Confectionately Yours #2: Taking the Cake! (11 page)

“T
he Snoopy balloon — turn it up!” I tell Chloe, who obediently pokes at the remote.

“Who are all of these bands?” my sister asks as another obscure music act lip-synchs atop what looks like a gingerbread boat. “Are they all from some TV station that we don’t get?”

“All of the real celebrities are busy celebrating Thanksgiving, like normal people,” I tell her.

“Couldn’t they get some British bands?” Chloe demands. “They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.”

“Well, they should.” I spread cream-cheese frosting on top of the gingered pumpkin cupcake I’m holding. It’s eleven in the morning, and the house smells amazing. Gran made her famous cinnamon buns, and I’ve already had two.

“How are we doing?” Mom asks as she walks into the kitchen. “Hayley, honey, those look gorgeous.” She reaches
toward the cupcake as if she’s going to steal a bit of frosting, but I yank it away. “Not until after dinner!”

Mom laughs and hurries off to straighten a fork that has gone askew. Mom set the table in our little apartment last night, and Gran insisted that we use her good china, so everything is gleaming and ready.

The doorbell rings, and Chloe runs to get it. “It’s Ramon!” she shouts unnecessarily when she peeks through the peephole. He’s the only person we invited, and he’s right on time.

Ramon looks surprisingly handsome in black pants and a bright blue button-down shirt. His shoes are shined, and he looks freshly showered. He’s carrying a large casserole dish.

“What have you brought us?” Mom asks, taking it from his hands. “It smells wonderful.”

“Paella,” he replies, smiling warmly.

When Mom lifts the lid of the dish, a spicy aroma makes my stomach growl loud enough for Chloe to say, “Excuse you, Hayley!”

I blush and go back to frosting my cupcake as Gran walks in with a vase of red flowers. She oohs and ahhs over Ramon’s paella, and before I know it, dinner is on the table, and we’re ready to eat.

It’s lunchtime, really, and the meal doesn’t look like any Thanksgiving we’ve ever had before. Gran has cooked salmon, Mom has made kale spiced with garlic and red pepper, and — of course — we have paella. No stuffing. I’m trying not to feel disappointed.

I take a bite of Ramon’s dish — and have to admit that it’s my favorite thing on the table. It’s a spicy mix of sausage, rice, tomatoes, and seafood.

“This is awesome!” Chloe gushes, and I agree.

Ramon tells a story about the time he tried to explain the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade to his relatives in Honduras. “They like to tease me because my Spanish isn’t perfect. So when I told them that there were giant balloons, they laughed. ‘You’re saying giant
balloons
!’ They thought I must have meant something else. ‘You’re saying balloons as big as a house!’ It took forever for me to convince them that I really meant balloons, after all.”

Mom clears away the plates, and I pass out cupcakes while Chloe hands everyone a pale blue piece of paper and a pen.

“What’s this?” Ramon asks.

“It’s so that you can write down something you’re thankful for,” Chloe tells him. She looks at me. “We’re starting a new tradition.”

“I’m thankful that I didn’t have to cook a turkey this year,” Mom says.

Ramon smiles at her, but it’s a faraway smile, as if he’s thinking of something else. “I have much to be thankful for,” he says, and then he bends his head over his piece of paper, writing something.

“As do we all.” Gran smiles at me, and I know instantly that she’s thankful that Chloe, Mom, and I came to live with her.

I hear Chloe’s pen scratching, and I imagine that she’s thankful to have met Rupert. Or to be in a new school.

Mom is writing, too, but I can’t imagine what she’s thankful for. Is she glad she got divorced? Or is she writing something goopy about Ramon?

I peer down at my blank paper.

I have a lot to be thankful for. I know that. We have a home here with Gran. I get to make cupcakes whenever I like. I found a good friend in Meghan.

But I don’t feel like writing any of that.

I’m thankful that this year is ending.

I’m glad it’s almost over, that it’s rolling away into the past, leaving only the future.

I fold my paper in half and give it to Chloe, who collects the scraps. Then she walks over to the fireplace and tosses them in.

I watch the flame lick the edges of the paper. One of the pieces turns to ash and flutters up the chimney. I like to think that one is mine.

Silence settles over the room, and then — out of the blue — Ramon starts to sing. It’s a gentle song in Spanish, so I have no idea what he’s saying, but the sounds are sweet and a little sad. He has a lovely voice. Not loud or showy, just nice, and I imagine that he’s singing about the year ending and something new beginning.

His face blurs, and I realize that tears are welling in my eyes, threatening to spill down my cheeks. I hide my face in my napkin, then get up to go to the bathroom, where I splash water on my face and look at myself in the mirror. My skin looks pale and blotchy. I look ill, to tell you the truth. I feel queasy.

Happy Thanksgiving,
I think.

When I come back into the living room, Rupert is sitting at the table, munching a cupcake. “These are delicious,” he tells me.

“Thanks,” I reply. “What are you doing here?”

“Hayley!” Chloe squeals.

“I just mean — Rupert, aren’t you having Thanksgiving at your own house?”

“Yes, and that’s why I’m here. I’m just taking a break from the noise.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s so nice and quiet here.”

Mom and Ramon are in the kitchen. She’s washing the dishes, and he’s drying. Gran is sitting in a chair by the fireplace, reading.

“Yeah, it’s quiet,” I say.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Hayley,” Rupert says, “but you look awful.”

“I feel pretty awful,” I admit.

“Maybe you’d better lie down,” Chloe suggests.

“I think that’s a good idea.” I head off to our room to be alone.

Even though I don’t think that lying down is going to fix what’s wrong with me.

B
y four o’clock, I feel like something is trying to claw its way out of my stomach. I drank a glass of ginger ale to settle my stomach, but it just seems to have made everything worse.

Chloe knocks on the door. “Hayley, are you okay?”

“No,” I say weakly.

“Dad’s here.” Her voice is soft.

“Okay.” I stand up and smooth my clothes. I splash a little water on my face, trying hard not to get it on my new dress. I take a deep breath. Then another. Then I fluff up the fake flower, which has wilted at my waist.

I head all the way downstairs and into the café to say good-bye to Mom and Gran. My dad is there, and I can tell that he and Mom have been arguing. They stop talking when they see me.

“How are you feeling?” Dad asks.

“Terrible,” I tell him.

His blue eyes flash in irritation. “What’s wrong?” he demands, as if I have gotten sick just to inconvenience him.

“My stomach.” I shake my head. I feel awful, like I need to lie down again. I feel a trickle of sweat creep down the back of my neck.

“I don’t think Hayley should go,” Mom says.

Dad looks at her, then at me. “Is that what you want? To stay here?”

“I don’t feel well.”

“You don’t have to eat anything,” Dad says. “You can just sit there.”

I put a hand on a tabletop to steady myself. Dad is dressed up. He’s wearing a gray suit that looks new and a beautiful orange tie. He wants me to go to this dinner. I know the set of his jaw and the tone of his voice — I’m going.

“Okay,” I say at last. “I’ll just sit there.”

“Hayley —” Mom says, but I just give her a hug.

“Bye, Mom. Bye, Gran.”

“Good-bye, darling,” Gran says. She has been listening to the entire conversation with a dark-eyed glower, and she shoots daggers at my father as he, Chloe, and I walk out the door.

Annie is waiting by the car. “Everyone ready?” she asks with a smile. “Oh, Hayley — is that — are those …” She’s looking at my shoes, and her smile has disappeared.

“You can’t wear high-tops to the country club,” Dad announces. “Go change.”

But my head is swimming, and my muscles ache. I think about the stairs to the apartment and feel dizzy. “I don’t have any nice shoes.” My voice sounds far away to me, like someone else is phoning it in.

“You don’t have any heels?” Dad asks.

I’d thought that the dress actually looked kind of cool with high-tops. But I was telling the truth — the only nice pair of shoes I have that fit are sandals. And November in Massachusetts isn’t sandal weather.

“Hayley needs to sit down,” Chloe announces. “Can we please just go?”

“What about her shoes?” Dad asks.

“It’s Thanksgiving, Dad,” Chloe tells him. “Anybody who cares about her shoes is a jerk.”

Way to go, Chloe,
I think as Dad stands there awkwardly. Chloe never argues with anyone.

Anyway, she’s right. I really, really do need to sit down.

Dad looks at his watch. “All right, let’s get going. I don’t want to be late.” And we all pile into the Lexus.

In the backseat, Chloe takes my hand. I lean my head on her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” Chloe whispers.

I nod.

All I have to do is sit there,
I think.
Just sit there.

That’s all.

I
realize it before we even set foot in the restaurant. We pull up in front of an enormous white building with columns and bushes cut into the shape of swans. Yes, I’m serious. Swans. They’re covered in white lights and glow softly in the foggy darkness.

I probably would have thought it was really pretty, if I didn’t feel so horrible.

We pull up in a circular drive, and Dad gives the keys to a valet. Chloe helps me get out of the car, and I cling to her arm for support. And then we walk into this really elegant room with a marble floor and flower arrangements the size of my mom’s car. I take one look at the enormous crystal chandelier and think,
Wrong shoes
.

Annie walks up to a man in a tuxedo. “Hello, Wilson,” she says. “Are my parents here?”

“Good evening, Ms. Montri,” Wilson says. “Yes, your parents are already seated. Will anyone else be joining you?” He nods at her, and she gestures to us.

Wilson looks us over. His eyes linger just a second on my high-tops, and one of his eyebrows lifts.

My dad huffs a sigh, and I can tell he wants to say something. Something along the lines of, “I
told
her not to wear those.” But here is the thing — this place is actually too fancy for anyone to complain about your shoes.

“Right this way,” Wilson says.

I spot Annie’s parents right away — she looks just like her mother, who is elegantly dressed in a cream suit. Her father beams as we walk toward him, and his enormous smile makes me feel a bit better.

Annie introduces Dad to her parents, and I’m aware that my father is giving his heartiest handshake. Annie’s dad smiles and shakes my hand, while her mother says a gentle hello and peers into my face with a slightly worried expression.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Montri asks.

“Hayley isn’t feeling well,” Dad explains.

“Sit down, sit down!” Annie’s father says.

We all take a seat. I place my napkin in my lap, but Chloe hesitates over hers. “Oh, I hate to unfold it,” she says, looking at the swan.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Mrs. Montri says. “They teach classes here on how to make them.”

“Really?” Chloe asks, as if she’s always been dying to learn to fold napkins.

“So, David, I hear you and Annie work together?” Mr. Montri asks, turning to my father.

“Yes, I’m an attorney.”

“And what kind of car do you drive?” Mr. Montri asks.

“Dad!” Annie shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

My dad laughs and blushes slightly. “A Lexus,” he admits. That car is his pride and joy.

Mr. Montri frowns slightly, and reaches for the bread basket. “Would anyone like to try some? They make the rolls here, and they’re delicious.”

“Dad owns a Cadillac dealership,” Annie explains.

“Best car in the world,” her father says fiercely. “Always buy American.”

Annie sighs. “Oh, Dad.”

My father squirms uncomfortably. “Um, Mrs. Montri — you’re a doctor, I understand?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Montri replies. “I’ve been in practice for over fifteen years.”

“We came to this country almost twenty years ago with nothing,” Mr. Montri says. “Nothing! And now — look at
us!” He sends out his arm in a sweeping gesture, including the whole restaurant in his achievement.

“A real success story,” my father says.

“People complain about this country.” Mr. Montri leans toward my dad, as if he’s challenging him to say a bad word about the USA. “But I tell you, there is no other place in the world with the opportunities America has.”

Chloe passes me the bread basket. I can feel that the rolls are warm, and they smell wonderful, even though my guts are tossing. I wonder if a bite of bread might settle my stomach, like saltines are supposed to. I pick a roll out of the basket and put it down on my plate.

“Well, of course, China is growing rapidly,” my father says.

“China!” Mr. Montri looks outraged. “China! China? There is no innovation in China. There is no leadership! China? The way they treat their workers — it’s very bad!”

“Well, I —” My father looks to Annie for help, but she just shrugs.

“Dad loves to argue,” Annie tells him.

My dad does not love to argue, and I see him squirming uncomfortably as Mr. Montri blusters on about the need for United States leadership in the world community. “This is what the Founding Fathers were dedicated to — ideals!
Equality of man! China? Their idea of equality is that everyone is treated the same — terribly!”

Finally, a silence falls over the table. I take a bite of my roll. And chew. And chew.

“Um, Hayley is learning a lot about the Founding Fathers in history class this year, right, Hayley?” Dad looks at me, as if he hopes that I’ll be able to help him somehow.

And I want to. I really do. But I’m chewing.

Still chewing.

“Hayley?” Chloe asks. “Are you okay?”

I try to swallow. I can’t.

I open my mouth to reply and throw up into the bread basket.