Like Carrot Juice on a Cupcake (2 page)

I folded the picture neatly

and put it on top of the pile

of Nicholas’s pictures

that I kept in my desk.

Because even though that boy’s impossible,

he’s still a ridiculously good drawer.

Then I turned and whispered to him,

“Thanks.”

Like I always did.

And he kicked the back of my chair,

not too hard,

like
he
always did.

Then Mrs. Ramji asked us

to take out our Creative Writing notebooks

and work on our Brooklyn Bridge poems

while she and Pearl helped Ainsley get set up.

I loved my Brooklyn Bridge poem.

So I worked on it very hard.

And realized only later

that I should’ve been

paying attention to Ainsley instead.

Because during that time,

she started casting a glittery spell over Pearl.

She really did.

Pearl came home from school with me that afternoon.

Because it was a Monday.

And Pearl always came home from school with me

on Mondays.

Wednesdays, too.

(Because her mom was still at work.)

We loved those afternoons.

We usually trained my little dog, Antoine.

And did our homework.

And baked, when we had time.

That Monday

we had time.

So we decided to make chocolate cupcakes.

My very nice babysitter, Natalie,

preheated the oven,

then left the room for a minute.

Antoine sat right behind us,

ready to lick or chew anything that fell.

“We can’t drop
any
chocolate,” I reminded Pearl.

“It’s poisonous for dogs.”

“Right!” Pearl said.

She pushed the cocoa to the back of the counter.

Then we took turns measuring ingredients

and dumping them in a bowl

and mixing them together.

We had no problems at all.

Until

it was time

for the salt.

I should’ve measured the salt over the sink.

But we’d done everything else so perfectly!

I figured I could do the salt perfectly, too!

So, with my right hand,

I held a teaspoon over our bowl.

And with my left hand,

I tilted a big salt container,

with a fast-pouring spout,

over that little teaspoon.

One second later,

a
mountain
of salt appeared

on top of our beautiful batter.

“Aaagghhh!” I cried,

watching as that mountain started sinking.

“Oh no, oh no!” Pearl cried.

Natalie rushed in. “What happened?” she said.

Then Antoine ran over to Natalie,

but Natalie didn’t see him,

so Natalie tripped on Antoine,

and Antoine yelped a terrible yelp.

Both Pearl and I cried, “Antoine!”

and turned to comfort him.

But as I turned,

I hit the wooden spoon we’d been using in our batter.

Our
chocolate
batter.

And the chocolate-covered spoon flew

out of the bowl and onto the floor.

Antoine must not have been hurt at all.

Because he
zoomed
to that spoon

and started licking up the chocolate!

“No, Antoine!” I cried. “It’s poison!”

Natalie grabbed one end of the spoon,

but Antoine held on to the other

and they ended up playing tug-of-war.

“Drop it, Antoine!” I cried. “Drop it!”

But he didn’t listen.

Then Pearl,

who is a dog-training genius,

grabbed a bag of Antoine’s treats

and held it open,

right under his nose.

“Come, Antoine!” she said, backing up. “Come!”

Like a miracle,

Antoine dropped the spoon

and went to Pearl.

She fed him lots of treats,

and we both hugged him

while Natalie called the vet.

“He’s going to be fine,” she told us,

after she’d hung up.

“He might throw up a little later,

but that’d just be a sign

that he’s getting bad things out of his system.”

After that happy news,

Pearl and I turned back to our cupcakes.

We tried to take out the thin layer of salt

still resting at the top of the batter.

Then we finished everything else.

We’d just gotten the cupcakes in the oven

when my dad came home.

He was whistling “Hey Jude,” by the Beatles.

(My dad
loves
the Beatles.)

And

as soon as he saw me and Pearl washing dishes,

he started making up a song to that tune.

He sang:

“He-ey
Pearl
, in my kit-chen.

Baking sweet
things

with my El-ea-
nor
.”

I stopped him then.

Because he was being ridiculous!

Also, he does
not
sing well.

Pearl laughed, though.

And my dad gave us both hugs.

A little later,

when Pearl’s mom came to pick Pearl up,

my dad said,

“You can’t have her! She’s
ours
.”

He liked saying that, every Monday and Wednesday.

I liked hearing it, too.

Because I loved thinking of Pearl as ours.

The next morning,

I brought most of the cupcakes to school

on a plastic plate, all covered in foil.

For Pearl.

“They’re pretty salty,” I told her,

handing her the plate.

“But they’re not terrible.”

We were standing at our desks,

waiting for the first bell to ring.

“Thanks,” she said.

Then she asked, “How’s Antoine?

Did he throw up?”

“Yes!” I told her. “Right before I went to bed!

All over my mom’s favorite rug!

She was
not
happy.”

“But vomiting was good for him!” Pearl said.

“He was getting bad things out of his system.”

“I
told
my mom that,” I said.

“She said, ‘I’m very glad they’re out of his system.

But do they have to be on my rug?’”

Somebody behind us started making

yucky vomiting noises then.

I didn’t even turn around.

I knew who it was.

“Stop listening to our conversations, Nicholas!”

I said.

“And stop being disgusting!”

“I’m getting bad things out of my system,” he said.

At that moment, the new girl, Ainsley, walked in.

She looked very sparkly and colorful,

just like the day before.

And she had on another big bow.

“Hey, Ainsley!” Pearl and I both said

as Ainsley walked to her desk.

“Hey,” she said back.

She seemed a little shy.