Frosting and Friendship (5 page)

I wish other things came as easily to me. When I was six, Mom signed me up for soccer. It seems like
there's always one kid who can't do anything right and runs the wrong way down the field and scores a goal for the other team. I was that kid. I was horrible. My dad tried to tell me it didn't matter, that the most important thing was to have fun. Easy for him to say. I'm pretty sure he'd never scored a point for the opposite team.

When I get home from school on Wednesday, I take out every cookbook we own. All three of them. They look brand-new. Mom probably got them at her bridal shower years ago, stuck them in the cupboard, and hasn't looked at them since. She's a pretty basic cook. Tacos are about as complicated as she gets in the kitchen.

I flip through the cookbook by Betty Crocker and find the dessert section. I don't know what I'm looking for, exactly, other than something that says Sophie and birthday party. I figure I'll know it when I see it.

“Hey, Lily Dilly.” Dad strolls over to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water.

“Hey, Dad.”

After he takes a drink, he rummages around
for a minute, until he eventually pulls out a tube of something. “Think I'll make cinnamon rolls. Sounds like a good afternoon snack, right?”

My stomach grumbles at the mention of those two pretty words. It's been a few hours since I ate my peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich for lunch.

“Right.”

He hits a couple of buttons on the oven and it starts preheating. Then he pulls a baking pan out of the cupboard, pops the tube open, and places the unbaked cinnamon rolls in a circle on the pan.

Maybe I could do that for Sophie's party. Buy a bunch of tubes of cinnamon rolls from the grocery store, bake them up ahead of time, frost them, and pass them off as homemade. Would anyone even know the difference?

Dad sits down across from me and takes another swig from his water bottle. His cheeks are really pink and his short brown hair is sticking every which way. Either he's been working on a new song for hours and hours or he just got off his treadmill.

He must know I'm trying to figure out why he
looks the way he does because he says, “I went for a four-mile run on the treadmill.”

I nod. “I didn't think you got that sweaty playing music.”

He smiles. “Not in the studio, no. Playing on a stage with hot lights for two hours, yes.”

“Are your shows at the Wallflower going all right?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah. They're great. We've had a good crowd every night.” The oven beeps, letting us know it's preheated, so he jumps up and sticks the rolls in. “What about you? How's your band coming along?”

I sigh. “We have half a song written. We're getting together again Friday night. I hope we can finish it. We want to audition for the Spring Fling at school.”

He sits down again and raises his eyebrows. “You guys are trying out for a gig? That's awesome, kiddo! You're going big-time.” He raises his hand and we high-five. “Just remember what I told you. Make the music your priority. All the rest will work out if you focus on making great music.”

I nod. “I'm supposed to write a cupcake song. A
sophisticated cupcake song. Think you can help me with that?”

He points to the cookbooks in front of me. “Is that what you're doing? Looking for a little inspiration in those books?”

“No. The cookbooks are because I'm supposed to make a fabulous dessert for thirty people at a surprise birthday party in a week and a half.”

He laughs and leans back in his chair. “Hold on a second. What are you doing to yourself, Lily? That's an awful lot you've got on your plate.”

I shake my head. “Believe me. I know.”

“Can't you just buy a dessert for the party?” he asks. “That's what I'd do. I'm happy to give you some money to shop at Mom's favorite bakery. Or what if we get a whole bunch of brownies from Beatrice's Brownies?”

I laugh. “Dad, the party is for Sophie. She's the girl who's done television commercials for Beatrice's Brownies. She's probably sick of those things by now.”

“Well, what's wrong with a huge bakery cake, then? I know. We can have it decorated like that
musical you saw with Sophie a few months back. What was it called?”

“
Wicked
,” I tell him. “And I'm not really sure a cake with the Wicked Witch of the West's face in green frosting would be very appetizing.”

“Hmm,” he says. “You may be right. Well, think it over. I'm happy to help however I can. Though if you're going to try and make something yourself, I'm probably not your guy. Wait. That reminds me. There's a chef on TV I was watching last Sunday when I was fiddling around on my guitar. Have you ever seen the show
Secrets of a Pastry Chef
?”

I close the cookbook because all it's doing is making me even more hungry. The cinnamon rolls are starting to smell really good. “I scheduled the DVR to record it. I think it only shows on Sundays.”

“You should double-check,” he says. “They might be playing reruns on other days of the week. Chef Smiley takes you through all of the steps of a recipe, and he makes it look so easy. I'm telling you, Lily, he might be the answer to your baking problems.”

“Okay. I'll see what I can find.”

He stands up and walks over to the oven. “As far
as the cupcake song, I'll let you know if any lyrics or a fun melody come to mind.”

The timer goes off. The cinnamon rolls are done. I wish I could just pop a few notes in the oven and have a complete song come out. Someone needs to invent that—a song-writing oven.

But knowing me, I'd probably mess that up too.

D
ad was right. They do play reruns of Chef Smiley's show on the Food Channel. After dinner, I settle in on the sofa with a notebook and our kitty, Oscar, to watch an episode. The funny chef takes us start to finish through a strawberry cake made from scratch. The secret ingredient is strawberry-flavored gelatin.

“I know it sounds strange,” Chef Smiley says as he
pours the red powdery stuff into the bowl, “but it gives the cake a delicious strawberry flavor. Remember, it isn't always about being fancy and using expensive or exotic ingredients. It's about finding what works. In fact, that's one of my mottos in the kitchen—whatever works!”

I write everything down while Chef Smiley shows us, step by step, how to make the cake. It really doesn't look too hard, and I'm getting more and more excited as the show winds down. When he takes a bite of the cake, he says, “Sweet Uncle Pete, that's good,” just like he did last time. I wonder if he has an uncle Pete who's really sweet.

When I'm finished watching, I give the cat one last pet and then go looking for my mom. I find her in the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher. “Good,” she says. “I could use an extra set of hands. Can you help me, please?”

I set my notebook down and grab a couple of glasses from the top rack. “Mom, I need a few things from the store so I can make a strawberry cake. Can you take me?”

“Oh, honey, I can't. I need to get a house listed
on the computer tonight. Maybe your sister can take you. Unless it can wait until tomorrow?”

I sigh. “No. I don't want to wait. I have to find something amazing to make for Sophie's party. This strawberry cake may be the answer. It looks so good. And pretty.”

She goes to work putting the silverware away. “When we're done here, we'll go find your sister and I'll ask her to drive you.”

Madison won't like it, but I know she'll do it. When Madison got the used Ford Escort that Mom and Dad helped pay for, they told her she had a responsibility to help out with errands when necessary.

After we've finished, we head upstairs to Madison's room. Mom knocks. Music is playing. Loudly. She knocks again.

“Come in,” Madison calls out. The music gets quieter.

Mom opens the door and we peer inside. Madison is sitting at her desk. Dirty clothes are scattered across the floor and all over her bed. On her nightstand are a whole bunch of dirty dishes.

“Madison, I need you to take your sister to the store, please.”

“But, Mom, I'm—”

“Please don't argue. I need you to get up and take her right now. It'll only take a few minutes and then you can get back to whatever it is you're working on. And when you're done with that, you get to clean your room. For goodness' sake, Madison. It smells like a cat died in here.”

Madison scrunches up her nose. “Gross. No, it doesn't.”

I nod my head. “Yes, it does. I'd start digging around for Oscar if I hadn't just seen him in the family room. It really does stink.”

Madison stands up. “Okay, okay, so I've been super busy and haven't had time to clean.” She looks at me. “Give me a minute to change out of these shorts. I'll meet you downstairs.”

“Thank you, honey,” Mom says.

Five minutes later, we're in the car, on our way to the store. “What are you up to?” Madison asks me.

“Isabel expects me to make the dessert for
Sophie's party,” I tell her. “So I want to try and make this strawberry cake I just saw on TV. It doesn't look
too
hard.”

She shakes her head. “Lily, maybe you should tell your book club friends you're not a baker. I bet they'd understand.”

“But maybe I am a baker,” I say. “Maybe I just haven't practiced enough. You know what Dad says. Practice makes—”

“Perfect? Look, you know I'm a big believer in practicing myself. But here's the thing—sometimes there are things we just aren't good at doing. I mean, what if I told you I wanted to be a ballerina? Would you tell me if I practice enough, I'll be good enough to perform the
Nutcracker
come Christmastime?”

I look out my window and watch raindrops skip across the glass. “Maybe,” I say quietly. “I mean, who knows? Anything is possible, isn't it? Mom and Dad have told us that our whole lives. Are you saying you don't believe it?”

Madison pulls into the Safeway parking lot and parks the car. After she turns the motor off, she looks at me. “Lily, that's what parents are supposed
to say. It's okay if you're good at some things and not so good at others. I mean, look around. Who's good at everything?”

I think for a few seconds, and only one person pops into my head, though I'm sure there must be plenty of people. “You?” I say to my sister.

She laughs. “Oh, that is funny. Do you really think I'm good at everything? Come on. Don't you remember how I sing? What'd you say I sounded like last time I tried to sing with you?”

“A seal with the flu.”

“Right. And what about my decorating skills? Or my cleaning skills? You saw my room—nothing to brag about there.”

I grab my purse and start to get out. “Okay, okay, maybe you're right. But I want to feel like I fit in with the Baking Bookworms. I like those girls, and I want them to like me. I want to be good at baking, Madison. So I'm going to see if Chef Smiley can teach me. It doesn't hurt to try.”

“All right. Hurry up and buy what you need,” she says as I get out. “I have a paper to write and a room to clean, thanks to you, Miss Baker-Wannabe.”

I grab a grocery cart and make my way through the store, crossing things off my list. The recipe calls for sifted flour, and I remember what Chef Smiley said.
With the right tools and the right attitude, baking is a piece of cake.
I throw a flour sifter in my cart, because I'm pretty sure we don't have one at home.

I buy the stuff with the money Mom gave me and hurry back to the car. Madison gives me a hard time about taking forever, but geez, I had to make sure I got everything on my list.

When we get home, Madison retreats to her room and I go to work making the cake. I cream the butter, sugar, and gelatin together with the mixer, just like Chef Smiley said to do. Then I separate the eggs and add the yolks, followed by the whipped egg whites. I mix the flour and baking powder together, and stir that in with the milk. I add the vanilla, and the only thing left to do is puree the frozen strawberries.

I get the blender out, put a bunch of strawberries in along with some water, and hit blend.

“Lily!” Mom yells behind me. “You don't have the . . .”

But it's too late. Bright red strawberries go everywhere—on the counter, the cupboards, the floor, the ceiling, and yes, some get on me too.

I push the off button and turn around to face my mother.

“Oh, honey,” she says, trying not to laugh, which I guess is better than yelling at me. “Always make sure to put the lid on the blender.”

I am so embarrassed. And everything was going so well. “Yeah, I think I know that now.”

I look down at my white shirt, dots of strawberry juice all over it. It's probably ruined.