The Cupcake Queen (3 page)

My mother turns down one of the side streets and swings around to the back of the bakery, where she parks near the Dumpster. I climb out and go to the back of the van and start sliding out boxes and crates and stacking them on the back porch. It takes only a few minutes to get everything inside. I start to put the cake stands in the dishwasher. “Just leave them,” my mother says softly. “It’s late.”

We walk back out to the van and head to Gram’s house, a Cape near the beach. I heard my mother talking to her on the phone before we left the City. “Just until we get settled,” Mom said when Gram offered to let us live with her. Of course I’m not about to settle. Settling means staying. We turn onto the gravel road that takes us toward the water and the house. At the corner is a sign for JOY’S PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO. Sometimes I hear Gram working down in the darkroom until late at night, and yet she’s still up at dawn to get to the bakery. Even though she just turned sixty-five, she has more energy than my mother and me put together.

My mother pulls the van around the house and parks it in front of the garage. She looks at me for a long moment, but then she’s out and walking toward the back porch before I can say anything. I hear the screen door snap shut behind her as she goes inside. I take my blue hoodie out of my backpack and pull it on before sliding out of the van and heading toward the path down to the water.

We got here in June, right after school was out. It was only going to be for the summer at first. Mom told me she just needed to get away, and I know that meant she needed to get away from my dad. And I hope that’s all it is. Like they just need a break from each other.

For a long time I would hear them arguing when I was supposed to be sleeping. They’d fight about everything—my school, who left crumbs in the butter, whose turn it was to take Oscar to the vet. That was bad. But it was worse when they stopped. It was like as long as they were arguing, they cared. Once they stopped it seemed like everything stopped.

I’d like to say I saw it coming—the move, I mean. But the truth is, until she started hauling the suitcases out of the closet, I had no idea Mom had even been thinking about leaving the City. The only thing I noticed was that she notched up the intensity level a little. But with my mother, that’s like increasing things from an 8 to a 10, so it’s just more of more. I guess the other thing was that she went kind of crazy. But it was a quiet crazy, one that only I could see. She started obsessing about everything. Even simple decisions, like what kind of jam to buy at the store, seemed to have huge consequences in her mind. She would stand there, staring at the jars until I’d finally just pick one for her. It was right after that that I found the packet from the Hog’s Hollow Chamber of Commerce on my mother’s desk. Only a week later a moving van was double-parked in front of our apartment building and guys with names like STAN and PAUL stitched in red on their jumpsuits were hauling boxes of books and clothes down the stairs and out into the rain.

My dad moved out first. He told me the separation was good, because they needed time to heal. The problem was that they didn’t tell me from what. He said everything was going to be fine, but he didn’t bother to show up at the diner for our last breakfast. He just left a message on my mom’s cell that something had come up and he was really sorry, but to call when we got there so he’d know we were safe. And I know something probably did come up and that the something was probably important, but sometimes I just wish the something important could be me.

And for the entire drive to Hog’s Hollow, as I sat there in my mom’s blue Toyota hatchback, I kept thinking about what my dad had said. That everything was going to be fine. And I realized maybe that’s all we can hope for from life: fine. Not happy, not good, but just fine. And in my case “fine” is an acronym for Freakin’ Irrational Nightmare Existence.

I take off my socks and shoes at the top of the stairs, roll my socks into balls, and shove them into the tops of my sneakers. The sand feels cool on my feet as I walk down toward the water. I stand at the edge of where the wet sand meets the dry and try to figure out if the tide is going in or out. The wind is cold off the water. It feels good after a whole day stuck inside, but it raises goose bumps on my arms and makes me shiver.

About a month after we arrived, my mom did the whole we
need to have a talk
thing. She brought me down to the beach and I thought,
Finally, she’s going to tell me what’s going on,
but instead she just talked about finding herself and her roots and figuring out what was really important. When she said, “I’m going to open a bakery,” dumb me, I thought she meant in New York. And while it was surprising, I wasn’t really surprised. My mom has always been what she calls “vaguely artistic.” I started to get excited as she talked about the bakery idea. I pictured a tiny shop in SoHo that made specialty cakes and got featured in the Food Section of the
New York Times.
Then she told me the bakery wasn’t going to be in the City at all, but out here. Here, in Hog’s Hollow, where they actually crown a Hog Queen every fall.

If my life were a movie, I would have calmly outlined all the reasons why a bakery would be a bad business move. I would have told her why city life suits us better than life out here in the sticks. But my life isn’t a movie. Not even close. And I wasn’t calm and cool and convincing. Instead, I ran away. I took off down the beach and ran until I couldn’t run any more and then I just collapsed on the sand and cried. The next thing I did was e-mail my dad and beg him to talk some sense into her. I wanted him to drive here and ask her to come back, maybe even beg her to come back. Because opening a bakery seems really final, like the first step in their splitting up for good. But as much as I tried to fight it, on that day a summer turned into forever. That is, until I can figure out a way to convince my mother that we need to move back to the City.

I watch the water, still trying to figure out which way the tide is going. Every time I think I figure it out, it seems to change. I hear a dog running behind me. I turn to see him coming straight toward me, fast, kicking up sand as he goes, and all at once he is on me, big wet paws, big wet tongue. His paws are on my chest as he tries to lick my face. He’s so happy that I just start laughing. It’s the first time I’ve laughed in forever, and it feels strange in my mouth, like the first time I had sushi. Good, but weird. The dog backs off a bit and begins running around me in circles, making a chuffing sound in his throat. I bend and put out my hand, and he comes right to me again. I pet him, scratching behind his ears. His fur is thick and golden and damp from the ocean.

“Good boy,” I say. He smells good, like seawater and salt, but also bad, like wet dog.

“Sam, no.” I look up to see a guy running toward me and I stand up again. The dog, who I now know is Sam, sits down beside me and thumps his tail. “I’m so sorry,” the guy says, reaching for Sam’s collar. Sam leans into my legs, making me laugh. “Sam, no.”

“It’s okay,” I say.

The guy looks at me. “He gets a little excited,” he says. He smiles and pushes his curly brown hair back from his forehead. Even in the dim light, I can see that his eyes are really deep brown, like Sam’s, and when he smiles, the corners crinkle.

“A little.” I smile and bend down to pat Sam on the head. Sam keeps thumping his tail on the sand, making a weird sand angel with each swish.

“He likes you.”

“I suspect that Sam likes everyone.” I look up. The guy is watching me, and suddenly I’m self-conscious in my rolled-up jeans and my sandy hoodie. He smiles again and pushes up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He has a braided leather bracelet on his wrist that slides down toward his hand when he moves his arm.

“Sam’s actually pretty selective.” Sam keeps pushing his head into my hand, petting himself on my fingers.

“Is he?” I bend and scratch Sam behind the ears again.

“He’s a very good judge of character.” He blushes slightly after he says it and pushes his hair off his forehead again. Sam thumps his tail once more and tears off down the beach. We hear him bark, but it’s too dark to see him. “I guess I better—”

“I guess so,” I say. He smiles again.
Crinkle.
He backs away and lifts a hand in my direction before turning and running after Sam.

“Bye,” I say, but it’s just to myself, because he’s too far away to hear. I walk back to the steps and stuff my socks into my pockets before I slip on my high-tops, pushing the laces down inside of them. The kitchen light is on, but the rest of the house is dark. I walk quietly up onto the porch and settle into the glider. I lean my head back and close my eyes. I hear barking from way down the beach and smile, wishing I knew the guy’s name and not just his dog’s.

“It was awful.” I can hear my mother in the kitchen. I hold still and listen.

“Tea?” Gram asks. I imagine her holding up the kettle as she asks.
Tea fixes everything,
she always says.

“Please,” my mother says. Her voice sounds tired, more than ever. Ever since she came here, she sounds different, like just holding her body together and moving around is hard.

“Tell me everything,” Gram says, and I cringe. It’s enough that my mother thinks I’m a screwup. Not Gram, too. My mother does tell her everything. She doesn’t even leave out Charity’s parting comment, which I didn’t think she had heard. And when she finishes, they’re quiet. I hold my breath and wait, wondering what Gram will say. Wanting to know and not wanting to at the same time. And then I hear Gram laughing. She starts out soft and gets louder and louder until I can hear her gasping, and I know tears are rolling down her cheeks. It feels awful, hearing her laugh at me.

“Mother,” Mom says, but Gram doesn’t stop. And then I hear a surprising thing. My mother starts laughing, too. Which just makes Gram laugh harder. “You should have seen her face.” I wonder who they mean. Me?

“Oh, what I would have given to see that,” Gram says. The laughing begins to die down, and I hear a lot of whoo’s and sighs. This time happy ones.

“The look on Eugenia’s face when the first cupcake hit her.” My mother starts laughing again. I try to figure out who Euge nia is.

“And her daughter. What’s her name?”

“Charity,” my mother says, and I realize they are talking about Mrs. Wharton.

“Charity, oh yes. What a preposterous name for such a selfish family.”

“Maybe Stingy was already taken.”

“I was surprised when you got the call to do the cupcakes for her daughter’s birthday,” Gram says. “After everything . . .”

“I can’t afford to be choosy. It’s such a small town.”

“I know, but still . . .” They are both quiet for a moment. “How was Penny with all of it?” Gram asks. I sit forward a little to listen, but all I hear is my mother’s sigh, then silence.

“I don’t know,” my mother says finally. “I wish we didn’t—” But then she stops talking, leaving me wondering what she wishes we didn’t do. Move here? Open a bakery? Make a thousand pink cupcakes for Miss Ice Princess?

I lean back in the bench and swing my feet. I feel the rough wood pull at my hair. Even though I’m glad my mom’s not mad at me, their laughter makes my stomach hurt. It may be selfish to think it, but I don’t want my mom to be happy. The happier she is, the farther away my old life gets.

chapter four

The first day of school always gets me out of bed early. The first day of school at a
brand-new
school got me out of bed at 4 A.M. By the time I left Gram’s house my room looked like a bomb had gone off in it. Every piece of clothing I owned was on either the floor or the bed. I checked my e-mail five times and tried unsuccessfully to find something to eat that wouldn’t make me feel like yakking four times. I kept speeding up and then slowing down during the walk to school. I didn’t want to be late, but I
really
didn’t want to be too early, standing around and staring at my shoes while everyone else talks to one another and pretends not to see the new girl staring at her shoes. I managed to make it to the school office without actually making eye contact with anyone. It’s like if I don’t see them, they can’t see me.

So, here’s my theory. Every high school in the whole country has the same secretary working in the front office. She’s usually about my mom’s age or maybe a little older, like forty-ish. She’s a little overweight, but she’s trying to lose it and you know that because she always has a Diet Coke or a Slim-Fast shake on her desk, and her candy jar is filled with sugarless Jolly Ranchers. Her name is something no one names their kids anymore, like Esther or Geraldine or Margery. She wears clothes that are about ten years out-of-date, and around every holiday she brings out the theme sweatshirts, like the reindeer one with the light-up Christmas lights on his antlers. She has a calendar with sayings like HANG IN THERE with a picture of a kitten hanging from a branch. I might be wrong about all of this—I haven’t been in that many schools—but I think I might be onto something here, because when I walk into the front office at Hog’s Hollow High School, a woman with apple earrings and a cardigan with apples all over it is sipping a Diet Pepsi. I notice the sign on her desk reads CONSTANCE PITTMAN.

“Sign in,” she says, tapping the clipboard on the counter. She takes it from me after I write down my name. “Penny Lane,” she says, and I wait for it, the humming, the comments, but she just rolls her chair to one side and opens a file drawer. “Lane, Lane, Lane . . . Oh, here we are.” She takes a folder from the drawer and drops it onto her desk. She slips a pink sheet out of the folder and glances at it. “Looks like you’re with Madame Framboise for first period.” She hands me the sheet and starts rummaging in another file. I scan the grid on the sheet and find first period. French I.

“I think maybe there’s a mistake.” I have to lean over the counter to make sure she can hear me. “I don’t take French. I mean, I haven’t. I take Spanish.”