The Icing on the Cake (2 page)

I caught my dad's eye as Nana threw her arms around me. He looked surprised, but there was also something in his eyes that said,
Welcome to the club
. I guess Nana was right about me “coming of age”—I'm not too little for her guilt trips anymore.

The minute we got into the car to head back to my dad's place, I texted Frankie and Lillian.

U won't believe what happened
, I typed.
HELP!

“I still don't get what you're so upset about,” Frankie says as she finishes off a coat of royal-blue polish on her littlest toenail. We're all squeezed into the Caputos' upstairs bathroom with our feet propped up on the edge of every available surface. Lillian and I are doing each other's toes because neither of us is coordinated enough to polish our own, but Frankie's amazing at giving herself pedicures.

“What's not to get?” I ask, looking up from my spot
on the floor where I'm dunking a Q-tip in nail-polish remover to erase what was at least my sixth mess-up on Lillian's left foot. “Have you ever heard me say I wanted a big fancy party where everyone's going to be staring at me the whole time?”

Frankie has to bang the bottle of top-coat on the sink a few times to unstick the lid. “No, but it doesn't sound like the worst thing imaginable to me. Music . . . food . . . boys—what's so awful about that?”

“Yeah,” says Lillian, who has been concentrating hard on the tiny yellow flowers she's painting on each of my nails. You wouldn't believe how many ways we've discovered that Lillian's artistic talent comes in handy. “You'll get to buy a new outfit, and everybody will be snapping pictures of you and showering you with attention—it'll be like you're a celebrity.”

You would think that my two closest friends would be supportive no matter what, right? I guess I can't blame Lillian, because we've only known each
other for a few months. But Frankie? Frankie and I have been BFFs since forever—“Like white on rice,” my mom always says, meaning we're inseparable and know each other backwards and forwards. I was sure Frankie would immediately get how unpsyched I am about this big thirteenth birthday bash I somehow agreed to let Nana Silver throw for me. But for some reason both of my friends are acting like my unluckiest birthday ever could actually be
fun
.

“Guys,” I say, probably sounding a little annoyed, “standing around in some froofy dress while everybody stares at me isn't my idea of a good time. I can't believe you don't know that!”

Frankie looks up from her toes. “Lize, I know you don't like being the center of attention, but that's kinda part of the deal when it's your birthday. You might actually enjoy yourself if we plan it right.”

“But that's just it, Franks,” I whine, scraping some dried-up pink polish off the floor. “We're not planning it. If we were, the three of us would be
spending my birthday getting pruny in the tubs and sipping Hawaiian ices at Bubble Kingdom. Knowing Nana, she's probably already booking a party room and picking out tablecloths. And, as Mr. Mac would say, Nana Silver is
not
a ‘good collaborator'!” Our social studies teacher, Mr. McEnroe, is really big on collaboration.

“Oh, come on,” Frankie says. “Nana Silver's not that bad. It's not like she's going to make you wear glass slippers and ride to the party in a horse-drawn carriage or anything.”

Lillian stops blowing on my toenails and looks up at us. “Although that would be pretty amazing,” she says, in all seriousness. “Don't you think?”

Frankie and I look at each other and crack up. Lillian looks hurt for a minute, but then she laughs too. “Okay, so it's kind of Walt Disney. But it would still be cool to ride in a carriage. I've always wanted to.”

Frankie waddles over to Lillian on her heels, careful not to mess up her still-wet polish. “You're
a hopeless girlie-girl romantic, Lillian,” she says, shaking her head. “But we love you anyway.”

“Aww,” I say as the two of them hug. I still can't help smiling and feeling relieved whenever Frankie does or says something nice to Lillian. It was super stressful back in the fall when we first met Lillian. Frankie acted like the Ice Queen around her all the time and she was always really put out whenever Lillian showed up. But she and Lillian have been getting along great ever since the Immigration Museum in Mr. Mac's class, when the three of us presented our project on the origins of so-called “American” food. Right before the big night, Frankie's mom, Theresa, accidentally set our homemade sourdough rolls on fire, and then one of her brothers smothered them with a fire extinguisher. Everything was ruined. Frankie almost lost her mind, but Lillian and Theresa saved the day by coming up with the idea to make waffle ice-cream cones. I think we had the most popular project at the museum thanks
to them. Frankie decided Lillian was a keeper after that, and I was so glad not to be stuck in the middle anymore.

*  *  *

I'm warming my feet on the radiator when the phone rings. It's thirty-four degrees out with drifts of two-week-old dirty snow still bordering the sidewalk, but I wore flip-flops home on the bus so I wouldn't destroy my pedicure. So what if no one's going to see my toes for the next four months? My bright-pink nails with their perfect little flowers are enough to cheer me up on a slushy winter day.

“Liza, it's your dad,” my mom calls from the kitchen where my phone is charging.

“Can you get it?” I ask, not yet ready to move my toes from the heater. “Please?”

“Hmm,” my mom says, shaking her head, but she answers it anyway. “Her Highness is busy thawing her paws,” she says, grabbing the phone and heading in my direction. She gets halfway across the room
before she stops and scrunches up her eyebrows. “Really? What about?”

Instead of handing me the phone, my mom leans back on the arm of the couch. “Oh yeah,” she says, looking at me, “Liza told me. Nana Silver strikes again.”

Clearly, they're talking about the party.

“Of course I remember,” Mom says, her lips curling up ever so slightly. “My cousin Denise still hasn't stopped talking about that chocolate fountain. At least your mother's wedding planning was a hit with our guests.” Then my mom does something really weird, considering she's talking to my dad: she laughs.

“Anyway,” she says, “I told Liza that I'll do my best to be supportive, but if Nana's running the show, I'm just going to step back and let her do her thing. If she goes too far—which we know she will—it's up to you, Daddy, to rein her in.”

She laughs again. “Oh yes, I did say that. You
heard me right.” She's practically bubbling. I give her a look, but she waves me off. “We'll see about that,” she says into the phone, still chuckling.

Still smiling, my mom picks at a loose thread on the arm of the couch, not saying anything. Then, suddenly, she clears her throat. “Oh right, of course,” she says, looking up at me, in her back-to-business voice. “She's right here, hang on.”

Mom hands me the phone. “It's Dad.”

“Um, thanks,” I say. “I knew that.”

I'm not sure what just happened, but it sounded to me like my mom and dad were actually enjoying talking to each other. If Mom was laughing and making jokes, I'm pretty sure Dad was too. Hmm . . . Maybe letting Nana plan my birthday party won't end up being the unluckiest thing that ever happened after all. . . .

I'm watching
Antonio's Kitchen
for the first time in weeks—all of December was repeats, which is pretty boring when it's a cooking show, even if it is my favorite.
Antonio's Kitchen
has a new look for the new year. The set looks more modern, somehow, with shiny steel appliances and black-and-white subway tiles on the wall behind the stove. Here and there are splashes of red—the pots hanging from the wall, the tea towel thrown over Chef's shoulder—that keep things from
looking too slick and fancy and matching. I imagine Chef Antonio pushing a giant update button and instantly upgrading the studio kitchen like it's an app on his phone.

I'm happy to see that Chef still looks like himself, though in this new studio he seems even more like a TV star than he did before. It's funny to think of him that way now that I “know” him, but it's been so many months since Frankie, Lillian, and I took his class with our moms that I bet he's forgotten all about us.

After the session ended last fall and Chef Antonio surprised us by bringing the entire cooking class to our middle school project night, we were supposed to all stay in touch and get together for a reunion over Thanksgiving weekend. But too many people had other plans, so we ended up rescheduling—and then rescheduling again—until suddenly it was the holidays, and everyone got even busier. We all exchanged e-mail addresses, but I guess it's like that old saying
“out of sight, out of mind,” because it's been weeks since I've heard from anyone. (Except Chef's son, Javier, who is our age and kind of hung out at our Saturday cooking class with us. Sometimes he texts Frankie, Lillian, and me stupid jokes or weird pictures he takes when he goes food shopping with his dad—he has a thing for trying to make the headless ducks hanging in Asian markets look artsy.)

The main ingredient on today's show is sweet potatoes. Chef Antonio has all kinds of plans for them: soup, chili, fries, a cheesy
gratin
, and, of course, pie. I wish my mom were here—she's a sweet-potato freak—but she's taking Cole for a booster shot right after daycare. I should be finishing my homework, but instead I'm having some leftover chicken pot pie and learning the difference between yams (they have skin that's usually darker than their flesh) and sweet potatoes (they're orange all over). Ever since we took the class, Mom has been on a roll, cooking all afternoon on Sundays so
our fridge is stocked with meals we can just reheat and eat all week. I've actually been bringing my lunch to school rather than buying cafeteria glop, and even Frankie—whose dad packs her amazing stuff—can't keep her fork away from my food.

My phone buzzes. It's Lillian texting me and Frankie at the same time. She's watching
Antonio's Kitchen
too.

Chef looks HOT,
Lillian says, which makes me laugh. If you only knew Lillian from her texts, that wouldn't be particularly funny. But Lillian in person is much sweeter and shyer than Virtual Lillian, and Frankie and I always crack up at how not-shy she comes off in her texts and e-mails.

Ikr. He's loving that new kitchen,
I reply.

Yr mom watching?
Frankie asks.

No, not home. Y?
I type.

LOL. You know.

Know what?
I'm starting to get annoyed.

I bet he's making her pie,
Lillian writes.

What do u mean?
I am really not enjoying this conversation with them.

Lize
. That's Frankie. Lillian never uses nicknames.
U saw them flirting every week.

My cheeks are suddenly burning and I'm glad they can't see me. Chef Antonio and my mom . . . flirting? I mean, they're definitely friendly, and there was that whole thing where Mom taught Chef to make noodle kugel, but that's not exactly flirting. Is it?

On TV, Chef grabs some dough and a rolling pin and I turn up the volume.

“For this pie, I'm using an old recipe that was given to me by a new friend,” he says. “
Una amiga muy bonita.”
I'm only in my second year of Spanish, but even a first-semester sixth-grader could understand “a very beautiful friend.”

OMG.
Frankie again.
Lillian is right!

GTG.
I type, then immediately call my mom.

She picks up without saying hello. “Good timing. Dr. Gordon just gave your brother a Batman
Band-Aid and an ice pop. He only cried for seventeen minutes this time.”