Alexis the Icing on the Cupcake (8 page)

By the time my mom came back to say good night, I felt a lot better. It sounds dumb, but sometimes just getting things in order—cleaning up, organizing, feeling in control—can make everything seem a lot easier.

“Looks like things are back on track in here!” said my mom, bending down to plant a kiss on my forehead.

I smiled. “Yup.”

“Good job, bunny,” she said. She turned off the overhead light and stood in the doorway.

“Mom?” I asked.

“Yes, dear?”

“Is there a way to get rid of freckles?”

She laughed. “Not that I know of. But I think your freckles are cute!”

I made a gagging sound. “Barf. Please!”

“Oh, come on, Alexis. They're so natural-looking and pretty.” She thought for a second. “I suppose if you wanted to tone them down, you could put a little tinted moisturizer over them or something, just for special occasions.”

“Do you have any?”

“Yes, I'll leave it in your bathroom. You know, in some cultures, freckles are considered good luck. . . .”

“Where?” I demanded.

“Good night!” she trilled, and closed the door. I knew she was making it up, but I had to laugh.

I snuggled in and drifted off for a good, restful night's sleep.

Only that wasn't what I got.

At eleven thirty, my legs were aching so badly, they woke me up out of a dead sleep. I tried changing positions and rubbing them, and I even got up and stretched them out. None of that helped. It was a dull throbbing in my knees and in my shin
bones that went on and on, occasionally turning into a piercing, stabbing feeling. Finally, I turned on the light. I was so tired and feeling really sorry for myself. I started calculating how many hours of sleep I'd get if I fell right back to sleep, and it was not much. I got up to google “aching legs,” and that was when I heard a little tap on the door.

“Lexi?” It was my mom.

“Come in,” I said.

“What are you doing?” She was in her nightgown and all squinty, which meant she'd taken out her contacts.

“My legs are killing me. It woke me up.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I remember when that used to happen to me. My mom would rub them with lavender oil, and it did help a little. Want me to do that?” She yawned.

“No, that's okay, Mom. I can do it myself. Do you have any?”

She nodded and left the room, returning momentarily with a little brown bottle with a dropper in it. “It smells pretty strong so I brought you a towel to put down, too. Here, let me do it. Come on.”

She laid the towel over my sheets and had me lie down, then she used the dropper to put some oil
on each of my knees and began to massage them. It felt so, so good.

“Mom, thank youuuuuu,” I whispered.

“Mmm hmm,” she said. Her eyes were closed, and I could tell she was half-asleep herself. I felt guilty but not guilty enough to have her stop.

“You're the best mom ever,” I said.

“I hope you remember that when your teen angst kicks in for real,” she said, a half-smile on her face.

“Oh, please. I'm not going to have teen angst,” I said.

“Right,” Mom said.

T
he rest of my exams went well, thank goodness, and I aced my vocab retest, though it was not much of a consolation, since my grade did average out to a C. I had to chalk it up to experience and move on, my dad said. My mom told me not to dwell on it, but not to let it happen again. Quack.

I was actually looking forward to Friday afternoon, even though the Cupcake Club had a lot of work to do. I needed Mia's help with my clothes cleanout ASAP, and I knew Saturday would give me an opportunity to shop with my friends and fill in the gaps in my wardrobe.

So that's why it hit me pretty hard when my mom announced on Thursday that we were going to visit my grandmother out in the country on Saturday.

“Bummer! I can't go!” I said. I love my grandma, and I hated to miss a trip to see her.

“It's not optional,” said my mom. She continued folding the laundry.

Wait, is this a joke?
“But, Mom! I'm going shopping with my friends on Saturday. Remember? I have the barbecue on Sunday, and I need something to wear.”

“Grandma would love to take you shopping out there,” said my mom with a chuckle. “And she pays!”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. “I have this all planned.”

My mom stopped folding and looked at me. “It's not optional, I said. It's the only time we can get out there to celebrate Grandpa Jim's birthday, and I can hardly tell them you can't make it because you're going shopping!”

“You aren't serious? You're going to make me bag all my plans?”

“I'm sorry, but your friends will understand.” My mom began folding again, which meant this conversation was over.

“This is totally unfair!” I yelled. “You're the worst mother in the whole world!” Then I stomped up the stairs and slammed my door.

Inside my room, I was fuming. How could she? She knew I had plans. Maybe not the specifics, but she had an idea! Why didn't she check with me first? Who did she think she was? I punched my pillow and went to kick the side of my bed, but decided against it. No point in hurting myself just because I was mad at her!

I flopped onto my bed and then crossed my arms, glaring at the ceiling. When I grow up, I will never, ever make plans for my kids without checking with them first! Ever!

There was a knock on the door.

“Go away!” I yelled.

“Jeez, it's me!” said Dylan.

“Fine. Whatever,” I said.

The door opened, and she came in and then shut it behind her. “Mom's making you go to Grandma's?” she asked.

“What, you don't have to go?”

“Well, I told Mom I couldn't go because I had plans, but I actually just canceled them because I hadn't been out there in a while. Anyway, maybe Grandma will take me to the mall.”

“Wait, first you didn't have to go because you had plans? And my plans don't count? And now you're bagging your friends so you can get free
clothes out of Grandma?” I asked incredulously.

“Well, it's not exactly like that . . . ,” said Dylan.

“Pretty much,” I corrected her.

Dylan smiled. “I guess. I just wanted to say, I don't think you should have to go. I'll tell Mom that I'll go, and then the pressure will be off you.”

I sat up. “Really? Why are you helping me?” I narrowed my eyes.

“Like I said before, I've been through all this before. I can relate.”

“Is that all?” I asked suspiciously.

“For now.” Dylan shrugged. “Anyway, I don't mind you owing me a few favors. You never know when I'll need to collect. See ya.” And she left, closing the door behind her.

It was a little weird to have this new, nicer Dylan in my life. I wondered when she would change back. It made me think of my parents' “teen angst” comments. Maybe she was over the bad years, and I was the new Dylan? The thought horrified me, and I shuddered. But it was kind of right on track. I remember when Dylan turned thirteen, suddenly, there was a lot more fighting, more slamming doors, lots of crying, some bad grades. I seemed to be following the same pattern. And, if all stayed true to Dylan's path, it meant there would be two more
hard years to come before my parents and I pulled out of it. It also meant it was likely that I'd have a boyfriend soon! That thought, at least, made me smile.

My mom and I kind of avoided each other the next morning, and she was at work when the Cupcakers and I got home from school on Friday to bake at our house. I was upset about missing out on all the fun for Saturday, so I hadn't really been able to break it to my friends yet. In other words, they had no idea I wasn't able to go on our Saturday outing.

“Oh, and I saw something really cute at Trudy's last weekend. We should go there tomorrow too!” said Mia. Trudy's was this cheap and trendy store at the mall, good for dressy stuff and accessories.

“Great,” I said, fake-happy. Mental note: Go to Trudy's sometime.

We dumped our stuff in the back hall and began setting up for the baking session. Katie had brought some licorice whips to make whiskers for the cat cupcakes, and we had little candy wafers for the puppies' ears. We also had to bake the six dozen cupcakes for the barbecue, and Mona's minis.

We got to work doing an assembly line for the cupcake batter first. We'd be baking thirteen dozen
cupcakes in all, so it wasn't a small job. Katie measured the dry ingredients while Emma did the wet ones. I put the paper wrappers into the muffin pans (we only had four of them, and two ovens, so we'd have to do everything a few times). Pretty soon, we were ladling the batter into the cupcake papers and putting them all in the oven. We couldn't wash any dishes yet since we had another round to go, so Emma suggested Mia and I go tackle my clothes.

“But . . . ,” I began to protest.

“You don't have to tell me twice!” said Mia, starting out to the stairs.

“Go on,” said Emma. “Remember? I promised we'd help you. This is us helping you!” She smiled, and I followed Mia out with a “Thank you!” over my shoulder.

Upstairs, Mia was already in my room. “Let's start with bottoms,” she declared. “They're like the protein in a meal. You can build everything else around them. What do you have that fits?”

I pulled out the remaining pair of pants and a pair of shorts, plus the capris from my mom, and a long, green, stretchy tank dress.

“Do workout clothes count?” I asked. I knew Mia hated it when people wore workout clothes in public, so I was just teasing her.

“No!” Mia shuddered. “They're for
working out
! For that, you're on your own.”

I watched as she neatly laid out each item around the room. “Okay, tops!” she ordered, and I took out a tank top, a very worn-in denim button-down shirt, and gestured to the turquoise T-shirt I was wearing again.

“Okay, love the T-shirt. Seen way too much of it lately. But the cut and size are great on you. Grab a paper and pen. We're going to do twenty looks with as few items as possible, and we're going to make a list of a couple of things you need to fill in.” She started calling out ideas, and I jotted them down as fast as my pen could write.

Here was Mia's side of the conversation: “Two more of that exact T-shirt, different colors. They're on sale at Big Blue right now for fourteen dollars and ninety-nine cents. One more tank in white, I think; also cheap. We can layer a colored T-shirt over this dress; that's one look. Write it down. Then the tank over another colored T-shirt, with white jeans. Cute! Do you have a good belt that fits? What about a scarf we could use as a belt? Even better. Now where's that white denim mini you had on at the beach? Oh, it's not yours. Okay, put that on the list. Icon is selling them—yes, I know you
hate Icon—for nineteen dollars, just this weekend. How do I know all this? I follow the sales online, chica! Now how about the capris? No, they do not make you look like a scarecrow, you're just wearing the wrong shoes with them! What do you have in a wedge? Nothing? What do you mean you don't want to look taller? I'd
kill
to be as tall as you. Work what you've got, girl!”

I wished Dylan were here to see this. She'd be in her element. Naturally, she and Mia adored each other. I couldn't wait to show Dylan what Mia came up with. Already there were three cute looks on my list, none of which I would have thought of myself.

My pen moved furiously over the page, and after coming up with each basic look, Mia insisted on completing them with footwear, accessories, and jewelry. She had such a good eye, it was incredible. Time flew, and pretty soon I had a list a whole page long that detailed things I needed to buy or scrounge from Dylan and my mom.

“Mia, this is going to cost a fortune!” I cried.

She came and looked at the list over my shoulder. “Okay, the T-shirts, the tank, the white denim skirt—that's up to about sixty or seventy dollars. You need a very simple pair of white cotton
pants; I bet we could get those for around twenty or twenty-five dollars. And the other stuff—shoes, belts, scarves, maybe a dress or two?”