in the morning, so it’s always a little odd to see her come home with her shirt untucked, her socks covered in dirt, and one of her braids undone, as she is now. She holds the door for an African-American boy wearing small oval spectacles and a serious look. They don’t speak to each other, but they step up to the counter at the same time.

“Can I help you?” I ask the boy.

“I’m with her.” His voice is a whisper, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, so he juts his chin at Chloe.

“Okay, so what’ll it be?” I ask Chloe.

“We’ll have two of whatever’s good,” she says.

I catch Mom and Gran exchanging a smile and I whip out two pieces of wax paper. I place one of Gran’s ginger-pear scones on one plate, and a Shoot the Moon cupcake on the other. “Who wants which?” I ask, holding out the plates.

“We’ll share,” Chloe announces, reaching for both.

Chloe’s companion chooses a table in the corner. He dusts it off with a paper napkin as she sets down the plates.

“A new friend,” Mom whispers in my ear, and I smile.

“Don’t stare at them,” I tell her. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Of course not.” Mom bustles off, and I start making notes for a new cupcake. A friendship cupcake. Maybe two different flavors swirled together?

“Hayley?” Chloe is standing before me, an empty plate in her hand. “I need another cupcake, please.”

“You’re done already?” I ask, opening the case.

“It’s for Horatio,” Chloe explains.

I hesitate a moment, then give her the cupcake. “Okay.”

She flashes a huge grin at me, then lopes off to join her real friend and her imaginary one at their table in the corner.