Confectionately Yours #2: Taking the Cake! (9 page)

M
om is sitting at a table in the café, chatting with Police Officer Ramon.

Awk-ward.

I really want to talk to her about Marco and Meghan and Devon and Artie. But she’s busy … smiling. Smiling and smiling at Ramon, who is smiling and smiling at her. I just wish they’d stop
smiling
so much.

Which brings me to my next subject: I wish I had someone to talk to about my mother and Ramon.

But who am I going to call? Meghan? We weren’t friends when my parents got divorced, and she doesn’t really know the whole history. Besides, I don’t want
advice
. I just want someone to listen. And Meghan is really more of an advice girl. Three weeks ago, I would’ve called Artie. But that’s out. And Marco — forget it. He’s got too much going on to hear
me. My sister is sitting nearby, but she’s with Rupert, and I don’t want more free psychoanalysis. Besides, Chloe probably thinks Officer Ramon is great. Just like Annie is great. Everyone’s great!

I wish I could feel that way.

I tap in the cocoa and mix it carefully into the rest of the batter. Then I add a generous amount of sea salt. It’s almost like I’m adding the tears that are hidden behind my eyes, the ones I can’t seem to shed for some reason.

I’ve been thinking about Marco all afternoon. Not just about the trouble he’s having in Mr. Carter’s class, but just about how hard things have been for him in general. I wish our friendship was like it used to be — easy. Automatic. Almost thoughtless.

I feel the same way about Artie. I wish I’d never realized she was awful. It was so much easier.

In books or movies, whenever a friendship ends, the friends just become enemies. And then the heroine makes perfect new friends who solve all of her problems. Instead, I’ve got a still-kind-of friend who needs my help, an ex-friend who isn’t quite an enemy, and a new friend who’s bossy and maybe halfway nuts. Fun, but nuts.

Nuts. A thought strikes me:
Maybe nuts are what’s needed.

I decide to add a few pecans to the recipe.

“You seem lost in thought,” says a voice behind me.

Turning, I see the warm, smiling face of Mr. Malik. He’s peeking out from behind a tall bouquet of dahlias. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He places the weekly bouquet — a barter arrangement from his flower shop — on the counter and takes a seat. “You were lost in thought,” he says in his elegant Pakistani accent.

“Thinking about friends,” I tell him as I scoop batter into paper cupcake liners.

“Good friends?”

“Old friends. Ex-friends, maybe.” I shrug.

“They’re hard to replace.” Mr. Malik places his fingertips together.

“Yeah.”

“It’s hard to compare someone you’ve known your whole life to someone you’ve known only a few weeks,” he says, and I nearly fall on the floor because that is exactly the problem and I hadn’t been able to figure out how to say it until he just did.

He sighs and smiles at the same time. “I remember how I felt when my wife died,” he says. “I lost my closest friend, and I did not want to know anyone else. All I wanted was her. But, eventually, I made new friends. And, in time, those
friends that I had known for a few weeks became friends that I have known for years. And I treasure them, and the memories we have made together.”

“Mr. Malik! There you are. Just in time for tea and madeleines.” Gran bustles out from the back room, smiling. Mr. Malik brightens at the sight of her as she pours hot water into the teapot and takes a plate of cookies to a small table near the window.

“Will you excuse me?” Mr. Malik asks. “It’s time for me to have tea … with my friend.” He gives me a courtly bow.

“Sure,” I tell him. I want to say thanks, too, but I’m worried it will sound weird, so I try to just look grateful for what he’s said. I watch as he goes to sit down with my grandmother, who never would have become his close friend if his wife hadn’t passed away. That was sad. It was tragic — but something good still came out of it.

Chloe and Rupert sit near Gran, playing some card game that Chloe has invented. That is another friendship that grew out of a sad story. Chloe’s friends turned on her and started bullying her. For a long time, Chloe’s only companion was her imaginary friend, Horatio. But she changed schools and met Rupert. And he understood her in a way that her old friends never did.

Mom laughs at something Ramon has said. She catches my eye and waves to me. I wave back, and Ramon nods. Pressing my lips together, I turn back to my cupcakes.

I guess Ramon is my mother’s new friend. The person who appeared to fill the hole my father created when he left.

It’s funny to think that my mom might be feeling kind of the same way that I’m feeling — deserted. Confused. Relieved to have a new friend.

I guess I should be glad for my mom.

Maybe I will feel that way.

In the future.

I
’m sitting at dinner that night, minding my own business, when Chloe asks, “Can we invite Ramon to Thanksgiving dinner?”

Suddenly, it’s like I don’t know what to do with the bite of fish in my mouth. I can’t seem to swallow it. I just chew and chew and chew until it’s practically fish juice, and then I’m still chewing and I have to take a sip of water to wash it down.

Gran watches Mom, a little smile on her lips, as if she’s wondering how my mother will respond. Mom looks dazed. She gazes off toward the kitchen, as if she’s considering trying to escape.

“Isn’t he your boyfriend?” Chloe asks. Her face turns pink, and I think she’s realized that she has said something embarrassing.

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Mom says in a tone of voice that means, “not
exactly
.”

“Okay, well, even if he’s just a friend, can’t he come over?” Chloe asks. “Don’t you remember that he said he spends Thanksgiving alone?”

“He spends it at a soup kitchen,” I correct her. “Maybe he likes helping people.”

“We’re having dinner early,” Chloe points out. “He’ll still have time to go to the soup kitchen. Right, Gran?”

“Hmm. Hayley, dear, please pass the salt,” Gran says.

Mom looks at me, as if she knows that I’m the one who will say no. “Can’t we just keep Thanksgiving small?” I beg.

“Chloe, sweetheart,” Mom says to my sister, “Thanksgiving is really about family.”

“But Hayley and I are having Thanksgiving with Annie and her parents, and they aren’t family,” Chloe insists.

I drop my fork onto my plate and put my head in my hands.

“You’re having Thanksgiving with Annie’s family?” Mom asks.

“You didn’t know that?” Chloe’s mouth is a tiny O. She looks at me in horror, but I just shake my head.

“Well, this is interesting.” Gran stands up suddenly. “I think I’ll have a glass of wine.”

“Your father told me that he wanted to spend Thanksgiving with you girls,” Mom says. “He didn’t say anything else. Is —” She turns to look at me. “Are Annie and your father engaged?”

“No, of course not,” I say, and the moment the words are past my lips, I wonder if it’s true. Are they? I mean, Chloe and I are going all the way to Connecticut to meet Annie’s parents on Thanksgiving. That seems like … well, maybe it could be something.

Something big.

Mom’s eyes sparkle, and I realize that tears have sprung into them. This stabs me like a stake in the heart. I take her hand just as Gran returns to the dining room with a glass of white wine. “Well!” Gran says brightly as she settles into her chair.

“Please, Mom?” Chloe pleads. “Please can’t we just invite Ramon?”

“Why is it such a big deal, Chloe?” I ask.

“Because I don’t want him to spend Thanksgiving by himself,” she says. Her eyes are wide and innocent, and I want to hug her and throttle her all at once.

Mom puts up a hand. She blinks twice, then nods. “Okay, Chloe. We’ll invite him.”

“Well, that will be lovely,” Gran says.

Chloe looks relieved, then flashes me a nervous smile.

I look away. “May I be excused?”

“Sure, Hayley.”

Great.
May I be excused from Thanksgiving, too?

I
remember the day my dad moved out. I watched from the window in my room as my father helped two moving men haul things to the van. It didn’t take that long — less than an hour.

Finally, the men closed the door on the back of the van and drove away. There were still a few small things Dad wanted to take with him, so Mom actually helped him carry a couple of the boxes out to his car.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t cry when she was laid off from the job she loved.

On the day we packed up the rest of our things to move out of our home, Mom was busy labeling boxes and color-coding a chart so we would know where everything went. She didn’t cry then, either.

The only time I’ve ever seen Mom cry is the time that Chloe fell off the swing face-first. She was three years old and had been lying on her stomach, swinging back and forth. When she fell, she went tumbling head over heels and cut her forehead on a rock. Even then, Mom was calm. She held a handkerchief to Chloe’s head and dialed 911 on her cell phone with the other hand. Mom soothed Chloe all the way to the hospital. It was only later, after the doctor put seven stitches in Chloe’s forehead, after we went home and Mom tucked Chloe into bed, it was only after all of that that I went downstairs for a drink of water and heard Mom telling Dad all about what had happened, and sobbing like she couldn’t stop. She told him that she had been frightened and that she blamed herself for letting Chloe swing on her stomach. I heard my father comforting her as I turned and tiptoed away.

That was the only time I ever saw her cry. That, and tonight, at the table, when she asked if Dad and Annie were engaged. I mean, she didn’t lose it and start boo-hooing, but I saw tears in her eyes. Then she blinked, and they disappeared.

It made me remember the night of Chloe’s accident, when Mom hid her tears from both of us. And I realized something: It isn’t that Mom never cries.

It’s just that she never lets us see.

“H
ayley!” I hear Meghan shouting as I make my way toward homeroom. “Hayley!” She hurries up behind me and grabs my elbow. She holds up a finger as if to say, “one minute,” then takes a deep breath. “I ran too fast,” she gasps, then sucks in more air. “Sorry.”

“Take your time,” I tell her.

Her face is pink as she straightens up and fans herself with her fingers. “Now I’m all sweaty before class.” She sniffs her armpit. “I probably smell!”

“You’re fine,” I tell her.

“Do you have it?” she asks.

I reach into my backpack and pull out a Chinese-food container.

She lets out a whoop. “What flavor?”

“Banana,” I tell her, “with chocolate frosting.” I had cut out a small paper monkey and written i’m bananas for you on the front. Then I glued it to a toothpick and stuck it in the cupcake. It had come out really cute, if I do say so myself.

Which I do.

“It’s perfect!” Meghan says, closing the lid back up. “I can’t wait to stick it in his desk!” I have to grab her sweater to stop her from dashing away.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“Just giving you one more chance to think this over.”

“I don’t know, Hayley.” Meghan runs her hands through her bangs, then balls her hands into fists, so that tufts of pink hair sprout through her fingers like cactus flowers. “I know you think I’m crazy. Sometimes I think I’m not the easiest person to be friends with.” Her eyes are large, and together with the hairstyle, she looks like a troll doll. My new friend — she has some challenges.

“You’re not the hardest person, either,” I say.

“Really?” She combs her fingers through her hair, rearranging the spiky mass.

“You’re not even in the top ten,” I tell her truthfully. “You just have a lot of ideas and a lot of energy. And sometimes it goes a little —”

“Haywire?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what my mom says. She’s always like, ‘Slow down, Meghan! Think about what you’re doing!’”

“So why don’t you do that?” I ask.

“Because I never listen to my mom. Besides, if I slowed down, there wouldn’t be time to do everything!”

I laugh. “Okay, Meg.” There’s no point in trying to stop her. So I don’t.

Somehow, Meghan manages to wait until we are in math class to surprise Ben with the cupcake.

“Don’t you want to see his reaction?” Meghan asks.

I know the right answer. “Um, yes?”

Anyway, so Ben walks into class, and there is the Chinese-food container sitting on top of his desk. Meghan had put sparkly stickers all over it and had written his name on top.

Ben puts his backpack on the ground. Then he pokes at the top of the container with his pen. It’s like he’s defusing a bomb or something. He manages to lift a flap that way, and when he looks inside, his eyebrows lift. Lifted eyebrows — what does it mean?

I feel like I’m about to pass out. It isn’t even
my
love note — not really — but the fact that I can’t read his reaction stresses me out. I hear Meghan tapping her fingers on her desk and realize that she’s stressed, too.

He lifts the cupcake out of the container and reads the card. He stares out the window for almost a full minute, then he sits down at the desk.

Eat it!
I think at him.
Eat the cupcake!

Finally, he takes a bite. Then another.

My head swims with relief.
He likes it.

“Hey, Hayley,” Marco says as he slips into the desk beside mine. He hands me a folded piece of paper — my homework, which he borrowed on the bus again this morning. He sees me looking at the far corner of the room and looks quickly from Ben’s cupcake to my face. He bites his lip and is about to say something when Mr. Carter comes in.

“Everyone take out your homework,” he drones. We pass it up. Marco hands his in without looking in my direction.

As all of those papers make their way forward, Meghan passes a note over her shoulder.

OMG, Ben has chocolate cupcake stuck on his tooth! Gross!

I draw a smiley face with crazy hair sticking up out of it, then hand it back.

She unfolds the paper, then turns and grins at me. I sneak another glance at Ben. He’s folding up the wrapper
very intently. I think it’s interesting that he hasn’t looked around the classroom at all.
Doesn’t he wonder who sent him the cupcake?
I think.
Or maybe he already knows.
Marco peers over at me again, his face thoughtful.

“All right, everyone, please clear your desks,” Mr. Carter announces. “We’re going to have a pop quiz.”

The class groans, and books slam shut. Mr. Carter gets Tanisha to pass out the quizzes. I sigh as I look at the page. Division of fractions. Fine. I’d rather be taking a pop quiz than listening to Mr. Carter read from the book or pick on Marco.

I’m halfway through the fifth problem when I realize that Marco is having a coughing fit beside me. When I look over, his eyes go wide.
Help,
he mouths.

Help? I look down at his paper. He’s only answered one problem. And it’s the wrong answer. I feel seasick, as if the room has begun to sway.

I shake my head.
No.

Marco takes a shaky breath and looks up at the front of the room, where Mr. Carter is looking over the homework. Marco moves on to the next problem.

I try to focus on my paper, but I’m dimly aware that Marco has forgotten to simplify the fractions. That’s points off. Besides, it makes the problem harder to solve.

No,
I tell myself.
Don’t do it.

But then I imagine an F at the top of Marco’s paper. I imagine him getting kicked off the soccer team. And before I know what I’m doing, I clear my throat and Marco looks up.

I don’t have to do much. I just sit up straighter, move my arm, tilt my paper, and go back to solving problems. When I finish, I pretend to be going back over my work, so Marco will have time to see everything. But I don’t actually check my answers. My ears are buzzing, and I can’t concentrate. I’m not even sure who I’m mad at — Marco, or myself.

Both, I guess.

I watch Marco’s face as Tanisha picks up the tests. He’s smiling, and I realize that he’s happy — he’s confident. This is probably the first pop quiz in math that he’s ever taken where he knows he’ll get a good grade. Then Mr. Carter won’t be able to say anything.

But I feel like I’m covered in some sort of oozy, slimy goo. Like I’ll never get it off. When Marco catches my eye, he blushes.
Sorry,
he mouths.

I press my lips together and stare straight ahead, and I know in that moment that this is the last time. The last time.

It has to be.