Like Carrot Juice on a Cupcake (3 page)

“Want a cupcake?” Pearl asked her,

holding up the foil-covered plate.

“They’re salty!” Nicholas called out from behind us.

“
Stop
listening to our
conversations
!”

I told Nicholas again.

“They
are
a little salty,” Pearl told Ainsley.

“It’s okay,” Ainsley said. “I’m not really hungry.

Thanks, though.”

I don’t know what Pearl said next,

because Nicholas distracted me

by throwing a wadded-up piece of paper at my arm.

“Ow!” I said, when it hit me,

even though it didn’t hurt at all.

Then I picked that ball of paper up off the floor

and smoothed it out.

It was a picture of me,

with chocolate all over my face,

eating a giant cupcake.

I folded that picture

and put it on top of my Nicholas picture pile

and thanked him,

the way I always did.

Then I heard Ainsley say to Pearl,

“They’re so good, they’re
crazy
.

You should come bake them at my house with me!”

I frowned a little.

I didn’t love

Ainsley inviting Pearl to her house

to bake crazy-delicious things.

But

the very next moment,

Ainsley turned to me and said,

super-nicely,

“You should come, too!

We’ll all make them together.”

“Make what?” I asked.

“Brookie cupcakes!” she said.

“They’re brownies and chocolate chip cookies

mixed together,

inside cupcakes.”

My mouth fell open.

I had to admit,

I had never
dreamed
of anything as good

as brownies
and
chocolate chip cookies

inside
cupcakes.

“Is there frosting?” I asked Ainsley.

“Chocolate frosting,” she said.

“We’ll definitely make them with you,”

Pearl told Ainsley.

“Right, Eleanor?”

“Of course!” I said.

I really meant that, too.

And not just because I wanted to taste those things.

I thought Natalie would take me and Pearl

over to Ainsley’s

on a Monday or a Wednesday.

And we’d all have fun together.

Then,

Pearl and I—

best friends for our whole lives—

would go back to our Mondays and Wednesdays

together.

Just the two of us.

I was
sure
that was how it would happen.

But

it turned out, I had no idea

about anything.

Everything started changing that night after dinner,

when Pearl called me up on the phone.

“Eleanor!” she shouted. “It’s Pearl!”

“Pearl!” I shouted back.

(That’s how we like to start our calls.)

“I have news,” she said. “It’s exciting news

and miserable news, too.

All blended up.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“I get to be Ainsley’s buddy!” she said.

I was quiet for a second.

Every new kid at our school is assigned a buddy,

to help with schoolwork and making friends.

And for that one second, I couldn’t help wondering,

Why hadn’t Mrs. Ramji picked
me

to be Ainsley’s buddy?

Wouldn’t
I
be a good one?

Then I told myself,

Stop being stupid
.

And I said to Pearl, “That’s great!

Why isn’t it only exciting?”

“Because of this miserable part,” Pearl said.

“Ainsley is far behind.

So her buddy needs to help her with homework

every Monday and Wednesday, after school.

Until she catches up.”

“
Monday
and
Wednesday
?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice was sad.

“No other days work.”

“But no other days work for us, either,” I said,

thinking of Pearl’s Hebrew school, and my art classes,

and Pearl’s weekend house upstate.

“I know,” she said.

We were both quiet for a second.

Then I asked, “When does the homework help start?”

I hoped she’d at least say, “Monday,”

so we’d have the next afternoon,

a Wednesday,

together.

Instead, she said, quietly, “Tomorrow.”

“For how many weeks?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I don’t know when she’ll get caught up.”

“I hope she’s very smart,” I said.

I stood silently then,

holding the phone and wondering

how much time they’d spend studying together

and baking brookies together

and eating those crazy-delicious things together

while I was at home alone,

missing Pearl.

And then I almost dropped the phone!

Because I saw Antoine

hurrying happily by

with one of my mom’s fancy scarves

in his mouth.

“Antoine! Scarf!” I told Pearl.

She knew exactly what I meant.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry!” she said.

We hung up,

then I hurried

and found Antoine by the couch in our living room,

pulling and chewing on the scarf.

“No, Antoine, no!” I cried.

I got the scarf away from him,

but already

it was very slobbery.

And very ripped.

I knew that rip meant big trouble.

Just the week before,

Antoine had eaten one of my dad’s dressy shoes

and left bite marks

on one leg of our coffee table.

And, of course, he’d just vomited on my mom’s rug.

(Which was
not
his fault.)

I lay on my stomach then

and looked right into Antoine’s eyes.

“
I
forgive you,” I said.

“But Mom and Dad are going to be
mad
.”

Antoine licked my nose very sweetly.

“At least scarves aren’t poisonous,” I told him,

scratching behind his ears.

Then I shoved Mom’s scarf deep inside my pocket.

I meant to hide it in her scarf drawer

sometime before bed.

But I got distracted

by homework and bath time and sadness about Pearl.

And,

very

stupidly,

I forgot all about that scarf.