Confectionately Yours #4: Something New

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Stuck

  Confession: We May Have Lucked Out

  Windows

  Confession: I Know Where I Saw That Book Before

  Madhouse

  Cornered

  Papaya Chocolate-Chip Cupcakes

  Banana Frosting

  You’ll Never Guess

  Confession: Sometimes My Dad Forgets

  Diplomacy

  Messes

  Confession: I Remember Omar’s Old Dog

  Quick Moves

  Avocado Cupcakes

  Super Quick and Easy Chocolate Buttercream Frosting

  Tesseract

  Confession: Stuff You Learn When You Have a Dog

  Practice

  Contraband

  Confession: I Love Marco

  From the Phone Files: Part 1

  Pomelo Cupcakes

  Pomelo Cream-Cheese Frosting

  Bittersweet

  In Training

  The Blues

  Confession: Five-Dollar Bill

  Poster

  Confession: Weirdness

  Pistachio Cupcakes

  Pistachio Buttercream Frosting

  Questions

  From the Phone Files: Part 2

  Silly Puppy

  Project: Landslide

  Out at Islip

  Poster Girl

  Confession: Artie’s Right

  Done Properly

  Like a Nightmare

  Confession: Dog Pros and Cons

  Afterward

  Lady’s Slippers

  Confession: My Dad Is a Work in Progress

  Honey-Sesame Cupcakes

  Sesame Buttercream Frosting

  The Candidate

  Speech

  Confession: Overdue

  From the Phone Files: Part 3

  Something New

  Confession: Best Wedding Ever

  White-Chocolate Almond Wedding Cupcakes

  White-Chocolate Buttercream Frosting

  Barbecue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Lisa Papademetriou

  Copyright

  “Come on, Meghan! It’s not that bad! Just close your eyes.” I try to sound encouraging. I also try to squash the laugh that threatens to escape in a snort-spray that would make my good friend furious.

  “I can’t close my eyes and come down a ladder at the same time!” Meghan wails.

  “It’s only five steps!”

  “Hayley, I will break my neck!”

  And that’s when I do let loose with a little snort. I can’t help it. The way she says “break my neck” sounds just like a clucking chicken. You know, “Bok-bok-bok!” Her bangs are dyed a brilliant yellow, which contrasts with the natural peach of her red hair, which only adds to the chicken effect.

  Meghan glares at me. “It isn’t funny! I’m stuck! I’ll be stuck up here forever!”

  “Meg, you’re, like, four feet off the floor. It’s not like you’re at the top of the Empire State Building!”

  Laser Beam Death Ray — that’s the look she gives me. Maybe I should have been more sympathetic, but she’s just stuck at the top of a bookstore ladder. Seriously. I think my toilet is farther off the ground than this ladder is, but she’s clinging to a shelf of self-help titles as if it’s the side of a cliff.

  “The Empire State Building doesn’t bother me,” Meghan says. “Short heights are worse for me than tall ones.”

  “Why did you go up that ladder in the first place?”

  “I was looking for cookbooks for you!” She holds up a hot-pink book titled Cupcake Carnival. “You could at least be grateful!”

  “I am,” I tell her, which is true. It was sweet of her to try to get me the book. My mom and grandmother run a tea shop, and I do a lot of the baking. Cupcakes are kind of my thing. “Thanks for putting your life in danger for me.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” Meghan demands.

  “Well, if you’re going to be stuck up there forever, I guess I could bring you sandwiches.”

  Meghan holds up the book as if she might hurl it at my head, but there is laughter in her hazel eyes. That’s the thing about Meghan Markerson — she has a really good sense of humor. She can definitely appreciate when she’s being a lunatic. Not that it stops her. “So that’s it?” she demands. “No dramatic rescue?”

  I sigh and look around the store. We’re in Crow’s Nest, the best — and only — used bookstore in downtown Northampton. The woman behind the counter is as thin as my dental floss and has long gray hair. It is unlikely that she would be able to lift Meghan off the ladder. It’s clearly up to me to make something happen. “Oh, all right,” I say, starting up the ladder.

  “What are you doing?” Meghan demands.

  “Piggybacking you out of here,” I tell her.

  Meghan looks horrified.

  I turn my back to her. “Just hop on,” I say. “You can close your eyes.”

  “You’ll drop me!”

  “I’m incredibly strong.”

  “No, you aren’t! You’re extremely feeble! Besides, I wouldn’t even let the Hulk carry me off this ladder!”

  “Fine, then. Get used to living up here.” I start back down the steps.

  “No, wait wait wait!” Meghan cries. “Okay, okay!”

  I plant myself on the step before hers and turn my back. Meghan begins to squeal, but she wraps her arms around my shoulders. Then she transfers her weight onto me, and I start down the steps, with her draped across me like a blanket. Three more steps. Two more.

  “Awesome!” someone shouts.

  I look up to see Omar Gutierrez snapping a photo of us with his smartphone. “One for the school website!”

  A vivid image of how absurd we must look flashes through my mind. It must have flashed through Meghan’s, too, because she screeches, “Omar!” and the moment my feet hit the floor, she drops the book, then leaps off my back. “Give me that camera!”

  Omar laughs and sprints through the store, and Meghan races after him.

  Omar is a prankster, and he’s tangled with Meghan before. My guess is that she’s going to make him pay for that picture. I pick up the baking book that Meghan dropped, and flip through the pages. It has the basic cupcake recipes, like vanilla and chocolate, but it also has some interesting ones, like avocado and papaya. Really pretty pictures, too, and instructions on making frosting decorations. The price is reasonable: three dollars. I decide to get it.

  I head to the cash register as Omar blasts out the shop door and onto the street. Omar is the number one base stealer on our school’s baseball team. He’s fast.

  “I’ll be back,” Meghan calls to me as she races after him.

  “Take your time,” I tell her, but she’s already gone.

  “Well, that was exciting,” says a warm, gravelly voice. Mr. Malik is standing in front of the cash register, holding a slim book with gold lettering on the cover. “The thrill of the chase,” he adds, with a familiar twinkle in his black eyes. He hands his money to the cashier.

  “I don’t think it’s really that thrilling,” I tell him.

  The creases of his face dance into a smile. “Oh, there’s nothing so thrilling as young love.”

  That makes me giggle. Mr. Malik owns the flower shop beside our tea shop, and there is no doubt that he’s a romantic. “Believe me, Mr. Malik, those two are not in love.”

  “There’s a fine line between love and hate,” puts in the wiry woman behind the register as she rings up Mr. Malik’s book. Not that anyone asked her.

  “In this case, it’s l
ess of a line and more of a barbed-wire fence,” I reply.

  “Ah.” Mr. Malik’s chuckle is like a tiger’s purr. He hands over the money and smiles sheepishly at the cash register lady. “Well, I suppose I just have love on my mind, then. And speaking of love,” he says, handing me the book he just bought, “would you mind delivering this to your dear grandmother?”

  “Sure,” I say, blushing a little. Mr. Malik has been my grandmother’s friend for years, and they just got engaged. I am still trying to get used to thinking of him as my almost grandfather. “The Collected Poems of Livingston Wells?” I say, reading the title.

  “An excellent poet,” Mr. Malik says. “One of England’s treasures.”

  I nod. The name is familiar. I wonder if Gran already has a copy of this book.

  The door bursts open, and Meghan blasts in. Her eyes are narrowed, and she’s breathing hard.

  “Did you get him?” I ask.

  She holds up a finger and continues to pant. Then she puts her hands on her knees and leans over. “He’s so fast!” she gasps. She lies down on the floor.

  “Please don’t block the doorway,” the cash register lady says.

  Meghan rolls away from the door and continues to stare up at the ceiling. I go and sit beside her. “I got him,” she says between gasps. “He promised he wouldn’t post the picture.”

  “Lucky you,” I tell her, and she shakes her head.

  “He’s so fast,” she says again.

  “So are you,” I point out. “You caught him. And you’re wearing clogs.”

  Meghan groans. “Worst trip to the bookstore ever.”

  I hold up my two titles. “Not for me.”

  “Good-bye, Hayley!” Mr. Malik calls as he pushes open the door. “And farewell, dear Diana! Good luck on your hunt!” he says to Meghan.

  Meghan watches him leave, then turns to me. “Doesn’t he know my name? I’ve met him about five hundred times.”

  I have a feeling that Mr. Malik was referring to Shakespeare or Greek myths or something, but I decide to just say, “Probably a brain malfunction. Everyone gets them.”

  “True.” Meghan hauls herself to her feet and brushes herself off.

  I stand up, too. “Did you see the picture?”

  Meghan shakes her head. “Omar claims he deleted it.”

  “Do you trust him?” I ask.

  “Well — I guess we’ll see.”

  “Right,” I say.

  Only time will tell.

  It’s lucky that Omar was on his own. He usually goes everywhere with his best friend and permanent shadow, Jamil. And Jamil would have definitely posted the picture online.

  Then he would have made color printouts and posted them all over town.

  Then he would have submitted it to the yearbook.

  Don’t get me wrong — Jamil isn’t mean. But he really can’t help pulling every prank he can think of. It’s just his personality. It’s like, you can’t blame an ant for showing up at your picnic, can you? Or a cloud for raining on you? That’s just what they do.

  Omar isn’t exactly like that. At least, he wasn’t like that before he started hanging with Jamil.

  I guess we’ll find out what Omar is like.

  One way or the other.

  “Why are they staring in the window of the Tea Room?” Meghan asks as we walk down the street. We’re still a few doors away, just passing the new Mexican restaurant that recently opened up, but I can see my little sister, Chloe; her best friend, Rupert; and my ex–best friend, Artie, standing in a clump. They’re all frowning at the window the way people frown at art in a museum. Like they’re thinking about it.

  People don’t usually think about our windows.

  It’s a beautiful day out, and the sidewalk is crowded with people enjoying the sun. They keep having to go around the Window Starers. Three steps later, I can finally see what they’re all gawking at, and I let out a little gasp. “Who did that?” I ask.

  Chloe looks at me. “Artie did.”

  “These guys helped,” Artie says quickly. “But we’re not quite finished.” Her auburn hair gleams in the spring light.

  “It’s gorgeous!” Meghan gushes. “Wow! Incredible! I didn’t know you could paint!”

  “Artie’s a Renaissance woman,” I say, which is true. Artie is a terrific singer, dancer, actress, and painter. And she also gets straight As. And she’s really pretty.

  It was never easy to be her friend, to tell you the truth.

  Now she has painted our windows with a Beatrix Potter–style tea party. Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter are all seated around a table, eating delicate little cupcakes and pastries. Mrs. Tiggy Winkle is brewing tea on a nearby old-fashioned stove. It’s really cute and cozy looking.

  “It needs something,” Artie says.

  “Maybe someone could be coming through the front door,” Chloe suggests. “Like the Easter Bunny! Maybe carrying a basket of dyed eggs or chocolates or something.”

  Rupert shakes his head and shoves his glasses up on his nose. His dark eyes are huge behind the lenses. “The Easter Bunny isn’t textually accurate,” he says.

  That’s the kind of thing Rupert says.

  “What does that mean?” Chloe demands. “Easter is three weeks away!”

  “He means that these are all Beatrix Potter characters,” Artie explains. “We can’t just stick the Easter Bunny in there — it’s too random. Which I kind of agree with. What do you think, Hayley?”

  Artie turns toward me, twirling a thick strand of hair around her finger. It feels a little strange for Artie to be asking my opinion. She’s my ex–best friend, but we’ve stopped hating each other recently. I don’t know if we’re exactly on the path to becoming best friends again. But it seems like we’re off the path toward being dire enemies.

  “I think the Easter Bunny is a cute idea,” I admit, “but Rupert has a point. What about Benjamin Bunny, though? He could be carrying a basket.”

  “Perfect!” Artie says. “Done,” and she heads for her brushes.

  “I love it,” Meghan agrees.

  I’m a little worried that my sister will be disappointed her idea isn’t going on the window, but when I look over, I see she’s already moved on. Chloe bends down to pet a little white dog. Its hair is wiry, sticking out all over its body like a bristle brush. It has one floppy ear and one that stands straight up. This is one seriously raggedy-looking dog, but Chloe is petting it and cooing over it like it’s cuter than a baby panda.

  “Cutie, cutie, cutie!” Chloe sings out. “Cutie patootie!” The dog rolls over onto its back and puts its feet in the air while its owner — a man in a baseball cap — laughs.

  “That dog has charisma,” Rupert says, which makes me giggle.

  I hold up Mr. Malik’s slim poetry book and say, “I’m heading inside to give this to Gran.”

  Meghan is watching Artie paint the latest character into the corner near an unfinished doorway. “I’ll be right there.”

  The café is crowded with people having murmured conversations and working on their laptops. Mrs. McTibble waves to me from her usual corner, and I wave back.

  “Gran?” I call.

  “Oh, hello, Hayley dear!” My grandmother pops her head out from behind a giant bouquet of roses and lilies that is stationed by the cash register. I could guess who those are from. “Look what Uzma brought by!”

  Uzma is Mr. Malik’s sister. She’s a force of nature, and has been helping Rupert by taking him to school in the mornings and bringing him to our place in the afternoons. She and Gran haven’t always gotten along, but lately, they have been growing on each other. “I absolutely adore stargazer lilies.” Gran breathes in the scent of the large pink blooms with the red center.

  “I ran into your fiancé,” I tell her, handing over the book. It’s kind of fun to tease Gran about being engaged.

  “Oh!” she says, turning pink. But when I hand her the book, her eyebrows pull together, and she sucks in her breath, as if a sha
rp pain has just stabbed her.

  “Are you okay?”

  Gran’s blue eyes meet mine for a moment, and pause there. It’s like she isn’t looking at me, but through me, to something far away. “Thank you, dear,” she says, placing the book on a shelf beneath the cash register.

  It doesn’t seem quite right. I’m about to ask if she’s sure, when the bell over the door jingles and Meghan bursts into the café.

  Meghan is always bursting into places. She never just walks, like the rest of us.

  “Artie’s going to help with the decorations for the fling!” Meghan does a little victory dance, a booty wiggle and finger snap thing.

  “That’s great,” I tell her. “What are we talking about?”

  Meghan stops her dance and gives me a look that could freeze water. “The Spring Fling Barbecue,” she says slowly. “The seventh grade puts it on every year? I’ve been looking for someone to help out.”

  “Oh.” Meghan is our seventh-grade class representative, so she’s in charge of putting on a lot of events. “Okay. But, uh — are you sure it’s a good idea to work together?” Artie and Meghan have a “special relationship.”

  And by that I mean, “they drive each other nuts.” They tried to put on a talent show together, and it didn’t exactly work out. Like, Ka-Boom!

  “We might both lose our sanity,” Meghan admits. “But I know Artie will do a good job, so that’s all that matters.”

  “Would you like to have a few cupcakes for this event?” Gran asks, her eyes sparkling at Meghan.

  Meghan clears her throat. “Well …,” she says playfully, “I was just about to volunteer Hayley for some baking.” She pokes me in the shoulder. “You know you want to!”

  I look over at Gran, who is smiling in this dimply way she has. “Sure,” I tell Meghan.

  “It would be our very great pleasure,” Gran says. She’s English, and can get away with saying things like that.

  If Artie is going to be helping Meghan, maybe it’s a good idea for me to be involved, I tell myself. Just to help keep the peace. Besides, I like baking cupcakes. I don’t really need an excuse.

  Meghan points to the paper bag in my hands. “Should we look at your new cookbook?” she suggests.

  “What else are we going to do with it?”

  But even as Meghan and I head over to a table to flip through the cookbook, I think about Mr. Malik’s poetry book lying silently beneath the cash register.