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

I
don’t want to get on the bus that afternoon. Artie’s on my bus. Here I am, in flowered leggings and a long black top — Meghan’s spare clothes — and I can’t take facing my Ex-Best in a borrowed outfit.

It just feels like too much.

So I don’t. Instead, I walk home with Meghan. It takes longer, but it’s not bad — just a half-hour walk — and it winds past one of the last small farms still in town.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Meghan says as she steps into a pumpkin patch.

I giggle — half because Meghan is such a nut, half because she’s making me nervous. “Meghan, you can’t just take a pumpkin out of a field without paying for it,” I say as she reaches for one.

“Oh, it’s no big deal,” she says. “It’s Halloween — they aren’t going to sell these. They’re just leaving the pumpkins here to rot because it’s good for the soil. But the soil won’t miss one.”

“That’s not the point. The point is that it’s not your pumpkin. It’s theft.”

“Look, I would happily pay for it. I tried to buy one at the farm stand yesterday, but it was closed. The co-op was sold out, and so was State Street Fruit. What am I supposed to do — it’s Halloween, and I don’t have a pumpkin!” She tries to heft the pumpkin. “Ugh. It’s heavy.”

“Well, you picked the fattest one.”

“My mother always says, ‘If you’re going to go — go big!’”

“Is she usually referring to criminal activity when she says that?”

“No, she’s usually referring to ice cream. But the idea is the same. Help me with this.”

“No way.”

“Look, just help me get this home, and then I’ll go put some money in the frog.” There’s a frog sculpture in front of First Churches in the middle of downtown Northampton. It has a slot for donations, and any money you put in the frog goes to feed the hungry.

“How much?”

“I don’t know.” Meghan stands back and surveys the pumpkin. “What would this cost — about eight dollars?”

“Probably.”

“Okay, I’ll put
ten
dollars in the frog.”

Meghan reaches for the pumpkin. It’s so heavy that she totters backward, then stumbles onto her rear. She lands in the mud with a splat. The pumpkin rolls onto its side and cracks open.

Meghan bursts into laughter. “Karma! Ugh! I’m covered in pumpkin guts!”

And then — get this — she reaches for another!

“Are you serious?” I demand.

“I’ve come this far.” She grunts as she heaves the pumpkin into the air.

“You are totally insane.” She stumbles again, and I rush forward to help her. And just like that, now I’m an accomplice.

“Thanks, Hayley. I don’t want to be the only person in town without a jack-o’-lantern.”

I sigh. “Fine, but you
have
to feed the frog.”

“I will!” Her dimples deepen as she grins. Here is the thing about Meghan Markerson: She can pretty much get anybody to do anything. She even managed to get our school
mascot changed. Most of the kids in our class think she’s kind of weird, but they usually do whatever she says, anyway.

“Just don’t ask for my help robbing any banks,” I tell her.

“Please. Look at the lecture I got just for trying to take a pumpkin!”

Between us, it isn’t so heavy, but it is a little awkward to carry. Plus, the pumpkin patch is muddy. I trip over half-rotted squash as we squish our way — slowly, carefully — to the edge of the field.

“Let’s take a little break,” Meghan says. “Put it down on three. One, two —”

And that’s when the police car pulls up.

J
ust so you know, they don’t have, like, normal backseats. It’s a hard fiberglass bench. Maybe uncomfortable seats make people confess? I don’t know.

Anyway, yeah, I’ve been in a police car before. Marco and I got picked up once, when we were in the third grade. We had wandered away from school.

A police officer found us a few blocks away, on Lowell Street.

I remember that the police officer was really nice. She said that we could call her Rosie. She even apologized for making us ride in the back, but she said we weren’t allowed to ride in the front.

Rosie let us sit at her desk at the police station until our parents came. Marco’s mom got there first. Her face was all
red and splotchy, and her voice was hoarse, as if she had been crying her head off. She hugged Marco so hard that I thought she might suffocate him. He looked like he was about to die of embarrassment.

My dad was the one who picked me up. He was all tight lipped and serious, like he didn’t know what to say to me. When we got home, he sat me down and told me that what Marco and I had done was stupid. He demanded that I apologize for leaving school.

But I wouldn’t.

He sent me to my room, saying that I couldn’t have dinner until I came out and apologized. I remember passing my little sister, Chloe, in the hallway on the way up to my room. She was only four years old, and she looked frightened. I wanted to scoop her up and tell her I was okay, nothing bad had happened, but then Dad shouted at me to hurry up, so I just touched her shoulder as I walked past.

During dinner, Mom came upstairs and told me that I could come down and eat the minute I apologized.

I still didn’t apologize, though.

The next morning, Dad laid down the law: no breakfast until I apologized.

The smell of eggs and bacon made my stomach rumble, but I still wouldn’t do it.

Chloe cried and tried to give me her Cheerios, but Dad wouldn’t let her. Mom looked like she was holding back tears. I just sat at the breakfast table, watching Dad. I don’t know where I got the guts to do that, but I did.

I didn’t apologize until I was about to leave for school. My mom handed me the lunch she had packed. “I’m sorry I scared you,” I told her. She touched my hair, then gave me a hug. I squeezed her tight.

I really was sorry.

But I still wouldn’t apologize to Dad.

Marco and I weren’t
stupid
, and I wasn’t about to agree with Dad and say that we were. I wouldn’t.

And I never did.

T
he warm café is a relief from the chill autumn air as Officer Martinez and I step inside. When the bell jingles, Gran looks up, smiling. “Well, Hayley, I see you’ve made a friend,” she says warmly, as if it’s perfectly normal that I would hang out with a uniformed police officer.

Mom — who was sitting at a table near the back, working on her laptop — stands up. For a moment, she is still as a stone, her mouth open and eyes wide. Then she hurries over to us. “Are you hurt?” she asks me, and before I can answer, she wraps me in a hug.

“I’m fine.” My words are muffled by the fabric of her shirt.

She pulls back and smoothes my hair away from my face, then looks up at the officer. “What —?”

“The farmers have declined to press charges,” he says.

If Mom were a cartoon, her eyes would be sproinging out of her head.

“Meghan wanted a pumpkin, and there wasn’t any place to buy one, so I helped her….” Oh, this sounds lame, even to me. “Sorry.”

“Pumpkin theft,” Gran says. “And on Halloween. Who’s heard of such madness?” My grandmother is from England. Here is the truth: Sarcasm sounds extra hilarious when it comes from an old British lady, so — naturally — I giggle.

Mom frowns, and I clamp my lips together.

Officer Martinez’s thick black mustache twitches, but Mom doesn’t smile. “Thank you for bringing her home safely,” she says, trying to smooth down her wild, dark curls.

“It was my pleasure,” Officer Martinez tells her.

There’s an awkward moment when I wonder just how grounded I’ll be for my role as Accessory to Pumpkin Theft. Probably extremely grounded, even though the farmers — a young hippie couple — were pretty amused by our crime.

“Could we … could we offer you a scone?” Mom asks the police officer. “A cup of coffee?”

“On the house, of course,” Gran adds, giving him a twinkly-eyed smile.

“Those scones do smell delicious,” he says. “But I’m happy to pay for one.”

“Oh, no — really, let us thank you.” Mom hurries behind the counter.

Officer Martinez is already reaching for his wallet. “I appreciate it, but I can’t accept.”

“Oh.” Mom’s eyebrows go up in surprise. “Oh — because it might seem like a bribe?”

“I never take anything for free from a civilian,” the officer tells her. “Not even a stick of gum.”

Officer Martinez smiles as he hands Mom the money for the scone. “Don’t be too hard on her,” he tells Mom. “Her friend confessed that it was her idea — and I think they’re both sorry.”

“Hayley needs to learn to use better judgment,” Mom says sternly. “But thank you, Officer Martinez.”

“Ramon,” he says.

Mom looks a little surprised. “Margaret.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Ramon pulls the scone out of the wax paper bag and takes a bite as he walks to the door. “Delicious,” he says as he backs through the exit. Then he smiles again and steps out onto the street. Mom watches him as he walks past the window.

“Mom?”

She looks at me as if she’s trying to remember who I am. I guess my run-in with the law has left her dazed. I don’t blame her. I’m feeling pretty dazed, too.

At that moment, my sister, Chloe, and her friend Rupert slam through the front door. Rupert is dressed as an astronaut.

“What are you supposed to be?” I ask my little sister. “A hamburger?”

Rupert snorts.

“I’m the planet
Saturn
,” Chloe corrects, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “When are we leaving to go trick-or-treating?”

“Hayley isn’t going,” Mom announces. “She’s grounded.”

“What?” Chloe gives Mom the Big Baby-Animal Eyes. “That isn’t fair!”

“Tell it to Hayley,” Mom says.

So Chloe gives
me
the Big Baby-Animal Eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell my sister.

“Surely Chloe and Rupert are old enough to go by themselves,” Gran offers.

Mom looks dubious.

“My sisters can take us,” Rupert announces in his quiet voice.

Chloe looks at him. “But what about Hayley? Halloween is only once a year,” she says. “She’s going to miss it!”

Then she turns to me, and she looks so sad and so sorry for me that I wrap her in a hug, which isn’t easy in that Saturn outfit. “It’s okay, Chlo,” I say.

She lets go and stands back. “What are you wearing?” she asks. “Is that a costume?”

I realize suddenly that I’ve still got on Meghan’s spare leggings and shirt. “Oh, that’s a whole other story.”

“Your sister will survive, Chloe,” Mom says.

“She’ll watch the parade here, with me,” Gran puts in.

“She’s grounded, Mother,” Mom explains.

“Well, surely that doesn’t mean she won’t be allowed to help her grandmother?” Gran smiles, all innocence.

Mom sighs. “I need to ground your grandma,” she says to me, but I can tell that she’s joking, and that everything is all right. “No computer and no TV for the rest of the week. And no trick-or-treating tonight.”

“Phone?” I ask.

“Only if it’s me or your dad.”

“Or your beloved grandmama,” Gran adds.

I sigh. “What about homework — can I use the computer?” I ask.

“Yes, but I’ll be watching.” She storms back to her table to resume her work.

My sister gives me a last squeeze, and she and Rupert head out the door. To find his sisters, I guess.

When things get this bad, there’s only one thing to do, so I head behind the counter to bake cupcakes.

Modern Carrot-Cake Cupcakes

(makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

INGREDIENTS:

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with cupcake liners.
   
2. In a large bowl, using a whisk or handheld mixer, mix together the grated carrots, yogurt, vanilla extract, granulated sugar, brown sugar, and oil.
   
3. In a separate bowl, sift together the gluten-free flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, ginger, and cardamom.
   
4. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ones a little bit at a time, stopping to scrape the sides of the bowl a few times, and mix until no lumps remain. Add the chopped pistachio nuts and golden raisins, and combine completely.
   
5. Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way and bake for 18–22 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.
   

Spiced Cream-Cheese Frosting

INGREDIENTS:

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. In a bowl, using a handheld mixer, cream together the cream cheese and margarine or butter completely. Slowly add the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches, mixing completely before adding more.
   
2. Add the vanilla extract, cardamom, and ginger, and beat on high speed until the frosting becomes light and fluffy, about 3–7 minutes.