The Icing on the Cake (10 page)

LIZA NANA HERE.

As if I didn't know.

FOUND AN EXCELLENT LETTERPRESS STUDIO. FOR INVITATIONS. HAVE AN APPOINTMENT AT 4 PM. TAXI WILL BE WAITING IN FRONT OF SCHOOL AT 3:15 SHARP. DON'T BE LATE. LOVE

I've never read an actual old-fashioned telegram, but for some reason Nana's text reminds me of one. I can almost see her dictating it to some guy in a bowtie and cap. “Liza Nana Here STOP Don't be late STOP.”

Frankie and I are supposed to go over to Lillian's
house this afternoon to do homework, but I can't exactly say no to Nana Silver. I mean, I could, of course, but I'd rather just go along with her last-minute “invitation” than try to survive her guilt-laying superpowers. I text Frankie and Lillian (the normal way—with the caps lock
off
) and tell them not to bother picking me up at my locker because I'm being whisked away to a thrilling afternoon of stationery shopping.

When the final bell rings, I shove everything I need for homework into my backpack and make a beeline for the exit. As soon as I push through the doors, I see the taxi waiting right out front, just like Nana said it would be. Most kids walk or take the subway to school, so I feel really weird getting picked up by a waiting taxi. I hope no one thinks this is how I normally get around.

I get in and give Nana a quick hug. She smells like she always does, Chanel No. 5—she's probably been wearing it since it was invented. “It's my signature
scent,” Nana told me once, when I asked her if she ever thought about trying something new—as if Coco Chanel had created it just for her.

Nana squeezes my hand. “You're going to love these invitations, Liza. I think they're just perfect and I can't wait for you to see them.”

Can't think of anything I'd rather be doing,
I think to myself, holding in a sigh and trying to smile.

*  *  *

In case you're wondering, a letterpress is a machine that presses words and designs into paper so that they stick out a little on the front in 3-D, and when you run your hand over the paper, you can actually feel the letters. I only know this because Joan, the woman who owns the letterpress studio Nana thinks is “divine,” has just explained the entire process to me, step-by-step. To be honest, it's actually pretty cool, and it's obvious that Joan and her husband Randy live for this stuff. But I can tell by the look on Nana Silver's face that I'm not showing quite enough enthusiasm about it.

“So what do you think, darling,” Nana asks, holding up a pair of identical sample invitations written in very frilly script that I can hardly read, “silver or gold? I prefer the gold, but the silver is more casual, which I know is more your style.”

I'm not sure I even have a “style,” but if I do, this invitation is definitely not it, regardless of which metallic shade it's printed in.

“Does it have to be in cursive, Nana? Kids my age hardly ever write that way, you know.”

Nana crosses her arms and looks at me like I've just delivered the news that her cat has two months to live. “Well, that's a travesty,” she says. “Add that to the list of the failures of public education. And all the more reason you should choose an invitation that exposes your classmates to proper penmanship.”

“I think you'll both find this font to be very attractive,” Joan says, showing us another sample.

I learned about fonts when I started doing assignments for school on the computer, but I didn't know
people actually talked about them in the real world. I guess if your job is to figure out how to make words look pretty, you have to get more creative than just Times New Roman and Arial.

Surprisingly, Joan is right. The letters on this sample are in a roundish, friendly-looking print that's sort of like a professional version of Lillian's perfect handwriting—a little girly, but not overly cutesy.

Nana, however, is clearly unimpressed. “For a casual summer picnic or a potluck dinner, maybe,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “But to announce the celebration of a young girl beginning her journey into womanhood? I don't think so.”

I practically gag when Nana mentions my “journey into womanhood.” What does that even mean, anyway? I'm only in seventh grade. I'm not even an official teenager yet, much less a woman!

While Nana is flipping through samples, I raise my eyebrows at Joan to let her know I'm aware that my grandmother isn't the easiest customer. She
smiles and rolls her eyes as if to say, “Don't worry, I deal with this all the time,” and I decide I like her more than I expected to.

“You know,” Joan says, digging deep into a drawer I haven't seen her open before, “you might like this one.” She takes a large square envelope out of the drawer and pulls a thick pale-gray invitation from it. “I designed it for our wedding.”

Joan and Randy smile at each other as I take the invitation from her hand. They may be super serious about stationary, but they're still a pretty cute couple.

The handwriting—I mean font—is miraculously somewhere between print and script, and I actually really like it. Clearly, Joan gets “the look” a girl my age would go for. I wish I could say the same for Nana Silver.

“Hmm, well,” she says, taking off her reading glasses and holding the invitation out about a foot from her face—as if that's how anyone reads. “I'm sure your wedding guests found this just lovely, but
the lines are so thin, someone of my . . . maturity . . . would need a magnifying glass just to read it.”

I make eye contact with Joan again, who smiles just a little to let me know it's okay, she's used to it. Nana catches us and sighs dramatically. Uh-oh.

“Of course, if that's really what Liza wants, well then, who I am to deprive her?” she says. “Who am I to suggest that my friends' fading vision should trump my granddaughter's aesthetic preferences?”

And Nana for the win. I take a deep breath.

“You know what, Nana? Let's just go with the one you like—the cursive. It's pretty. And anyway, it's just the invitation, right?”

I notice Randy wrinkle his brow just a bit.

“I mean, no offense,” I say quickly, looking from Randy to Joan to let them know I wasn't dissing their entire life's work. “The invitations are important, of course, it's just that we have so many things to decide on for the party, I'm okay with Nana picking out this one.”

Nana Silver smiles at me and then reaches for her wallet. “Such a dear, isn't she?” she says to Joan as she hands her a credit card. Happy as a clam at last, Nana cups my chin in her hand. “And so gorgeous, too, don't you think?”

My cheeks burn beneath Nana's long, smooth fingers, but Joan catches my eye and smiles one last time. “Beautiful,” she says, handing my grandmother the receipt to sign and giving me a little wink. “She looks just like you.”

I'm slicing up a banana for Cole when my mom comes into the kitchen to get some coffee. It's eleven thirty and we're still in our pajamas. Mom's been at the computer doing some work she brought home with her, while Cole and I have been watching our favorite
Sesame Street
episodes back to back. I say “our favorite” because it's true—I'm almost thirteen years old and I'm not ashamed to admit that I still like
Sesame Street
. I mean, I doubt I'd watch it if I didn't have a
little brother, but I'm glad I have that as an excuse. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only
Sesame Street
fan who's over five—tons of really big celebrities have done guest spots, and you can tell they're having loads of fun performing with the Muppets.

“I'm glad you two have something in common still . . . ,” my mom says as she adds some milk from the cup I just poured for Cole into her mug, “but I think that's more than enough TV for one morning.”

I'm about to point out that she's been working for two straight hours without Cole yelling “Mommy!” once, when her phone rings and our
Sesame Street
marathon is temporarily saved by the bell.

After she says, “Hello, this is Jacqueline,” all businesslike, my mom's voice softens and I can tell whoever's on the other end is a friend. It doesn't take long for me to figure out who it is: after about three seconds Mom says, “Oh, that sounds like Nana, all right,” and I know she's talking to my dad.

I decide to make myself some toast so I have an
excuse to hang around the kitchen while they're on the phone. It doesn't matter that I can only hear half of the conversation—the fact that my parents are actually laughing and joking with each other instead of talking about tense things like daycare bills and dividing school vacations is enough to tell me that I wasn't imagining things the last time I heard them talk about the party. My mom and dad
really are
getting along—and if putting up with a few more weeks of letterpress studios and party venues is what it takes to keep them that way, then Nana Silver can bring it on.

*  *  *

We have a really nice walk to cooking class—no torrential downpours this week—and Mom's been in an upbeat mood all morning, despite the fact that she had to do work on a Saturday, which she hates. She's smiling and actually humming as we walk, so she must still be thinking about my dad's call. My mom is usually all about jeans and worn-in comfy tops on the weekends, but today she's wearing one of her
casual-Friday skirts and tops. She says it was the rare sunny Saturday that put her in the mood, but I'd bet my brother's fancy new “big-kid” stroller that talking to my dad is what did it.

We run into Henry, Errol, and Tristan on the way to the studio. In class, Tristan is usually pretty quiet and, other than barely responding to Frankie, he doesn't say much to anyone, including his uncle. But walking down the block all three of them look and sound like old pals, laughing about some fly-fishing adventure they apparently went on together. (I don't know much about fly fishing, but from what I can tell it involves a lot of standing around in a river waiting for the fish to come to you—not exactly my thing.) I guess around just Henry and Errol, Tristan has a lot more personality than I thought. In cooking class, he must think it's uncool to act buddy-buddy with your uncle. Or maybe he's just shy? It's hard to imagine someone that good-looking has anything to be shy about. He and Javier may have more in common than I thought.

“Ah, mis amigas favoritas,”
Chef Antonio greets my mom and me as we file into the studio. His favorite friends, huh?

“And Ms. Jacqueline is looking especially lovely today,” he continues, taking her coat.

Mom smiles shyly as I think to myself,
That's right, you noticed. And it's all thanks to Dad.

Cole is excited to show off his new stroller, so Angelica skips unbuckling him and wheels him away to their corner like it's a race car.

My mom and I take seats at a long table with Frankie, Theresa, Lillian, and Dr. Wong. It feels just like old times, except both Frankie and Lillian keep stealing glances at their crushes. I hope they'll give it a rest while we're actually cooking.

“
Bienvenidos
my friends, to our first savory class of the session,” Chef announces to get our attention. “Last week we made dessert pies, but this week we'll be making pastries that are intended as main courses, side dishes, or
bocadillos rápidos
—quick and tasty snacks.”

I look at Lillian and Frankie—snacks are our thing. Lillian rubs her hands together eagerly, but Frankie just sort of half smiles. What is her deal lately?

Since we all “perfected” our crust making last week (though I'm not sure Theresa's would fit that description), Chef shows us a giant bowl of balls of dough that he and Javier mixed up for us to use today.

“It was a true bonding experience for
papi
and
hijo
,” he says, resting his hand on Javier's shoulder. “Don't you agree,
mijo
?” Javier gives a quick nod and then looks over at Tristan and rolls his eyes. Tristan rolls his in sympathy. Boys.

Chef Antonio steps away from the table and holds out the bowl of dough. “And the results,
mis amigos
, mean that we can spend our time filling, baking, and eating today, rather than kneading and rolling.
Bueno
?”

Frankie's mom sighs so loudly that everyone turns to look at her.
“Sí, muy bien!”
she says. “Thank God.”

We all laugh, even Tristan and Javier. Even Frankie—despite the fact that she's probably totally embarrassed. Or maybe she's just used to her mother's humor by now.

Chef strolls to our table and puts his arm around Theresa. “I'm glad you are relieved,
señora
!” he says. “Nothing gives me more pleasure than to put people at ease
en la cocina
—the kitchen.”