The Cupcake Queen (8 page)

“Great.”
Thanks for the heads-up, Mom.

Tally crumples her lunch bag and lobs it into the trash can. “So what’s the big deal about being Hog Queen?” I ask.

Tally shrugs. “The appeal is lost on me. I mean, getting the sash and the crown and getting to ride on the float shaped like a hog’s head is awesome for sure.”

“You’re joking.” I’m trying to picture my mother in her long dress with a sash around her and a sparkling tiara on her head, waving from a float towed behind an old farm truck.

“Wait, it’s better than that. You also get to keep the genuine crystal bust of a hog in your house.”

“I didn’t even know a hog had a bust,” I say.

Tally giggles. “You also get a year’s supply of bacon and sausage and other pork products from Franklin Farms.”

“So does Charity think she’s going to be Hog Queen?” I ask.

“I’m sure,” Tally says. “If only for the pork products.” She kicks her heels against the wall we are sitting on. “What do you know about pigs?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say. By now I’m used to Tally’s odd questions.

The bell rings. “You okay?” Tally asks.

I shrug. “I guess. Do I look awful?”

She tilts her head at me. “Not awful,” she says, smiling. “Your eyes are just a little red.” She stands up and picks up her books. “You ready, or do you need to sit for a while? I can be late.”

I shake my head and stand up. I try to hand the rest of the gummies back to Tally, but she says, “Keep ’em. They match your eyes.”

“Awesome,” I say. “Red eyes are so attractive.” Tally elbows me, making me laugh. We head back into the school and toward our lockers. As we walk down the hall, my shoes squish with damp gesso. One of the Lindseys is talking and laughing with Charlotte near my locker.

“Forget about them,” Tally says.

My cheeks are burning and my eyes are glued to the floor as I walk past. If I keep my head down, my hair will cover my face.

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” a voice says. I look up to see Charity standing in front of me. I mean,
right
in front of me. If I hadn’t stopped when I did, I would have run into her. But it’s not her I’m looking at, it’s who she’s talking to. Marcus. He doesn’t even look in my direction; instead he seems intent on something beyond my left shoulder. Without acknowledging me, he moves past. I turn and watch him walk over to a group of guys all in varsity soccer uniforms. Charity smirks. “Stare much?” she asks. There’s a burst of laughter behind me.

Tally’s waiting for me at her locker. She raises her eyebrows at me as I walk over. I shake my head and lean against the row of lockers beside hers, trying to look like I’m not actually looking at what I’m looking at. Marcus is still talking with the soccer players. He takes a ball from one of them and bounces it from one knee to the other before catching it. Then, finally, he looks over to where I’m still trying to seem like I’m not looking. He watches me for a moment and then disappears down the hall, the group of soccer players following.

“That’s Marcus,” Tally says.

“Yeah,” I say, feeling the heat on my face. She keeps watching me, smiling. I try not to meet her eyes. Instead I check out the inside of her locker. Her books are stacked neatly according to size, but that’s not what makes me pause. Perched on her book tower is a huge can with a spoon sticking out of the top. It’s one of those cans you find only in Sam’s Club or Costco or
maybe
in the Impossibly Big Food aisle of the grocery store. It’s the generic brand, with no picture or even any color on its label. It only has one word on it, in huge black print: LARD.

Tally looks around like she’s about to do something she doesn’t want anyone to see. Once she does it, I know why. She takes the spoon out of the can with a big glop of lard on it and puts it into her mouth. I hear a series of gasps behind me. I don’t even have to turn around to know who is standing there watching.

“Have you lost your mind?” I ask. Tally doesn’t answer. She just sticks the spoon back in the can and closes her locker. She makes a big production of swallowing, even making a happy noise at the end, like you might hear after the first bite of pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. I turn and look behind me in time to see Charity and her friends walking away, whispering.

“What was all that about?” I ask. I’m thinking reverse anorexia, weird cravings.

“Trust me,” Tally says. She picks up her notebook and starts walking, making me follow. I’m still trying to get my head around the Can of Animal Fat Show, but Tally’s already moved on. “So, Marcus,” she says. “I told you he runs on the beach around dusk.” I just nod. “Okay, then,” she says, and smiles.

“Okay what?” Blake asks, walking up to us.

“Nothing,” I say. I feel myself blushing again.

“Nothing,” Tally says, and she winks at me.

chapter nine

I lean my elbows against the top of the display case and watch people walk past on the sidewalk. I know the only reason my mother asked me to work the front of the bakery this afternoon was because Thursday afternoons are always so slow. That and she didn’t have anyone else. Gram is in Lancaster doing a series of portraits for a family. I helped her load her milk crate of snuggle toys into her car before she left. She threw in a couple of puppets and a plastic fishing toy with a clump of feathers glued to the string. “Whatever it takes to get the shot,” Gram told me before pushing the back closed and climbing into the car.

Then Mom left about an hour ago with strict instructions not to leave the front unless there was an emergency. I have to fight the urge to put my head down on the counter. I suddenly feel really tired through and through, from the end of my ponytail to the bottoms of my still slightly squishy sneakers. I had no idea gesso could stay damp for so long. I ditched the borrowed jeans for a clean pair at home, but I couldn’t find any other shoes. I open the back of the case and start rearranging the cupcakes, sliding them toward the front. The penny cupcakes have been selling pretty well, but the best sellers are still the triple chocolate mud slides. It was hard to make it look like there was an actual mud slide on the top of the cupcakes without them looking gross, like someone got sick on them. I check my phone for about the fortieth time. I left another message on my dad’s voice mail. It’s starting to get pathetic. Either he’s incredibly busy or he just doesn’t want to deal with me.

The other person I’ve been trying to reach is Tally. The whole
can-of-lard-in-the-locker
thing is making me crazy. All Tally does is smile and tell me to trust her. It’s just too weird to get my head around. The sleigh bells on the front door jingle, making me look up.

“Hi,” I say, sliding the case closed. The UPS delivery guy whose name I can never remember, Paul or Saul, walks in and places a heavy padded envelope on the counter. I read the name on his ID badge. STEVE. Not even close.

He slides his electronic mail tracker out of the holster on his belt. I notice he has a place for his cell phone and a clip for his keys and even a miniflashlight. He’s the postal equivalent of Batman. “Where’s your mom?” he asks. He taps the digital pen against the screen a few times before putting the unit on the counter in front of me.

“Meeting,” I say, signing my name in the tiny box on the screen. I have to do it three times before it resembles anything like my signature. Even then it looks like my name is Pezzy Leme. Steve takes a sample from the tray and pops it into his mouth. I push the pen back into its holder and pick up the envelope. It’s soft, but heavy. TALBOTS & TALBOTS, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW, with a Manhattan address in the corner. It’s addressed to my mother. Ms. Elizabeth Lane.

Steve helps himself to another sample before sliding his tracker back into his belt.

“Tell your mom I said ‘hi.’ ” I just nod and keep looking at the envelope. CONFIDENTIAL is stamped on the front in red ink. The bells jingle as the door eases shut behind him. I flip the envelope over and look at the tear strip on the back. There’s no way I can sneak it open. I sigh and put it on the counter behind me. It seems like really important things keep happening all around me and no one is talking about them. At least not to me.

I pick up the sample tray and walk back into the kitchen to cut up a couple more cupcakes. I’ve just finished arranging quarters of cupcakes on the tray when the back door opens. Mom pushes her sunglasses up on top of her head but keeps talking on her cell, frowning at me as she walks past. Even though I’m doing my job, that frown makes me feel like she’s caught me slacking. I push the door toward the front open with my hip and walk around the front of the counter. I put down the tray of samples and start brushing up crumbs with my hands. My mother snaps her cell phone shut as she pushes through the door. She stands on the other side of the counter, the frown now trained on everything she sees. I try to look through her eyes. I see a few fingerprints on the display case, way up in the corner, where they missed the sweep of my cloth. I see that the triple chocolate cupcakes are uneven. She sighs and finally looks at me. But it’s the same way she’s been looking at everything else. Judging, calculating, studying.

“Did anyone come in?” she asks.

“Just the UPS guy.” I have to say the list of names in my head again.
Paul. Saul.
“Steve,” I say aloud. “He left that.” I point to the envelope on the back counter. Mom picks it up and then frowns at it, too. I wait, hoping she’ll say something about it, but she doesn’t. She takes it into the back and I hear her pulling the strip, ripping the envelope open. I start to follow her, but the bells on the door ring and soon I am boxing up cupcakes for two women in jeans and twin sets, who seem forced-relaxed in a way that tells me they’re from the City. As they leave I hear the back door open and then Gram’s voice. She starts talking about the family she just photographed. How the baby spit up on the father’s suit and the two children started fighting over a toy, which led to a skirt being torn and a black eye. Her voice sounds tired. My mother keeps
um humming,
as though she’s barely listening. Then she says something so softly I can’t hear it. I stand next to the door to hear better and think,
I’ve been reduced to eavesdropping.

“It’s a good offer,” my mother says. “I should probably take it.”

“Have you told Penny?” Gram asks, and I’m nearly leaning against the door.
No!
I want to shout.
No one is telling me anything!

My mother sighs. “I will,” she says. “As soon as it’s more definite. I mean, I wouldn’t want to tell her and then have to
un
tell her.”

“I think you should tell her,” Gram says. “But it’s your choice.”

I hear footsteps coming toward the door. I back up and busy myself with wiping the counter. “Penny,” Gram says, pushing through the door. “I have to tell you about the shoot.”

“Later,” I say, moving past her toward the back. I’m tired of everyone hiding things from me, making decisions behind my back and telling me when it’s too late to change anything. “I’m going . . .” I start to say “home,” but then I realize I’m not sure where that is anymore. “I’m going back to the house,” I say. I pick up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. I go out into the alley without even pulling on my coat. I can see my mother’s face as she looks up from the papers and Gram’s as she watches me from the doorway. I just keep walking, head down, feeling the cold seep all the way through me, settling deep inside.

 

 

I drop my backpack in the entry hall when I get to Gram’s. I kick off my shoes and put them in the washer, where I dropped my jeans and socks earlier. Maybe a good wash will get the slightly moldy gesso smell out of everything. I pull on a pair of sweatpants that are sitting on the dryer and walk into the kitchen. The clock on the oven blinks. Nearly five. I’m on my own for a while. I know Gram and Mom will be late getting home. They have to put together a huge wedding order. I feel a tiny bit bad for not helping, but I just had to get out of there. I pull a sleeve of Saltines out of the pantry and sit on the window seat, looking out at the ocean. I lean my face against the glass. It feels cool against my cheek. I keep thinking the one thing I’ve been thinking all day.
I just want to go home. I want to go away from this place where everyone either hates me or hides things from me.
I sigh and put the corner of a cracker in my mouth. And then I do a dumb thing. I only say it to myself, but it’s enough.
At least it can’t get any worse.

The phone rings, making me jump.

“Hello?” I’m expecting Mom or Gram or maybe Tally. It’s not any of them. It’s my dad.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says. “I got your message.”

I try to think of something to say but can’t. Ever since we left the City, there’s been this big gap between us that neither of us seems to be able to cross. “Listen,” he says finally, “I need to talk to your mother. Is she there?” They only refer to each other as they relate to me now.
Your father. Your mother.

“She’s still at the bakery,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, and then there’s this tiny laugh. “The bakery.” He sounds like he’s making quotation marks with his fingers and rolling his eyes. Part of me agrees with him, and part of me gets mad. “Listen, just tell your mom I got the paperwork today.” I’m thinking,
What paperwork?
But I don’t have to wait long for an answer. “Tell her I talked to the Realtor. If she can get everything filed before the weekend, we can close before the end of the month.”

Somewhere in all those unfamiliar terms, I realize he’s talking about an apartment. And I get excited. I mean, people who are splitting up don’t buy a new apartment together, do they? I’m thinking a great walk-up in SoHo or maybe one of those places in Tribeca that are funky-cool even if they need a lot of work.

But as he keeps talking, I realize that’s not what he’s saying at all. He’s not talking about some new place we’re buying, but our old apartment in the Village and how we have a good offer and he thinks it’s a good time to sell. He keeps saying “we” and “us,” as if I have any say in all of this.