The Cupcake Diaries Collection: Katie and the Cupcake Cure; Mia in the Mix; Emma on Thin Icing; Alexis and the Perfect Recipe (39 page)

Unfortunately, Matt never came back down before we had to leave. I was tempted to call up the stairs to say bye to him, but that would have been truly weird. I did whisper it as I walked down their driveway, though. No one heard me, so why not?

Project M. T.

M
y desk is my command center, and I take pride in keeping it superorganized. There are little drawers with all my supplies in tidy little boxes and packages. My pencil cup holds only Ticonderoga #2 pencils, all sharpened, points up, and my pen cup holds only blue erasable FriXion pens. I have a small container of white erasers (the best kind), and then there are my tools: very sharp Fiskars scissors for projects, a flat tin of rainbow-hued watercolor pencils (for graphs and pie charts), an electric pencil sharpener, a three-ring hole punch, a heavy Swingline stapler, and an old-fashioned Scotch tape dispenser.

My family shops the Staples sales religiously, and we are good with coupons and points and our club
card. My parents figure that homework time spent looking for supplies is homework time wasted, so they like us to be well-stocked. When we run low on something, we just leave it on the kitchen island and our mom has her assistant reorder it immediately, putting it on her personal account. It’s that easy, as they say on TV.

That night, though, despite my desk being fully stocked with supplies, my mind kept drifting away from my homework. It was really infuriating because I hate being unproductive. I had to admit that it was Matt who was distracting me. I was wondering if this was a crush. And if it was, what did I want to come of it?

Did I want him to be my
boyfriend
?

I wasn’t sure, but I had to say
not really
. And to be absolutely honest, the idea of having a boyfriend kind of terrified me.

Well, then, did I want him just as a friend?

I was thinking definitely not just as a friend. Maybe something in between? It was hard to quantify it! My feelings about Matt would not organize themselves, and that was superfrustrating. I had no control whatsoever over anything—whether I’d see him, whether he’d speak to me if I saw him, and what we’d say. I played out all kinds of scenarios
in my mind as I sat at my desk, watching my timer tick away the half hour I’d allotted to writing flash cards for my vocab test next Tuesday.

Now I was really frustrated. I sighed loudly, slapped the timer off, shuffled the flash cards into a neat stack, clipped them tightly together with a binder clip, and put them in my English bin on top of the desk. I was at a total loss. I grabbed a fresh sheet of white paper from the stack, and then reached for the calculator. Then I started fooling around with numbers, which
always
relaxes me.

I began scratching figures on the page as I thought. First, if I spend twenty minutes a day thinking about Matt, then that’s one hundred and forty minutes a week, or two hours and twenty minutes. If I were working, say, at Big Blue for that long, I’d make twenty-five dollars, before taxes. If I were studying, I’d probably get an A on whatever it was. If I were exercising for those twenty minutes a day, and figured on a five minute warm-up and a five minute cool-down, then that was still ten minutes at my optimum heart rate, which was pretty good.

I rested my cheek on my hand and stared into space. Part of my brain was flashing a warning: “This is not scheduled into your planner for today! You are wasting time!” It was true, but I
felt sluggish, like I had no control over myself. I certainly had no control over the object of my interest.

Or did I?

I sat up straight in my chair. That’s it! What if I took a mathematical approach to my crush? What if I turned my mini obsession into a mathematically quantifiable experiment? I began brainstorming and scribbling onto my sheet in excitement.

My hypothesis was this: Could a crush be manipulated with results that can be replicated every time? Was there a predictable pattern of stimulus and response that I could plan and follow and chart, perhaps ending up with actual mathematical equations to predict Matt’s behavior? In other words, could I come up with the perfect formula (or recipe, ha!) for getting Matt to fall for me?

This would be brilliant, I thought, as the neurons in my brain started firing up. It would also kind of justify any lazy daydreaming about Matt by turning those spacey moments into strategy sessions for my experiment. Let’s see, what could I hypothesize and test?

What about wardrobe? I usually wear pants. It’s kind of one of my trademarks. They are functional, comfortable, and easy to mix and match. But Dylan
always wears skirts, and the boys flock to her. So, I wondered, what if I were to wear a skirt or a dress when I saw Matt? Would he react differently to me? Hmm. I wrote:

Project Matt Taylor

M. T.,
I thought.
More secretive.

Then I scribbled:

Clothing experiment: Does he pay more attention to me if I am wearing pants or a skirt/dress?

I would need to conduct an experiment with each, where I timed the length of our interaction and compared the two figures. That would be easy. I could do it at school.

I chewed on my pen cap. What else could I test? Hair up or down? I almost always wore my hair in a ponytail or headband, but Sydney, the head of the Popular Girls Club in my class, always wore her hair down and boys paid lots of attention to her. Granted, her hair was long and blond and mine was
long, frizzy, and red, but I could still do a hairstyle test. That sounded good, so I wrote it down.

Ooh! Another idea: comparing the frequency of who initiated our greeting, like in the hall at school. Sydney was giggly with boys, always starting conversations with them, while I only spoke to them if they spoke to me first. Maybe I could try to switch that up a little.

I decided to track my interactions with Matt (in the hall at school? At Emma’s?) and collect the data and assess it. That was good.

This experiment called for a dedicated graph paper notebook, so I pulled one out of a cubbyhole in my desk and smoothed the cover with my hand. I could also write conversation starters in it (I had no idea what to say to him if I did see him), and maybe track things I could research that I know he’s interested in, like sports and computer graphics. I was excited. At least now if nothing ever came of my interest in Matt, I wasn’t
totally
wasting my time. I was practicing math skills!

Just then there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” I trilled happily. I am always happiest when I am feeling busy and productive.

Dylan opened the door. “Dinner is in five minutes.”

I looked at the clock, which read 6:55. We always eat exactly at seven. “Okay!” I said, still writing in my notebook.

My sister narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. “What are you working on?” she asked suspiciously. I guess it looked like too much fun to be homework. But I suddenly realized I did not want this notebook falling into the wrong hands, so I slammed it shut.

“Oh, just some cupcake ideas,” I said casually.

“Stuff for my party?” Dylan asked.

“Not quite. Mostly budget stuff right now.”
Please don’t let her ask to see it.

There was a pause before she asked, “When are we having the taste test?”

Okay, good, she didn’t ask to see the notebook. “Oh, this Saturday. We’re baking here, and then you can try all three of the options in the afternoon.”

“But I have cheerleading practice on Saturday!” she said with a pout.

“Well, what time?” I asked patiently, ignoring her whiny voice. Sometimes I wondered who was the older sister!

“Four o’clock!”

“Oh, no prob,” I assured her. “We’ll be done making the samples by three for sure.”

“Yeah, but I can’t eat all that sugar and then go out and exercise. That will not work! I’m going to talk to Mom.” Dylan immediately turned and walked away, not bothering to close the door. She was determined to make this hard for me.

“Whatever, Dyl pill,” I said, annoyed.

“I heard that!” she called from the hallway.

“Good!” I whispered, and turned back to my desk, eager to get back to planning my experiment.

Tomorrow was the first day of Project M. T., and I decided that I would wear a skirt and see what happened. I was already dreading wearing the skirt—and what’s more, I dreaded seeing Matt almost as much as I looked forward to it!

Who knew superorganized me could be
so
confused?

Can He See Me Now?

B
rrring!

The bell rang, and Eddie Rossi slammed his book shut and whipped it into his backpack. I thought this was pretty rude to Mr. Nichols, who was kind of old but not totally boring.
I mean, how badly do you want to get out of here, mister?
I thought.

I stared at Eddie with my most disapproving glare, but he didn’t look around. Just sat with his backpack on his back, his hands gripping the edge of his desk, poised to launch out of his seat and out the door. I’m usually not that devious, but for some reason, his attitude really bugged me today. So I raised my hand.

“Yes, Alexis?” asked Mr. Nichols.

“Oh, you forgot to assign the homework,” I said,
and it didn’t take long for Eddie to react. His head snapped around and he glared at me. I gave him a closed-mouth smile and shrugged.
That’s what you get, Mr. Rude,
I thought.
Teachers are people too!

“Ah, thank you, Alexis,” said Mr. Nichols distractedly. “I almost forgot . . .”

On autopilot, I copied down the homework and then packed up my bag. Eddie had already sprung out of the room and down the hall. From the back row I could hear Sydney Whitman and Callie Wilson restart their almost incessant chatter. The day was one long gossipfest for them, about movie stars, kids they went to camp with, kids from school, boys—anyone and anything. And it all sounded so utterly mindless and unproductive.

“Good catch on the homework, Alexis!” said Callie brightly. I looked up at her to see if she was making fun of me. She didn’t seem to be.

“Yeah,” sneered Sydney. “I’d hate to get out of here without something to keep our skills sharp at home.”

Well, Sydney’s response wasn’t surprising. I ignored her and kept stuffing my books into my bag. My cheeks felt hot, but I willed myself not to blush.

Then she started laughing hysterically as she
sauntered out of the classroom with Callie. The next class shuffled in, and I was going to be late. I had no choice but to fall into step right behind Callie and Sydney. I had worn a skirt today as part of Project M. T., and its unfamiliar swish against my legs made me feel insecure. I had worn my hair up, as usual, as a control, so I could isolate the effect of the skirt.

I wondered if I’d even see Matt, after all this strategizing.

Just ahead of me Sydney said to Callie teasingly, “I wonder if we’ll see Mr. Hottie today?”

“Oh, I almost hope not! I look terrible!” moaned Callie, who couldn’t have looked more perfect.

“When was the last time you saw him?” asked Sydney.

Callie made a sad face. “Last week. And I used to see him every day at camp! It’s so unfair!” she wailed.

“Well, maybe you need to get your hands on a copy of his schedule and just make sure you’re putting yourself in the right place at the right time!” said Sydney. “I mean, what are we here for, right?”

Wow, scary!
I thought.
Is that what we’re here for? To get boys to notice us?
But then I realized Sydney had a point. And if so, maybe I should be
listening to these two. They did certainly know how to attract boys’ attention.

Suddenly Sydney squealed. “Oh my God! Two o’clock! Two o’clock!”

What? What was happening at two o’clock?

Callie flipped her hair and I could see her straighten her clothes. She grabbed Sydney’s arm and linked her hand through it, squeezing tightly. I hate when girls walk together like that—it’s so annoying! Anyway, I watched to see what was happening.

And just then, I spotted Matt! My stomach felt like it dropped to the floor, and I was hot and cold all over. I’m pretty sure I had an insta-blush. I looked down at the linoleum tiles, then at the lockers on either side of me, the ceiling, anywhere but toward Matt, who was ahead and to my right, walking with a friend toward me. Should I say hi? What was my plan? Suddenly I couldn’t remember what I had planned to do! Why didn’t I have my strategy book with me? I stared—past my skirt—at my toes.