Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! (7 page)

“I
s anyone else having trouble with the Wi-Fi?” Mom looks up from her computer and peers around the café.

A woman with braided hair sips her coffee and gives Mom a wry smile. “The Wi-Fi never works here.”

“What?” Mom looks over at Gran, who gives her a sheepish smile. “Mother, you can’t post a sign that says you have Wi-Fi and then not have wireless. People need to use their computers.”

“What for?” Gran demands. “So they can poke each other?”

“Gran!” I clap a hand over my mouth, but my laugh escapes anyway.

“That’s right, I know about poking,” Gran says to me. “I know all about Friendbook!”

“Facebook,” I say.

“I know all about it.” Gran purses her lips primly. “And it is — simply put — a waste of time.”

“Okay, Mother, that’s great. You’re from a different millennium, we get it. But there are some people who come here to work.”

The woman with braids lifts her cup. “Hear, hear!”

“So just fix the router.” Mom steps behind the counter.

“I can’t figure the darn thing out,” Gran admits. She turns to me. “Excuse me.”

Yes, that’s right — my grandmother says “Excuse me” whenever she says “darn.” I smile to show that I’m not horribly offended.

Mom opens the cupboard where the wireless is hidden. “Well, it might help to plug it in.” Mom’s voice is dry. “And it also might help to blow some of the dust off this thing.” A red light flashes, then two green lights. Mom shuts the cupboard doors and goes back to her computer. She taps at the keyboard. “Working,” she announces.

A guy in a faded concert T-shirt and jeans walks in and flashes a smile at Gran. He’s got that raggedy student look that’s so popular around here. There are five colleges within twenty minutes of Northampton: Smith is right here in town; Amherst, Hampshire, and the main campus of the University of Massachusetts are in Amherst; Mount Holyoke is in South Hadley. Sometimes it seems like everybody’s a student, a teacher, or a graduate.

“Do you have Wi-Fi?” the guy asks.

“Yes!” Gran says brightly, and Mom gives her a look.

“Awesome.” He sniffs, his eyebrows going up. “Smells like bacon.”

“That’s me,” I admit. “I just made these cupcakes ….”

“Bacon cupcakes? Are they gross?”

“I hope not. They’re actually Country Morning cupcakes, with bacon and egg.”

“A bacon cupcake for breakfast — that’s either going to be disgusting or delicious. Gimme one of those. And a cup of coffee,” he adds. He slings his backpack off his shoulder and puts it down on a table, then pulls out some money to pay.

I add a tiny piece of bacon to the top of the cupcake and set it on a plate. It’s still warm from the oven. I can’t help biting my lip as he tastes it. I mean, I think they’re good — but the bacon was my idea, and I might be insane.

“Whoa.” The guy gives me a huge grin. “These are crazy! Can you put four more in a box for me?”

“Lunch?” I ask.

“Housemates,” he says, and I have to admit that I’m relieved.

He sits down to work for a while, staring at his screen and munching his cupcake nonstop. The coffeepot is almost empty, so I rinse it out and brew a fresh one. Then I decorate the chalkboard out front: C
UPCAKE OF THE
D
AY
: C
OUNTRY
B
REAKFAST
! A
DELICIOUS BLEND OF BACON, EGG, AND PANCAKE WITH MAPLE-SYRUP FROSTING
. C
OFFEE OF THE DAY
: P
ERUVIAN
B
LEND
. C
OME CHECK OUT OUR
W
I
-F
I
! Then I draw autumn leaves around the edges. The sky is a deep blue, and the day is warm. It’s one of those perfect October days that feels like one of September’s leftovers. When the weather gets cold, maybe I’ll make pumpkin cupcakes. I seriously love pumpkin.

I let the sun soak into my skin, warming me. It’s almost ten in the morning, and the town is already humming. People are walking about, peering in windows, strolling and smiling. A middle-aged couple holding hands stops to read my sign. I hold the door for them as they detour into our café.

When I step back inside, Mom is behind the counter helping herself to another cup of coffee. “We’re going to need to get a real coffeemaker — an industrial one,” Mom says. “Something easier to manage.” I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes, and she moves toward her computer — to do research on coffeemakers, no doubt, while Gran helps the customers, charming them with her British accent.

It was a weird Saturday, but now it’s Sunday, and all’s right with the world.

H
ere are some facts about my mother:

Her closet is organized by season, type of clothing, and color.

She keeps our grocery list on her computer. Items we regularly buy are listed in order of where they appear in the store. Then she just checks off whether we need it or not.

She has only two colors of socks: white (for exercising) and black (for all other situations). All the same brand. She replaces them once a year.

She never forgets a birthday, but just in case, she has all of her friends and relatives listed in her computer, with a pop-up reminder seven days beforehand so she can go out and get a card.

Are you getting the picture? She’s the most practical, organized person I know. Chloe and I like to joke that she’s like one of the X-Men. Organizatrix, or something.

She’s already using her powers on the café. Any office she works for will run so smoothly, they’ll think they’ve been greased.

I just want her to get a job soon.

Last week, I overheard her on the phone with her sister, my aunt, Denise. “I just never thought I’d be forty-seven, divorced, and living with Mother again,” she said, and her voice sounded so heavy, like a stone falling through the deep ocean. “I don’t even have a job. I feel like a —” She didn’t finish, and I heard Aunt Denise’s voice soothing her through the phone lines.

Yes, a job would be good.

Soon.

I
t’s weird to walk into Adams Middle School by myself.

Artie and Marco and I all took the same bus last year, and we still take the same bus this year — only I get on earlier. But this morning, neither of my friends were waiting when the driver stopped up the street from Artie’s house. A sixth grader named Eve got on, and then we sailed away.

It’s raining, so Artie probably got a ride. Maybe they took Marco, too.

But that left me alone, and I felt a little drifty — like a balloon that’s been let go and sails off to float on the wind.

The hallways are crowded and bustling as I make my way down the wide corridor. As I near the seventh-grade lockers, I see Meghan Markerson walking out of Dean Whittier’s office. They’re both laughing. She catches my eye and gives me a little finger-wave, but the dean of academics doesn’t glance my way. It’s funny to see them together — Dean Whittier, tall and lanky, with a trim beard and a sweater vest, and Meghan, dressed in a red plaid skirt and black hoodie.

What could they possibly be laughing about?

It’s a mystery to ponder as I toss my books in my locker and grab my notebook for first period.

Artie smiles and waves as I walk into homeroom, but she’s already sitting with Kelley Kane and Chang Xiao. I know them vaguely, in that way that you kind of know everyone in your grade, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with either one of them. Chang and Kelley are dramaramas, and they look like it: Chang always wears this amazing dark eye shadow and eyeliner that I’d never be able to pull off, and Kelley has a thing for stylish jeans. Everyone says Chang is really funny, so I feel a little outclassed when I walk over to join them.

“Hey, do you guys know Hayley?” Artie asks as I slip into the seat behind hers.

“Sure,” Chang says.

“She was in our French class last year,” Kelley adds.

I wonder who they’re thinking of. I’ve never taken French, but decide to let it pass.

“I heard they’re going to do a second round of callbacks,” Kelley says to Artie.

“Oh, ugh, that is
so
Ms. Lang,” Chang gripes. “She’s such a drama queen.” She says it so dramatically that I feel confident she’s qualified to know.

“I don’t think I can handle another audition.” Artie glances at me. “I get nervous before each one.”

“That’s just a rumor; I wouldn’t listen to it.” Chang gives Kelley a dry, heavy-lidded look. “Personally, I never listen to anything Kelley says.”

“Chang!” Kelley tosses an eraser playfully at her friend, and I’m having the same feeling I had before with Devon — that feeling that I am watching a conversation happening inside the house next door. So close, but so … not part of it.

I see Meghan slip in right before the first bell, and a moment later, the PA crackles and morning announcements begin. Blah, blah, something about a pep rally; anyone wanting to join the chorus; don’t forget teacher in-service day. And then, “The administration also wishes to inform the students that this Friday there will be a special election. It has come to the attention of the principal and vice principal that a number of students are unhappy with the mascot. And so, this Friday during homeroom, we will hold a vote on whether to retain the Purple Pintos or adopt a new mascot of your choice.”

The class goes wild, with people stomping and clapping. Meghan stands up and takes a bow, blowing kisses all over the place. She has a goofy grin on her face.

Artie looks at me. She’s clapping, but grimacing my way. “I am not voting for the Giant Squids,” she says.

“How about the Crustaceans?” Chang suggests, and Kelley pipes up, “The Oysters!”

“How about the Purple Porpoises?” This is Chang again. Kelley and Artie crack up. I laugh, too. Somehow, the idea of going from the Purple Pintos to the Purple Porpoises strikes me as funny.

“I really can’t believe we’re going to take up school time with this election,” Artie says. I get what she’s saying.

School mascots aren’t really important. Except that they represent us. So, in that way, I guess they are.

Picking a mascot is actually kind of hard, once you think about it.

What are we? Proud, like eagles? Fighters, like wolverines?

Personally, I think I’m more like a lesser galago. That’s this wide-eyed, long-tailed African lemur-type thing I saw at the zoo once. They’re furry and a little silly-looking, not too threatening. But I don’t claim to represent the whole school.

“Maybe we could be the Sloths,” I suggest, and that makes Artie and her new friends crack up.

“I couldn’t care less what they pick,” Chang says, as if she isn’t one of us.

“Anything but the Giant Squids,” Artie agrees. “Or the Purple Pintos.”

I nod.

But I don’t really mean it.

S
eriously — can’t you just see the football helmets?