Confectionately Yours #3: Sugar and Spice

  Because she has a wedding to plan, my brain whispered.

  I closed the magazine and placed it back in its exact place.

  How can Mom be marrying Ramon? She hardly even knows him! She’s not really acting like someone who’s crazy in love … not that I have any idea how someone who’s crazy in love acts. I mean, in movies they’re always buying flowers and running through the streets and stuff. Holding boom boxes over their heads in the rain. Mom has just been acting like … Mom.

  It just feels so out of the blue. Like maybe my mom has this whole secret life that I don’t know about. Which I guess she does. I didn’t see the divorce coming, either.

  I guess these huge, life-changing things can happen with absolutely no warning at all.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hayley! How are you? Ready to play some laser tag this Saturday?”

  “Oh, right, I forgot we were doing that. Sure.”

  “Well, it was Chloe’s turn to choose.”

  “No — sorry. I mean, it’ll be fun.”

  “You okay? You sound distracted.”

  “Just … a lot of schoolwork and stuff.”

  “Sure. It can get overwhelming.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well. Um, how’s everything else going, Hayley? Anything else new?”

  “Oh, I’m — planning a talent show with Meghan.”

  “That’s great! Are you going to be in it?”

  “Just the genius behind the curtain.”

  “Wow! I’m impressed.”

  “We haven’t pulled it off yet.”

  “I’m impressed that you’re trying.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, when is this talent show?”

  “Friday night. But, Dad, Aunt Denise is coming into town, and I think, um …”

  “I completely understand. I’ll see you Saturday. Do you want to put your sister on the phone?”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye, Hayley.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, sweetie?”

  “Would you tell me if you were going to get married again?”

  “What?”

  “Like, would you warn me —”

  “I’m not getting married anytime soon.”

  “Okay, but …”

  “Hayley, I would never, ever propose without telling you first.”

  “Really?”

  “No way.”

  “I’d know?”

  “You’d know. It would affect you, too.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll get Chloe now.”

  “Love you, Hayleycakes.”

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  Pistachio-Rosewater Cupcakes

  (makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

  Sometimes, flavors that don’t really seem like they’ll go together make a good match. Be brave!

  INGREDIENTS:

  2/3 cup milk

  1/2 cup vanilla yogurt

  1/3 cup canola oil

  3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons granulated sugar

  1–2 tablespoons rosewater

  1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

  1/2 teaspoon baking powder

  1/2 teaspoon baking soda

  1/3 cup pistachio meal (finely ground toasted pistachios)

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  1/3 cup chopped pistachio nuts

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with cupcake liners.

  In a large bowl, whisk together the milk, yogurt, oil, sugar, and rosewater, and set aside.

  In a separate bowl, sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, pistachio meal, and salt.

  Slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet ones a little bit at a time, and combine using a whisk or handheld mixer until no lumps remain. Fold in the chopped pistachios.

  Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way and bake for 20–22 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.

  Rosewater Frosting

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 cup margarine or butter

  3-1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar

  1 teaspoon rosewater

  1–2 tablespoons milk

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream the margarine or butter until it’s a lighter color, about 2–3 minutes.

  Slowly beat in the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches, adding a little bit of milk whenever the frosting becomes too thick. Add the rosewater and continue mixing on high speed for about 3–7 minutes, until the frosting is light and fluffy.

  OPTIONAL: Make the frosting a rosy shade of pink by adding a couple drops of red food coloring along with the rosewater.

  “Hello?” I call as I step into Mr. Malik’s shop. It’s a lovely little place. A heavy, dark oak table sits at the center of the main room, covered in buckets of holly, feathery ferns, and elegant ivy topiaries. Wreaths of dried flowers cover the walls, and the refrigerated glass cases are packed with colorful arrangements. The whole place smells wonderful, the way you dream roses do, though they never quite live up to it. Soothing piano music plays in the background.

  Uzma is behind the cash register, peering through a pair of reading glasses at a pile of receipts. Her lower lip is raised, and she reminds me of Mrs. McTibble’s dog, whose tongue is always sticking out just a bit. Her eyebrows go up and she pulls off her glasses when she sees me. “Hayley, hello.”

  “Hi,” I say.

  She pushes herself off of her stool. “Are you here to buy flowers?” she asks, coming out from behind the counter.

  “No, actually …” I hold out a small white bakery box.

  “Umer will be delighted,” Uzma says.

  “Oh, no — it’s for you,” I explain.

  “For me?” Uzma looks down at the box. Her eyes water up as she opens the box. “How thoughtful,” she says. Her voice is quiet.

  “I hope you like it,” I add, just to cover up the awkwardness that has settled over the room.

  “Is there someone on this planet who doesn’t like cupcakes? Your grandmother put you up to this, I’ll wager,” Uzma says.

  I just smile.

  “Well!” Uzma says brightly. “I have something for you, too.” She bustles behind the counter, her salwar kameez and shawl rustling. She pulls out a small white bag and spills the contents onto the counter. Five gold and teal bracelets clatter onto the dark wood.

  “For me?”

  “These are glass bangles,” Uzma says, waving her hand dismissively, as if the bracelets aren’t completely gorgeous. “Very traditional in Pakistan.”

  “They’re awesome.” I slide the bangles onto my wrist.

  “I have some purple ones for Chloe, too,” Uzma says, holding out another small bag. “You don’t mind giving them to her, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “She’s seemed a little …” Uzma bounces her head a bit from side to side, like a bobblehead doll.

  “Sad?”

  “Yes.”

  I touch a soft yellow rose in a vase by the register, and my bracelets clink. “Rupert is moving away.” I explain the situation with Rupert’s father, and how there isn’t anyone to take him to school in the morning, or home in the afternoon.

  “And so — this friendship will end because of the school bus?” Uzma asks.

  “Kind of.”

  “How unfortunate.” Her mind seems faraway as her fingers flip open the lid of the small white bakery box. She takes a bite of the cupcake. “Ah … Well, cupcakes certainly do give one hope for better days, don’t they?”

  “I guess so,” I say.

  “I don’t think we should allow this Rupert situation to go unresolved, do you?” Uzma asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  Uzma peels back the cupcake wrapper and takes another bite. “I think I’ll have a word with Rupert’s family.”

  “His foster family? Or his dad?”

  “Everyone, I think,” Uzma says.

 
I want to tell her that it isn’t a good idea. But I have this feeling about Mr. Malik’s sister: I don’t think she’s the kind of person you argue with.

  She’s more the kind of person you get out of the way of.

  In second grade, I saw Charlie Oxwood draw red Xs on Ms. Jessup’s glasses. She had left them on her desk, and when she left the room for a moment, Charlie went up, grabbed a marker, and drew on them.

  Anyway, when Ms. Jessup came back and found her glasses, she was furious. She demanded to know who had drawn on her glasses. Of course, nobody in the class spoke up. Nobody wants to be a tattletale. Besides, Charlie was a creep. He would shoot spitballs at people and shove the kindergartners around. Nobody wanted to be on his bad side.

  Well, that night, Gran came over for dinner. I was helping her make a pie in the kitchen, and when she asked me about school, I told her all about it.

  Gran was — what’s the word? Irate? Seriously, I thought flames were going to shoot out of her ears or lightning blast out of her nose, or something. Anyway, she picked up the phone that instant and called the school. Nobody was there, of course, but she left a message for the principal to call her back immediately. Gran has a British accent, and when she says to do something immediately, it always sounds really important.

  “Will you tell them that I told you?” I asked Gran once she had hung up.

  “I think they might be wise enough to make the connection without my help,” Gran replied.

  I must have looked kind of terrified, because Gran added, “I’ll call Artemis’s parents, as well, and have them confirm the story with her. And Marco’s. All right? If several parents call the school with the same information, they’ll have to do something. But no one will have to know that it was you who told.”

  Well, I wasn’t sure I believed her … but everything happened just like she said it would. Charlie was given an in-school suspension for three days, and he never found out who told. And he was kind of a little bit less of a creep after that. I think that hearing that several of his classmates had turned him in made him more careful.

  Oh, and Charlie’s parents had to pay to have Ms. Jessup’s glasses fixed. But that wasn’t a big deal, because everyone knows the Oxwoods have way more money than brains.

  I eventually told Marco and Artie the truth, and I always said that I’d told Gran accidentally — that I hadn’t realized she would flip out the way she did. But sometimes I think maybe I did know. Maybe I wanted Charlie to get in trouble … but I didn’t know how to handle it myself.

  And the more I think about what just happened with Uzma, the more I think that maybe it wasn’t exactly an accident. I want someone to talk to Rupert’s family, but I can’t do it. I don’t even know them. Besides, I’m just a middle-school kid.

  So — oops? I hope Uzma doesn’t flip out all over Rupert’s family.

  Or that she flips out just enough to let him stay in Chloe’s school.

  “Why are you in the girls’ room?” I ask as the door sighs shut behind me on Monday morning.

  “Because I’m putting talent show flyers everywhere!” Meghan cries. “Look, do you like the glitter I added? I’m papering this school!”

  “Yeah, they’re great. But actually, I was asking Marco.”

  “Just capturing the magic on film.” He’s holding out his digital video camera, and Meghan turns to it with a grin and a thumbs-up.

  “You know you can’t be in here, right?” I ask. Maybe it’s just because I don’t have a brother, but I really don’t want Marco to hear me pee.

  Marco turns off the video camera. “Okay. I was done, anyway.”

  “We’ve got a ton of great acts, Hayley,” Meghan gushes. “This is going to be amazing. And Mr. Lao said that he’d help run the lights — did I tell you that?”

  “No. That’s great.”

  “I can’t believe the performance is Friday!” Meghan does a crazy little jig.

  “Dang, I missed that.” Marco frowns at his video camera. “That would’ve been an awesome shot.”

  “Why are you filming Meg putting up flyers, anyway?”

  Marco shoves the camera into his backpack. “I just thought it would be fun to shoot everyone getting ready for the talent show. I got Kyle on piano, and David Lesser’s dog act. I got the juggler.”

  “Did you get Artie?” I ask. Meghan shoots me a glare, but I ignore it.

  “Not yet,” Marco admits.

  “You should submit the video as part of the show,” I tell Marco, and Meghan does more crazy jigging.

  “Brilliant! Brilliant! I’ve been looking for the perfect thing to close the show with!”

  Marco whips out the camera again as Meghan twirls down the line of sinks. She’s wearing blue tights and an orange wool A-line dress that swirls around her legs as she dances.

  “Okay, well, I guess I have to put it in the show now,” Marco says.

  “Or you could submit it as evidence at Meghan’s next sanity hearing,” I joke.

  Meghan ignores my comment and hands me a stack of flyers. “Would you help me put these up during lunch?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll help, too,” Marco volunteers, and Meghan takes half of my stack and gives it to him. Just then, the bell rings. “See you later,” Marco says.

  “I’m getting so excited!” Meghan crows. “Artie is going to be so sorry that she blew us off!”

  A toilet flushes and a stall door opens partway. A sixth grader pokes her head out of the stall. “Is he gone?”

  “Sorry!” I say.

  “Oh, wow — sorry.” Meghan hands the sixth grader a flyer. “Here, come to the show.”

  The sixth grader glares and goes to wash her hands. She takes the flyer, though.

  I guess that’s the most important thing.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “Can I see?” I ask, leaning toward the stage curtain. The week has whizzed by, and it’s finally the night of the talent show.

  “It’s bad luck,” Artie snaps, gently pushing me away. She looks gorgeous. Her long auburn hair is up in a bun, and she’s wearing a white sequined dress.

  “You look like you’re going to the Grammys,” I tell her.

  She blushes. “Thanks.” I catch her sneaking a look toward the wings, where the dramaramas are warming up.

  “Ooh! It’s packed!” Meghan says as she peeks at the gap between the curtain and the stage. “Five minutes to showtime!”

  Artie rolls her eyes. “It’s bad luck to look at the audience before the show.”

  “I’m not performing,” Meghan says.

  “Me, either,” I realize, so I go ahead and take a look while Artie huffs out a frustrated sigh. Meghan wasn’t kidding — I don’t think there’s an open seat in the entire auditorium. I spot Gran, Mom, Chloe, and Aunt Denise in the third row. They must have gotten here early. Dad and Aunt Denise haven’t exactly been on the best terms since the divorce, so we agreed it would be better for him to sit this one out. Butterflies float in my stomach and I realize why Artie thinks it’s bad luck to look at the audience before a show — it makes you nervous.

  “Okay, everyone, we’ve got five minutes to curtain,” Meghan repeats. She’s holding a clipboard, which makes her look very official. And she’s wearing a purple dress, which makes her look a bit like an eggplant. “Artemis, you’re on third, okay? I’ve got to get David Lesser….” And she scurries off to find David and his Corgi.

  Artie sucks in her breath and puts her hands over her eyes.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Just nervous. I’ll probably drop the microphone.”

  “You’ll be fine.” I give her this awkward little pat on the shoulder, and she gives me a half smile. And then I say, “You have a great voice, Artie. You’re amazing.” I don’t know why I said that … except that it’s the truth.

  “Thanks,” Artie says, and I have to fight the urge to say that I really, really mean it. She knows I mean it. I’ve told her lots of times before. “It’
s just that this is my chance …” She shrugs and doesn’t finish the thought.

  “To change Ms. Lang’s mind about you?” I guess.

  Artie looks at me, but she doesn’t say anything. Just then, the audience goes quiet, and I realize that the lights have dimmed. Another moment, and the curtain goes up. David Lesser runs onto the stage with a Corgi in a tutu right behind him.

  And we’re on.

  The Corgi act is seriously one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen, and the juggling act is pretty good, too. As it’s finishing, I turn to Artie, who looks a little ill. “Break a leg,” I say.

  The panic doesn’t budge from her face. “That’s for actors.”

  “Well, break a vocal chord, then.”

  She looks at me and actually smiles. Then the audience applauds and Maria darts off and Artie walks out onto the stage. She stands at the center, and Mr. Lao puts a spotlight on her. Then Marco starts the CD. There are a few strains of violin music, and then Artie starts to sing.

  She really does have a gorgeous voice. It’s sweet and high, and surprisingly strong — it reaches out over the audience and fills the whole auditorium. It’s a sad song, about a sailor who has left his love behind.

  The audience is so still, it’s as if everyone has forgotten to breathe.

  “Amazing,” Marco whispers in my ear. He has stepped away from the sound system.

  Artie closes her eyes and lifts her voice into a high note —

  And at that moment, a super bass beat bounces through the speakers.

  “What’s that?” Meghan asks. Her body is tensed, like she might just jump out at someone.

  “Whazzup, Adams Middle School!” Jamil shouts as he bounces onto the stage.

  “What the —” Marco makes a grab for Omar, who dodges away and slides out over the hardwood on his knees. Artie scoots out of his way.

  “We’re primed to rhyme!” Omar shouts.

  “Like Greenwich Mean Time we’re down to the minute —”

  “And we’re in it to win it —”

  People are starting to boo.