Alexis the Icing on the Cupcake (9 page)

Mia looked at me carefully. “With your flowing red hair and the pretty freckles, you could pull off a bit of a soft, hippie-sundress look if you wanted. Sandals. Beads.” She tipped her head sideways and studied me. “Or maybe a fifties thing—belted waist, full skirt . . . Hmm. Well, we'll see what the stores hold tomorrow.”

I cringed. I had to tell the truth. “Mia . . . I'm . . . I don't think I can go tomorrow. I wanted to tell you all day. My mom is making me go to my grandma's out in the country.”

Mia's face fell. “What? Seriously? I was looking forward to finding you just the right thing for the barbecue on Sunday. Are you really gone for the whole day? Wait, you can't even come to the bake sale?”

I shook my head sadly. “Not unless I get a last-minute reprieve, but it doesn't look good.” I sighed. “I'm so sorry to let you down.”

“Me? Don't be silly. I just feel bad for you. You were excited to do this, weren't you?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Can you just . . . I don't know, take a rain check?”

“I don't think so. My mom's been pretty nice lately, except for this. Now we're in a fight. I feel bad. I think I have to go.”

Mia sighed. “Okay. I get it. I sure know what it's like to have plans in two places.” Since Mia's parents got divorced, she splits her time between their two homes—one in the city and one here.

“Thanks. If anything changes, you'll be the first to know.”

Mia brightened. “I might have something I can lend you for the barbecue, anyway. I'll look.”

“Great. Thanks. I think I'd better clean this up. You are so awesome at all this. I never would have thought of any of the things you came up with. Thank you so much!”

Mia grinned. “For me, it's a blast. I can't see why anyone would own anything they wouldn't use all the time, in many different ways, you know? It's kind of like solving a math equation, turning things around until they fit, chucking them if they don't.”

I laughed. “You know I can relate to that! So should I just get rid of everything else?”

Mia nodded. “Yup. Just a little piece of advice, though: Make sure you check with your mom before you put anything that might be special in the giveaway pile. You know how funny moms can be.”

“Hmm. Good point. I will,” I agreed.

Mia helped me pull out everything I wasn't keeping, and everything else (which was about six or so items) went back into my drawers and closets. I felt so light and carefree with all those empty drawers and hangers. I realized I'd become kind of a slacker about weeding things out. There was so much stuff I hadn't worn in years.

“People could really use this stuff too!” said Mia. “It's too small for you, but it's still nice.”

I held up an Irish sweater that my grandma had given to me. “Chuck it?”

Mia gasped. “No! That's an heirloom. Don't throw that away!”

I refolded it and put it on my bed. “I'll see what my mom says. Honestly, I never really wore it. It was always so scratchy.”

Just then, Emma and Katie came trudging up the stairs.

“We're done with the first batch of cupcakes. The second round is in,” said Emma.

“Holy closet explosion!” cried Katie.

“It looks worse than it is,” I protested. “We just need to get this stuff into some bags.”

“We can help you,” offered Katie.

I got the bags, and we packed them up, trundled
them down the stairs to join the other two bags at the back door, and then turned back to the baking. Katie had made a basic vanilla frosting while we were working upstairs, and now it was time to start tinting and laying out the supplies for the decorating.

I broke the news to Emma and Katie about having to go to my grandma's, and they were bummed too, but they understood. Most kids are used to being bossed around by their parents for no good reason, I guess.

We decorated the cupcakes for the bake sale, and they came out so cute that I wished I could be there to see them sell tomorrow. I knew they'd fly off the platter like hotcakes. We sealed up the other plain cupcakes and the extra frosting in big plastic tubs to be ready to decorate first thing Sunday morning.

By the time my parents and Dylan got home, you would never have known how much had been accomplished at our house that day. I wished every day could be like that.

I
had avoided speaking to my mom for most of the night. I don't think she even noticed, but the small act of rebellion made me feel better, at least.

At nine thirty, I got into bed and as usual, she came upstairs to say good night to me. Then she spied the Irish sweater on my desk.

“Oh, Lexi. The Irish sweater from Grandma.” She held it up and shook it out a little. “So pretty. Are you giving it away?”

“Hmm,” I said. I was lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. I was sure she was going to tell me I had to keep it. Technically, it still fit.

“Did you . . . ever wear it?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Why not?” She refolded it and put it back on the desk.

I sighed. “Too scratchy,” I said.

She smiled. “You know it was mine when I was a girl?”

“I guess,” I said. I was kind of annoyed she was being all chummy, and now I was already picturing myself having to put it back in my pristine, empty closet.

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Did you know I hated it?”

I looked over at her in surprise. This wasn't going the way I had expected.

“Why?” I asked. Despite my annoyance, I was intrigued.

“Too scratchy!” she said, laughing. “But my mom wouldn't let me get rid of it, because it was a gift from her mom! So she hung on to it for all these years and then passed it along to you when it turned up in an attic cleanout. She and I had one of the biggest fights of our life over this sweater.”

“Really?” It was impossible for me to picture my mom and my grandma fighting. I propped myself up on an elbow. She'd hooked me back into talking to her now, darn it!

My mom nodded. “We were going to visit my
grandmother, and I didn't want to go, because there was a dance at school I'd have to miss. And on top of it, my mom was making me wear that sweater so my grandma would be pleased to see me in it. I was furious. We screamed and yelled and slammed doors. . . .”

“How old were you?” I asked.

My mom tipped her head to the side. “About thirteen,” she said.

“So what happened?” I asked. “Did you get out of it?”

My mom shook her head. “Nope. I had to go. And I had to wear the sweater.” She reached over and gave it a pat. “And I swore then that I would never make plans for my kids without checking with them first.”

I bolted upright, and my jaw dropped. “But you did!” I accused.

My mom sighed. “I know. I guess when you're a kid, you don't realize that adults have feelings too. My mom must've had a reason for us to go see my grandma. Maybe she felt she'd been neglecting her, or maybe she suddenly seemed old.”

“Is that why you're making us go tomorrow?” I asked.

“Pretty much,” said my mom. “But you know
what I realized? I checked with Dylan and not with you. I learned my lesson with Dylan a couple of years ago. It hit me all at once that she was an independent person, capable of making her own plans and sticking to a schedule. Your father and I raised you girls to be that way, and it's a good thing! So after one too many times of assuming she was still a little kid whose schedule I controlled, I backed off and started
asking
rather than
telling
her what our plans were—or most of them, anyway. Some things are still commands.”

“Like tomorrow?” I said, grumpy again.

“No, not like tomorrow,” said my mom. “I made a mistake. I was still thinking of you as a little kid, without concrete plans of your own, and I was wrong. I should have checked with you. So you're off the hook. You can go with your friends and do the things you need to tomorrow.”

“Wait, really?” I asked. Excitement washed over me with the realization that I was now free tomorrow. It seemed too good to be true. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, and I hopped out of bed and hugged her. “Thank you, Mom! Thank you so much!”

She patted my back. “Maybe you'd make Grandpa Jim a birthday card in the morning? I'll
explain you had some work commitments and couldn't make it.”

“Thanks, Mom. I will. This is great news! I need to text my friends.”

She laughed. “Okay. Just keep me posted on your schedule in the future, and I'll do the same. It will definitely help us in navigating at least
some
of the teen angst, okay?”

“Okay!”

The Cupcakers came over first thing the next morning, and we got to work decorating the puppy and kitten cupcakes. They turned out so well that we took pictures of them to put on our website, figuring they would be cute for birthday parties.

Emma had already delivered the minis to Mona before she came over, so we packed the bake sale cupcakes into our carriers, and my mom drove us to the animal shelter before she left with Dylan and my dad for Grandma's.

The animal shelter was in a small strip mall—a pretty nice new one, actually—and it had an awning that overhung the front of the shelter, so they'd set up the bake sale tables under there, right in front of the clinic doors. There weren't many other stores built in the mall yet—just a coffee store
and a hardware store, but those two places were plenty busy on a Saturday morning, so there was a lot of foot traffic for the bake sale.

The organizers all squealed with delight when we unpacked our cupcakes. I had remembered to bring our business cards that listed our names and the website, so I placed those in a small pile next to the disposable platter that held our cupcakes. Some of the grown-ups were so impressed, they took pictures, and I handed out business cards to everyone there. You never know where your next opportunity could come from!

Mia wanted to go inside to see say hi to her vet, and since we had arranged to call Mrs. Brown when we were ready for a ride home, we all agreed. Inside, we quickly found Dr. Palmer, who was supernice and friendly, and very grateful to have what he called “professional baked goods” for the bake sale.

“Have you seen our kittens?” he asked. “Know anyone looking for one?”

“Ooh, I love kittens!” squealed Katie. “But my mom's allergic.”

He waved us in, and we followed him down a little hallway.

“Too bad,” said Dr. Palmer. “Cats make great
pets. Here we are!” He led us into a little tiled-floor room, and there were about eight kittens roaming around, climbing a carpeted pole, batting a ball around, sleeping curled up together in a smush of kitten fur in a basket. It was like a Richard Scarry book I used to read when I was little, with all the animals doing different activities all over the page.

I dropped to my knees. “Oh my gosh, they are so cute!” I cried. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

One by one, my friends crouched down, and we all started trying to attract the kittens. Dr. Palmer laughed. “You might be here awhile. They love people. And it's hard to leave once you start.”

“Look at me!” cried Emma. She's a major animal lover. Two kittens were tentatively climbing across her lap, testing with their little paws before they took another step up her leg.

“Can we just pick them up?” I asked.

Dr. Palmer nodded. “Sure. They've all had their shots, so they're good to go. The more they're handled at this age, the better. You girls are old enough that I don't have to warn you to be gentle. I'll leave you here for a bit while I see a patient. If you're going to go, just make sure none of them escape before you close the door.”

“Thanks!” we called.

There was this one little inquisitive gray fluff ball that was just so adorable. I scooched across the floor and picked it up. It fit in the palm of my hand, and it was so warm and soft.