Confectionately Yours #3: Sugar and Spice (11 page)

“H
ello?” I call as I step into Mr. Malik’s shop. It’s a lovely little place. A heavy, dark oak table sits at the center of the main room, covered in buckets of holly, feathery ferns, and elegant ivy topiaries. Wreaths of dried flowers cover the walls, and the refrigerated glass cases are packed with colorful arrangements. The whole place smells wonderful, the way you dream roses do, though they never quite live up to it. Soothing piano music plays in the background.

Uzma is behind the cash register, peering through a pair of reading glasses at a pile of receipts. Her lower lip is raised, and she reminds me of Mrs. McTibble’s dog, whose tongue is always sticking out just a bit. Her eyebrows go up and she pulls off her glasses when she sees me. “Hayley, hello.”

“Hi,” I say.

She pushes herself off of her stool. “Are you here to buy flowers?” she asks, coming out from behind the counter.

“No, actually …” I hold out a small white bakery box.

“Umer will be delighted,” Uzma says.

“Oh, no — it’s for you,” I explain.

“For me?” Uzma looks down at the box. Her eyes water up as she opens the box. “How thoughtful,” she says. Her voice is quiet.

“I hope you like it,” I add, just to cover up the awkwardness that has settled over the room.

“Is there someone on this planet who doesn’t like cupcakes? Your grandmother put you up to this, I’ll wager,” Uzma says.

I just smile.

“Well!” Uzma says brightly. “I have something for you, too.” She bustles behind the counter, her
salwar kameez
and shawl rustling. She pulls out a small white bag and spills the contents onto the counter. Five gold and teal bracelets clatter onto the dark wood.

“For me?”

“These are glass bangles,” Uzma says, waving her hand dismissively, as if the bracelets aren’t completely gorgeous. “Very traditional in Pakistan.”

“They’re awesome.” I slide the bangles onto my wrist.

“I have some purple ones for Chloe, too,” Uzma says, holding out another small bag. “You don’t mind giving them to her, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“She’s seemed a little …” Uzma bounces her head a bit from side to side, like a bobblehead doll.

“Sad?”

“Yes.”

I touch a soft yellow rose in a vase by the register, and my bracelets clink. “Rupert is moving away.” I explain the situation with Rupert’s father, and how there isn’t anyone to take him to school in the morning, or home in the afternoon.

“And so — this friendship will end because of the school bus?” Uzma asks.

“Kind of.”

“How unfortunate.” Her mind seems faraway as her fingers flip open the lid of the small white bakery box. She
takes a bite of the cupcake. “Ah … Well, cupcakes certainly do give one hope for better days, don’t they?”

“I guess so,” I say.

“I don’t think we should allow this Rupert situation to go unresolved, do you?” Uzma asks.

“What do you mean?”

Uzma peels back the cupcake wrapper and takes another bite. “I think I’ll have a word with Rupert’s family.”

“His foster family? Or his dad?”

“Everyone, I think,” Uzma says.

I want to tell her that it isn’t a good idea. But I have this feeling about Mr. Malik’s sister: I don’t think she’s the kind of person you argue with.

She’s more the kind of person you get out of the way of.

I
n second grade, I saw Charlie Oxwood draw red Xs on Ms. Jessup’s glasses. She had left them on her desk, and when she left the room for a moment, Charlie went up, grabbed a marker, and drew on them.

Anyway, when Ms. Jessup came back and found her glasses, she was furious. She demanded to know who had drawn on her glasses. Of course, nobody in the class spoke up. Nobody wants to be a tattletale. Besides, Charlie was a creep. He would shoot spitballs at people and shove the kindergartners around. Nobody wanted to be on his bad side.

Well, that night, Gran came over for dinner. I was helping her make a pie in the kitchen, and when she asked me about school, I told her all about it.

Gran was — what’s the word? Irate? Seriously, I thought flames were going to shoot out of her ears or lightning blast out of her nose, or something. Anyway, she picked up the phone that instant and called the school. Nobody was there, of course, but she left a message for the principal to call her back immediately. Gran has a British accent, and when she says to do something immediately, it always sounds really important.

“Will you tell them that I told you?” I asked Gran once she had hung up.

“I think they might be wise enough to make the connection without my help,” Gran replied.

I must have looked kind of terrified, because Gran added, “I’ll call Artemis’s parents, as well, and have them confirm the story with her. And Marco’s. All right? If several parents call the school with the same information, they’ll have to do something. But no one will have to know that it was you who told.”

Well, I wasn’t sure I believed her … but everything happened just like she said it would. Charlie was given an in-school suspension for three days, and he never found out who told. And he was kind of a little bit less of a creep after
that. I think that hearing that several of his classmates had turned him in made him more careful.

Oh, and Charlie’s parents had to pay to have Ms. Jessup’s glasses fixed. But that wasn’t a big deal, because everyone knows the Oxwoods have way more money than brains.

I eventually told Marco and Artie the truth, and I always said that I’d told Gran accidentally — that I hadn’t realized she would flip out the way she did. But sometimes I think maybe I did know. Maybe I wanted Charlie to get in trouble … but I didn’t know how to handle it myself.

And the more I think about what just happened with Uzma, the more I think that maybe it wasn’t exactly an accident. I want someone to talk to Rupert’s family, but I can’t do it. I don’t even know them. Besides, I’m just a middle-school kid.

So — oops? I hope Uzma doesn’t flip out all over Rupert’s family.

Or that she flips out just enough to let him stay in Chloe’s school.

“W
hy are you in the girls’ room?” I ask as the door sighs shut behind me on Monday morning.

“Because I’m putting talent show flyers
everywhere!”
Meghan cries. “Look, do you like the glitter I added? I’m papering this school!”

“Yeah, they’re great. But actually, I was asking Marco.”

“Just capturing the magic on film.” He’s holding out his digital video camera, and Meghan turns to it with a grin and a thumbs-up.

“You know you can’t be in here, right?” I ask. Maybe it’s just because I don’t have a brother, but I really don’t want Marco to hear me pee.

Marco turns off the video camera. “Okay. I was done, anyway.”

“We’ve got a ton of great acts, Hayley,” Meghan gushes. “This is going to be amazing. And Mr. Lao said that he’d help run the lights — did I tell you that?”

“No. That’s great.”

“I can’t believe the performance is Friday!” Meghan does a crazy little jig.

“Dang, I missed that.” Marco frowns at his video camera. “That would’ve been an awesome shot.”

“Why are you filming Meg putting up flyers, anyway?”

Marco shoves the camera into his backpack. “I just thought it would be fun to shoot everyone getting ready for the talent show. I got Kyle on piano, and David Lesser’s dog act. I got the juggler.”

“Did you get Artie?” I ask. Meghan shoots me a glare, but I ignore it.

“Not yet,” Marco admits.

“You should submit the video as part of the show,” I tell Marco, and Meghan does more crazy jigging.

“Brilliant! Brilliant! I’ve been looking for the perfect thing to close the show with!”

Marco whips out the camera again as Meghan twirls down the line of sinks. She’s wearing blue tights and an orange wool A-line dress that swirls around her legs as she dances.

“Okay, well, I guess I have to put it in the show
now
,” Marco says.

“Or you could submit it as evidence at Meghan’s next sanity hearing,” I joke.

Meghan ignores my comment and hands me a stack of flyers. “Would you help me put these up during lunch?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“I’ll help, too,” Marco volunteers, and Meghan takes half of my stack and gives it to him. Just then, the bell rings. “See you later,” Marco says.

“I’m getting so excited!” Meghan crows. “Artie is going to be so sorry that she blew us off!”

A toilet flushes and a stall door opens partway. A sixth grader pokes her head out of the stall. “Is he gone?”

“Sorry!” I say.

“Oh, wow — sorry.” Meghan hands the sixth grader a flyer. “Here, come to the show.”

The sixth grader glares and goes to wash her hands. She takes the flyer, though.

I guess that’s the most important thing.

∗ ∗ ∗

“Can I see?” I ask, leaning toward the stage curtain. The week has whizzed by, and it’s finally the night of the talent show.

“It’s bad luck,” Artie snaps, gently pushing me away. She looks gorgeous. Her long auburn hair is up in a bun, and she’s wearing a white sequined dress.

“You look like you’re going to the Grammys,” I tell her.

She blushes. “Thanks.” I catch her sneaking a look toward the wings, where the dramaramas are warming up.

“Ooh! It’s packed!” Meghan says as she peeks at the gap between the curtain and the stage. “Five minutes to showtime!”

Artie rolls her eyes. “It’s bad luck to look at the audience before the show.”

“I’m not performing,” Meghan says.

“Me, either,” I realize, so I go ahead and take a look while Artie huffs out a frustrated sigh. Meghan wasn’t kidding — I don’t think there’s an open seat in the entire auditorium. I spot Gran, Mom, Chloe, and Aunt Denise in the third row.
They must have gotten here early. Dad and Aunt Denise haven’t exactly been on the best terms since the divorce, so we agreed it would be better for him to sit this one out. Butterflies float in my stomach and I realize why Artie thinks it’s bad luck to look at the audience before a show — it makes you nervous.

“Okay, everyone, we’ve got five minutes to curtain,” Meghan repeats. She’s holding a clipboard, which makes her look very official. And she’s wearing a purple dress, which makes her look a bit like an eggplant. “Artemis, you’re on third, okay? I’ve got to get David Lesser….” And she scurries off to find David and his Corgi.

Artie sucks in her breath and puts her hands over her eyes.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Just nervous. I’ll probably drop the microphone.”

“You’ll be fine.” I give her this awkward little pat on the shoulder, and she gives me a half smile. And then I say, “You have a great voice, Artie. You’re amazing.” I don’t know why I said that … except that it’s the truth.

“Thanks,” Artie says, and I have to fight the urge to say that I really, really mean it. She knows I mean it. I’ve told her
lots of times before. “It’s just that this is my chance …” She shrugs and doesn’t finish the thought.

“To change Ms. Lang’s mind about you?” I guess.

Artie looks at me, but she doesn’t say anything. Just then, the audience goes quiet, and I realize that the lights have dimmed. Another moment, and the curtain goes up. David Lesser runs onto the stage with a Corgi in a tutu right behind him.

And we’re on.

The Corgi act is seriously one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen, and the juggling act is pretty good, too. As it’s finishing, I turn to Artie, who looks a little ill. “Break a leg,” I say.

The panic doesn’t budge from her face. “That’s for actors.”

“Well, break a vocal chord, then.”

She looks at me and actually smiles. Then the audience applauds and Maria darts off and Artie walks out onto the stage. She stands at the center, and Mr. Lao puts a spotlight on her. Then Marco starts the CD. There are a few strains of violin music, and then Artie starts to sing.

She really does have a gorgeous voice. It’s sweet and high, and surprisingly strong — it reaches out over the audience and
fills the whole auditorium. It’s a sad song, about a sailor who has left his love behind.

The audience is so still, it’s as if everyone has forgotten to breathe.

“Amazing,” Marco whispers in my ear. He has stepped away from the sound system.

Artie closes her eyes and lifts her voice into a high note —

And at that moment, a super bass beat bounces through the speakers.

“What’s that?” Meghan asks. Her body is tensed, like she might just jump out at someone.

“Whazzup, Adams Middle School!” Jamil shouts as he bounces onto the stage.

“What the —” Marco makes a grab for Omar, who dodges away and slides out over the hardwood on his knees. Artie scoots out of his way.

“We’re primed to rhyme!” Omar shouts.

“Like Greenwich Mean Time we’re down to the minute —”

“And we’re in it to win it —”

People are starting to boo.

“Who do they think they are?” Meghan snarls as she darts past me. “Kanye West?” Snapping out of my trance, I scurry after her.

But I’m not needed. Meghan runs up to Jamil and whacks him on the head with her clipboard. “You won’t ruin my show!” she shrieks. The crowd goes nuts — cheering and screaming.

Artie watches the entire thing, white-faced and shell-shocked. Tears are spilling down her face. Omar tries to keep rapping, and all of a sudden, I’m filled with rage. There’s a wastepaper basket by my foot. I grab it and dart onstage behind the chaos. Omar hasn’t noticed me, which is how I manage to shove it over his head.

“That’s not funny!” Jamil shouts as Meghan smacks him again. “Stop it!”

But it is funny. It’s hilarious. The audience cracks up as Omar stumbles around with a trash can on his head, and Jamil is being attacked by a frenzied eggplant.

Thankfully, Marco manages to keep it together enough to think of lowering the curtain.

Once the curtain is down, we’re in our own little world. The audience’s laughter is muffled by the fabric.

“Get this off me!” Omar shouts, struggling with the trash can.

Meghan yanks it off his head. “Get out of here!” she shouts at him, then wheels on Jamil. “Both of you!”

Jamil throws up his arms, like he’s trying to fend off a bear attack. “We were just trying —”

“You were trying to ruin the show!” Meghan screeches. “You were trying to make this whole thing about YOU! Well, it isn’t about you! It’s about everyone! So get out — GET OUT!”

I swear, I didn’t realize those guys could run so fast.

I turn to Artie, who is as still as a stone. Tears flow down her face, and she doesn’t even wipe them away. They collect beneath her chin. “Artie,” I say gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Do you want to —” I was going to say, “start over,” but Artie yanks away from me and runs — right off the stage, through the wings, and out the rear exit.

“This is a disaster,” Meghan says. Her hair got messed up in the fight. She looks like a crazy Muppet. She puts a hand to her forehead. “What should I do?”

“Do?” Seriously, I can’t believe Meghan is asking me this. “Go out there and announce the next act!”

“Really?”

“On with the show!” I say, pushing her toward the curtain.

Meghan nods, and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says. “You’re right. Would you let the dramaramas know they’re up?”

“Get Marco to do it,” I say as I rush toward the wings. “I’ve got to go find someone.”

Meghan clenches her teeth. “Dead or alive,” she says.

“Not those guys,” I tell her. “Artie.”

“Oh. I guess that makes more sense. Good luck.” She gives me a quick hug, and the two of us hurry in opposite directions — Meghan toward the curtain, and me toward the rear exit.

∗ ∗ ∗

The rear exit opens onto a courtyard. It’s cold and clear, and the sky is stark black above me. The moon is a round, cool pebble high in the sky. A thin layer of snow crunches beneath my feet as I walk over to Artie, who is shivering and crying beside a pine tree.

“Artie.” I give her an awkward little pat on the shoulder, and she surprises me by throwing her arms around my neck and pulling me into a hug.

“Did you see Chang and Devon? They were standing right there — right by the exit as I walked out. They didn’t even” — she shudders, and her face twists — she’s having trouble forcing out the words — “they didn’t even …
look
at me.”

I hadn’t even noticed them there. “They’re losers.”

“But I love performing,” Artie says. “And now … Ms. Lang will never let me into a show again….”

For a moment, I don’t know what to do. I rub her back a little. “It’s okay,” I tell her. Then, suddenly, a memory flashes into my mind. Very softly, because my voice is usually pretty uneven and croaky, I begin to sing a little song that Artie made up when we were small. “Don’t be sad,” I sing, “don’t be sad … everything will be okay….”

I expect Artie to laugh, but instead she pulls the hug tighter and whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” I tell her. “Omar and Jamil would’ve interrupted anyone. They just love the attention.”

Artie shakes her head, and her soft hair rubs against my neck. “Not that.” Her tears are trickling onto my shoulder, freezing in the cold night air. I hear her swallow.

“Are you sorry that you didn’t help out with the show?”

Artie sucks air deep into her lungs. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bad friend.”

My whole body feels limp, like a rag doll. I’m not cold anymore. I just feel like I’m suspended, floating over this whole scene. “Oh, Artie,” I say.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Artie says.

“I’ve missed you, too.” I really mean it. I really miss the way we used to be — friends who knew everything about each other. And then, because I’ve never really understood it, I ask, “What … happened?”

Artie pulls away from me, wiping the tears from her face. She leaves her hands against her cheeks and looks up at me. It’s dark, so I can’t see well, but her eyes are wide as she looks at me. “Do you remember — what I told you about Marco?”

Artie had told me that she had a crush on him. “Yes.”

“I saw him kiss you that day…. And I didn’t know what to think.”

“You
saw
?” I can’t believe it.

“I can see your backyard from my bedroom, Hayley, remember?”

Now my hands fly to my cheeks. I feel them burning beneath my fingers. It had never, ever occurred to me. Never. “Oh my gosh … Artie, I —”

“I wanted to talk to you about it, but the next time I saw you, you told me that your parents were getting divorced,” Artie said. “And I felt like an idiot for wanting to talk about Marco, so I didn’t. But I didn’t know what to say about your parents, either….” Her tears are flowing again. I’m surprised to realize that my fingers are wet, too. “And I felt like a horrible friend, but I was also so angry and jealous….” Her chin quivers and she shakes her head. “And then you moved away, and I couldn’t go over to your house anymore when I wanted to escape from mine…. I didn’t have anyone to talk to about Marco. I didn’t have anyone to talk to about … you.”

I wrap her in a hug again and hold her tight.

“It isn’t easy to find a friend like you, Hayley,” Artie says. Then she hiccups, which makes us both giggle.

“I know the feeling.” But, of course, I’ve been luckier than Hayley. Meghan is a good friend. And things with Marco are different, but I haven’t lost him completely.

We stand there in silence for a moment, until Artie hiccups again.

“I think we’d better go inside,” I say.

“I’m freezing,” Artie agrees.

So we go back to the exit door, holding hands.

Too bad it’s locked.