Emma Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice (3 page)

E
ven though I dreaded anything medical, I couldn't wait until Monday when my mom would get more info on the modeling job at the hospital. I was nervous that Olivia already had a leg up on me, and I needed the money. I wondered what the shoot would entail. Like, maybe it wasn't happening
at
the hospital, just because it was
for
the hospital. Or maybe it wouldn't be medical in nature at all! Maybe it would be, like, a happy, healthy family skipping down the street together . . . something to entice people before they stuck needles in them (kidding!).

Actually, because of my own medical fears, I could relate to Jake's fears about the hospital and the operation. I did honestly feel bad for the kid. At
first. But after his horrible behavior all weekend—behavior that my mother excused as “nerves”—I was ready to lose my mind.

First of all, we went out for dinner on Saturday night for my dad's birthday, and Jake refused to order anything but ice cream. Specifically, the Oreo cookie sundae.

My dad tried to be firm at first, though my mom was ready to cave from the outset. The waitress took everyone's order but Jake's, and then she doubled back to see if he'd decided yet, and that's when things started to boil over. My dad said, “Just bring us some plain noodles with butter, please,” and Jake started to wail. Then my dad was trying to shush him, and my mom put Jake on her lap, then my mom and dad began to fight about my mom babying Jake. People were looking at us from the neighboring tables, and Matt and Sam and I were just rolling our eyes and wishing we were
anywhere
else but there right then.

My mom was trying to reason with Jake, and Jake kept protesting that if he could eat ice cream all the time
after
his surgery, then why couldn't he start now? My father decided to ignore the two of them, and he and Matt and Sam went to the bar to catch the start of the baseball game on the TV
there. That left me with my mom and the screaming creature also known as my baby brother. In the end, my mom had the waitress bring the Oreo sundae at the same time as the pasta, and Jake was supposed to eat the noodles while looking at the sundae, but you can imagine how long that lasted. In short, my poor dad's birthday dinner was a bust.

The next day, Jake and I went to the grocery store with my mom. I was superhelpful and ran around with half the list while also shopping for some Cupcake Club supplies with a list Alexis had given me. Meanwhile, Bratty Bratterson (my new name for Jake) was pulling every possible ice-cream flavor (Rocky road! Red velvet cake!) out of the freezer and piling them into my mom's cart. The only off-list thing I selected was this really good,
slightly
sugary cereal I'd had at Mia's one time on a sleepover, and when we got to the check-out, my mom said, “Emma, I don't
think
so! Unless you have your own money for this junk?” I obviously didn't, so she set it aside.

Meanwhile, when the checkout lady started to ring through Jake's ice-cream selections, my mother tried to ditch a couple of things, and Jake began to pitch a fit. My mom tried to reason with him, that the plainer the ice cream, the better it would
feel sliding down after the operation, but he didn't want to listen. She insisted on at least one carton of vanilla and then sighed heavily and also let him get everything he wanted, explaining to me that it was just Jake's “nerves” that were making him behave so badly.
Right.

The final straw was on Sunday afternoon, when my mom came back from Matt's game and had a small bag of presents for Jake—a team hat, a hoodie, and a mini basketball net and ball for his room.

“What does he get all this for?” I asked.

“Oh, Emma, you're really starting to become a counter,” said my mother impatiently. Being a “counter” is a major insult in my family. It's what my parents say about people who are overly concerned about what others have and count all the things they want. As soon as she said it, I turned on my heel, went to my room, and firmly shut the door. (I didn't slam it, even though I really wanted to!) My mom came up later to apologize, but I didn't feel any better and I let her know it.

“You can't turn this whole family into Jake's slaves, just because you feel sorry for him!” I said.

“I know,” my mother agreed, wearily rubbing her temples. “I just hate to see him so upset.”

“He's upset because he's spoiled,” I said.

“I guess he is,” she replied.

I was momentarily thrilled that I'd gotten her to agree with a criticism of one of my brothers; usually, she just defends them or explains away their bad behaviors.

But then I felt guilty.

“All I'm saying is, the same rules should apply, even if he does have to go get a little operation,” I persisted. “I bet part of why he's so upset is because you're being so overly nice to him; it's making him suspicious. So no matter what you say, all the presents and ice cream make him think the operation really
is
a big deal.”

“I'm sure you're right,” she agreed with me, sighing.

Great, and . . . ?

“I just feel bad for him,” she said.

Aaargh!

I was relieved when the weekend was over and I got to leave my house and get away from the monster. I was actually looking forward to school. However, on Monday, all the Cupcakers wanted to know about was how “poor Jake” was, and “What can we do for him?” There was no escape!

At lunch, Mia, Katie, and Alexis brainstormed
about ways they could make him feel better, and in the end they decided that a little cupcake send-off next Thursday after school would be a great idea. Then they all begged to come to my house again after school today, to do some sample baking and taste testing with Jake, one of their favorite pastimes. (Since he is such a sugar nut, he's very gratifying to feed.) But I absolutely refused, insisting I needed to be away from that kid as much as possible or I would be tempted to take his tonsils out myself with my bare hands.

So after school the four of us trooped over to Katie's and had a little baking session there. (Katie: “I bet he'd love snickerdoodle, right, Emma?” Me: “What
ever
.”) It
wasn't
the most fun I've ever had.

After about an hour the phone rang, and it was actually my mom calling for me.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, taking the phone from Katie.

“Hi, honey, I spoke to the PR person at the hospital who's coordinating the shoot. She gave me the details, and she's going to have to know right away if you're interested, which is why I'm calling you.”

“Great! What is it?”

There was a little pause. “Well, it's next Wednesday. . . . I know you usually only model on
weekends, but just this once I'll make an exception.”

“And?”

“Pretty good money: Three hundred dollars . . . for about two hours' work.”

“And?” I was getting impatient. I could tell she was hiding something from me.

“Well, Em, it's for the blood drive, you know. It's a new campaign; they need more people to donate blood, so they're really going to play up the sympathy aspect. So they want to show a kid receiving blood, but they don't want to use a real sick kid, because that's too sad and may be too taxing for the child. So . . . it would mean sitting in a chair . . . in a hospital gown . . . with a bag of blood that looks like it's going into your arm. I'm sure it will be fake blood, though.” My mom spoke quickly at the end.

Oh no.

“Um. Wow,” I said.

I felt faint just thinking about it. I sat down on a stool at the kitchen counter.

“I know,” my mom said quietly. Obviously, she knows how I am about all this stuff. “Do you want to think about it? Or should I just call back and say ‘no, thanks'?”

I thought for a minute. First of all, I needed the
money. Second of all, I really didn't want Olivia Allen to get the job. Third of all, maybe I'd set a good example for Jake.

I sighed. “I'll do it,” I said. “I'll try out.”

“Are you sure, sweetheart?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes. Thanks.”

We hung up, and I sat at the counter for another minute, trying not to think about a bag of blood—real or not—dripping into my arm.

“Hey, are you okay, Em?” asked Katie. She came over and put her hand on my arm. “You look pretty pale.”

I smiled wanly. “I'm trying out for a modeling job, but . . .” I was embarrassed to admit my weakness; after all, only Alexis really knew about my superqueasiness.

Katie looked at me in concern. “But what?”

I took a deep breath. Might as well fess up. “It's for the hospital. For a blood drive. And I'm superqueasy. I kind of faint at the mention of blood, never mind the sight of it.”

Mia looked up. “You kook! Don't do the shoot, then! Just say no!”

“But I need the money,” I said.

Alexis stood and came to my side. “If this is about the money you lost, don't worry about it. You can
have an extension. I don't want you fainting just to get money for us,” she said.

“Thanks.” I sighed. “I guess part of it is that . . . well, I just hate to be weak, you know? And let my fears rule my life. Like, I should be able to do this! I mean, I'm not Jake! I'm tough!”

“You go, girl!” said Mia.

“Well, you know they won't actually put the needle in you for the photo shoot, right?” asked Katie.

“No, I know. It's just the idea of it. And being in the hospital. And do you think they'll use real blood?”

“No way!” said Mia.

“I just . . . I mean, I can't even deal with shots. Like, not even Novocain at the dentist.” I grimaced.

“A shot is only a couple of seconds, Em,” said Alexis kindly. “Remember when I went with you? You thought they still hadn't done it, and it was over.”

“I know. I guess I just work myself up,” I said.

“Want us to have a cupcake party for you, too, after the shoot?” asked Alexis with a grin.

But Katie was thinking. “You know,” she said after a pause. “My mom is known for being really great with people who are really nervous about
going to the dentist. Do you want me to see if she'd give you some advice or whatever? Tips on how to cope? Then you could use them at the shoot, but also maybe in real life?”

I couldn't imagine it would help, but it was nice of Katie to offer, so I had to say yes. “Thanks. Sure. That would be great.”

Katie nodded her head briskly. “Good. Let's do it this weekend. You can come over on Saturday afternoon, after my mom's morning office hours, and she'll work on you.”

Work on me?

I gulped. “Okay.”

“Okay, back to cupcakes,” said Alexis, ever the boss. “Let's review our agenda.” She took out her notebook. “First, we have Mona this Friday. We have Jake's party next Thursday. We have Mona to bake for next Friday and also her client with the bachelorette party. What are we making for that?” She chewed on the end of her pen.

“Are we doing something wild or traditional?” asked Mia, her creative juices already flowing.

“Wild,” said Alexis, consulting her notes. Alexis had recently created a brilliant worksheet that we now used with all our clients. It had an outline of a cupcake in the middle, then headings listed in the
margins, with lists of choices below them: “Cake Flavor,” “Frosting Flavor,” “Toppings,” “Decor,” “Inspiration,” and “Please Avoid.” At the bottom were some empty lines for writing notes.

“Flavor choices?” asked Katie, closing her eyes to focus.

Alexis looked down. “Cake flavor: The bride-to-be said we could pick the flavor! Avoid: nuts, fruit. Sparing use of chocolate, if any. Toppings and decor are up to us. For inspiration, the bride loves lace and vampires.”

“Should we work in some bacon?” I suggested. Bacon caramel cupcakes are my trademark; I invented them, and they've been wildly popular with our clients.

“Maybe a little too . . . manly . . . for a bachelorette party,” said Mia tactfully.

True. I nodded.

“Let's do something vampirish,” said Katie. “Like you'd make for Bella from the Twilight books.”

“Ooh, spooky!” said Alexis. “Like what?”

“Red velvet?” I suggested.

“Or what about . . . You could do something with bright-red cream in the middle, so it oozes out when you bite into it,” Mia said, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Yes!” I agreed.

“The outside could be all white. White cake, white smooth frosting . . . ,” said Katie, “so no one suspects what's inside!”

“We could lay them out on lacey doilies,” I added.

Alexis typed furiously on her laptop to keep up with our ideas.