Frosting and Friendship (7 page)

Abigail shrugs. “It's probably fine. I mean, it's not horrible. When it bakes up, I bet it'll taste good. I haven't ever tried a chocolate cake made from scratch. It's probably supposed to be really sweet. Right?”

Zola doesn't say anything as she takes the beater from Abigail and tosses both of them in the sink. She has her drumsticks stuck in the back pocket of her jeans. She looks so awesome, with her hair in adorable cornrows. And she's wearing her polka-dot shoes again. It's like you can tell she's in a band just by looking at her. I look down at myself, with
the cute apron, and realize I look nothing like a person in a band.

“All right. Get that cake in the oven so we can go make some music,” Zola says when she turns around. I pour the batter into the cake pans and slide them into the oven just as the oven beeps that it's done preheating.

I set the timer for thirty minutes before we head downstairs.

“Belinda told me the New Pirates have thirty songs written,” I tell the girls when we get to Dad's studio. “Can you believe that? We barely have one.”

“A half a song,” Abigail says as she passes out music for each of us. “That's what we have.”

“Just remember,” Zola says with a smile, “all we need is one. One amazing song, one amazing performance, and we're in. So let's focus on that. You ready, Dots? From the top!”

I sing while they play, and when we get to the end of what we have written, we brainstorm some more lyrics. Actually, Zola and Abigail brainstorm some more lyrics. I'm too busy watching the clock on the wall to make sure I don't let the cake burn.

“Earth to Lily, Earth to Lily,” Abigail says as she brushes the bangs out of her eyes. “Can you help us out here? Please? This is really important. If we don't finish writing the song, we can't practice the song.”

“And if we can't practice the song,” Zola says, “we can't win the audition. Guaranteed.”

Fifteen minutes. That's how long I have before I need to check on the cake. I grab a pencil from Dad's small desk in the corner. “Okay, sorry. I'll focus. How about this? Let's all think quietly on our own for, like, five minutes, and then we'll share and decide which sounds the best. Okay?”

I get two more pencils and pass them to Abigail and Zola. I read over the chorus again and hum the tune in my head.

Wishes swirl and

wishes twirl,

around and around they spin.

Wishes here and

wishes there,

when one comes true, I win.

Wish on stars or

wish with coins,

who cares, all right, just wish!

When you wish, my wish for you

is that your wish comes true.

I wish for my cake to turn out. I wish for it to taste delicious. I wish for the birthday party to be so much fun that Sophie will never forget it. I wish to be remembered forever as the nicest friend in Willow, Oregon, and the best cake baker too.

And so it goes, wish after wish, until Zola says, “Okay. Time's up. Let's share what we have.”

I look down at my blank piece of paper. Did I really just spend practically the entire time wishing? Oh brother.

Abigail shares her lyrics, which sound great, and then Zola shares hers, which are good, but not quite as good as Abigail's. When it's my turn, I say, “I really love Abigail's lyrics. I mean, I like yours too, Zola, but can we just go with Abigail's? Mine are pretty terrible, honestly.”

“I didn't see you writing anything down,” Zola says, her arms crossed as she sits on the stool behind the drums.

I bite my lip, trying to think of how to respond. “Oh, right, well, they're in my head. But I knew they were bad, so I didn't even bother writing them down.”

Abigail shrugs. “Okay, let's add my lyrics to the song and we can try them out. See how it sounds.” She looks at Zola. “Is that all right with you?”

“I guess so. Seems like this song is going to be Abigail's song, not the Dots' song, but if that's the way you guys want to roll, whatever.”

Abigail looks hurt. “Zola, please don't be upset,” she says. “Please? You want to write the last verse all by yourself? If you want to do that, it's fine with me. I don't care. Really.”

“Maybe we should make Lily write it,” Zola says. “Make sure she's committed to this band.”

I look at the clock for the fiftieth time tonight and then jump out of my chair. “You guys, I'm sorry, but I have to check on the cake. I'll be right back. I promise. And of course I'm committed to the band. Not everyone can be good at songwriting, okay? I think there are lots of bands where one person mostly writes the songs. It's a special talent, and obviously, Abigail has that talent.”

Neither of them says a word, and Zola still looks kind of mad, but I don't have time to try and smooth things over right now. I run out the door and up the stairs. I find Madison at the oven, peeking in on the cake.

“I could smell the chocolate all the way in my room,” Madison says. She shuts the oven door and turns around. Her eyebrows are scrunched up and I can tell something's wrong before she even says it. “Something doesn't look right, Lily. They're about done baking, but the cakes didn't rise very much. I don't know what happened, but I think you did something wrong.”

The story of my baking life.

A
fter we pulled the pans out of the oven, with the very flat cakes inside of them, I wanted to cry. Madison tried to make me feel better by telling me the cake still might taste good, but it was no use. I felt like a failure.

Abigail and Zola came upstairs a little while later to see why I hadn't come back, their faces telling me
they weren't too happy with me. I tried to apologize and offered to go back downstairs with them to practice a while longer, but they just wanted to go home. Madison offered to give them a ride home, so they took off and left me alone with the pathetic cakes. I almost threw them out, but I was curious how they tasted, so I sat there and stared at them, waiting for them to cool off.

Later that night, when my mom got home, she went over the recipe with me. I learned regular milk shouldn't be substituted for buttermilk. Apparently, the buttermilk has an ingredient in it that works with the baking soda to make the cake rise.

That's not the only thing I did wrong, though. When we tried the cake, it tasted terrible. My mom asked what kind of cocoa I used and when I told her about the hot cocoa mix, she explained that when a recipe calls for cocoa, it means unsweetened baking cocoa.

No wonder cake mixes are so popular. Baking a cake from scratch is hard! Like, harder than singing the national anthem at the Super Bowl. Not that I've
ever sung the national anthem at the Super Bowl, but still, I can imagine.

Now it's Saturday morning, and I'm trying to figure out what to do next. Mom said she would take me to the store to get the ingredients to try making the cake again, but I don't know if I even want to have the party now.

Actually, I want to have the party and give Sophie a thirteenth birthday she'll never forget, but I don't think I'm good enough to pull it off. What will she think of me if the party turns out to be a disaster just like every recipe I try to make? I want to be someone Sophie admires, not someone she's ashamed of.

I'm trying to get up the nerve to call Isabel, to tell her I can't do it. I stare at the phone, trying to find the right words, when it rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Lily. It's Sophie! How are you?”

“Oh, hi, Sophie. I'm all right. What's up?”

“My mom needs to do some shopping for Hayden. He's had a growth spurt and all of his pants are way too short. Every time I see him with his high-water pants and his white socks showing, I can't help but
laugh. I guess my mom finally got the hint and figured out she needs to buy him some new ones.

“Anyway, we're going to the mall this afternoon. Thought I'd see if you might want to go with us. We don't have to hang out with them, of course. I want to shop for some new shoes. You know how I love shoes!”

I smile. She does love shoes. I do too. But I should call Isabel. I should practice the audition song. I should write a cupcake song. I should start reading the book for the next book club meeting. I should do a lot of things. But going to the mall for the afternoon sounds like fun and I'm tired of worrying about everything in my life right now.

“Sure. I'd love to go with you.”

“Okay,” Sophie says. “We'll pick you up around one o'clock. See you then.”

“Bye.”

Mom tells me she thinks it's a good idea for me to get out of the house and take a break from worrying about the party and everything else. So I eat lunch and get myself ready, and with each passing minute, I'm feeling happier and happier. Sophie
and I haven't hung out together in a while and I'm so excited to see her and to do something that doesn't involve flour, sugar, and eggs.

When we get to the mall, Sophie's mom and little brother head in one direction, while Sophie and I take off in another. I have thirty dollars from my allowance that I've saved up, and my mom gave me twenty more, in case I find something special to buy.

We walk toward the big department store, and before we know it, we are laughing our heads off.

First, there's the kiosk in the middle of the mall with the special hand cream called Marvel a salesperson wants us to try. When we say, “No thanks,” and keep walking, she walks along with us, begging us to stop and try it.

Then there's the remote-control flying helicopter toy I almost run into, and Sophie can't stop giving me a hard time about it. I was busy making sure the hand cream lady had stopped chasing us down, so I didn't notice the small helicopter flying in the air.

When we finally make it to the shoe department, we collapse into two chairs, trying to keep the laughing tears back.

“I can see it now,” Sophie says between her laughs. “The headline reads, ‘Girl at mall is seriously injured when she collides with a toy helicopter because she was too busy running from the crazy hand cream lady.' ”

“Can I help you?” a man asks us. He's about my dad's age and dressed in a nice, silvery gray suit, with a white shirt and a purple tie.

We stop laughing, because I think that's his way of telling us to behave, in the nicest way possible.

“Look, Sophie,” I say, trying to catch my breath, pointing at his tie. “Purple. Your favorite color.”

“Or purplicious, as Isabel and I like to say.” As I learn of yet another special thing Isabel and Sophie have between them, it feels like someone pokes my heart with a needle. I tell myself it's just a silly word and to forget about it. “I've never seen a purple tie before,” Sophie continues. “It goes really well with your silver suit.”

“Hey, silver and purple, just like the colors for the . . .” I stop, my hand flying up to my mouth. I can't believe I almost gave it away. I almost told her about the surprise party we've been planning for
her. The man must see that I could use some help about now.

“Thank you,” he says as he runs his fingers down the side of the tie. “I'm glad you like it. It's one of my favorites. My wife and two sons gave it to me for Father's Day last year. She wasn't sure I'd wear it, but I think it's awesome.”

Sophie looks at me. “What were you going to say?”

I'm thankful the guy gave me a minute to think of a good cover. “Oh, um, just that my mom told me when she and my dad got married, their wedding colors were silver and purple.”

“That must have been so pretty,” she says. “Maybe I'll have those colors at my wedding.”

The salesman is still standing there. “We're going to look around,” I tell him. “If that's okay.”

He nods and smiles. “Absolutely. Just let me know if there's a shoe you'd like to try.”

“We will,” Sophie says.

Between the two of us, we must try on twenty pairs of shoes. I'm pretty sure the man with the purple tie regrets ever approaching us in the first place. Sophie
ends up with a cute pair of wedge sandals, and I buy a pair of polka-dot sneakers, like Zola's, except black with off-white dots. I love them. As I pay for the shoes at the register, I realize I need to call both Abigail and Zola and apologize again for getting distracted last night. Our song isn't finished and it's all my fault. I hope they'll forgive me.

We have some time before we're supposed to meet up with Sophie's mom and brother, so Sophie and I get two giant cookies and two cartons of milk from the Cookie Shack and sit down at a table.

“Yum,” Sophie says as she takes a bite of the chocolate marshmallow cookie. “This cookie reminds me of the piece of pie Isabel and I had at Penny's Pie Place. It was the pie Jack made for the baking contest. That's where Isabel met him.” We both take a bite at the same time. “Good, huh?”