The Magic Cake Shop (3 page)

When the Burblees arrived back at the apartment, Mrs. Burblee let out an ear-piercing shriek. “It smells like fat and sugar in here!” she cried.

Emma emerged from the kitchen, proudly holding a wobbly brown chocolate cream pie. “Mom! Dad! I just made my first dessert!”

Mr. Burblee looked horrified. He stared at his young daughter as though she had grown an extra nose. “Emma Burblee, do you
know
how many calories are in dessert? Do you
know
how long you would have to starve yourself to lose all the weight you would gain if you
ate
that abomination?”

“Quite right,” Mrs. Burblee chimed. “Now give me that hideous thing so I can throw it away immediately!”

Emma’s smile faded. She looked at her stylish, thin parents. Her heart fell.

Mrs. Burblee advanced on her daughter, her arms outstretched to grab the pie.

In one swift motion, Emma dipped her hand into the cream and stuffed it into her mouth.

Mr. Burblee yelped. He darted over and yanked the pie out of Emma’s hands. Mrs. Burblee began to sob hysterically. She pulled out her cell phone and punched buttons. “I’m calling Mrs. Piffle right now! She is never allowed to get sick again. From now on, if she’s not around, you, Emma Burblee, will eat nothing but radishes!”

Emma watched as Mr. Burblee dumped her first dessert into the trash. “Now go to your room and think about what you have done!” her father roared.

Emma went to her room and sat very, very still for a long, long time.

T
he next day she went to the library and staggered home with seventeen cookbooks, sneaking them into her room while her parents were at work. Though Mr. and Mrs. Burblee forbade her to use the kitchen ever again (and Mrs. Piffle grimly enforced their rule), they could not prevent Emma from secretly poring over recipes for hours on end. She memorized cooking conversions and the best cookie-baking temperatures. She decorated her room with teaspoons and spatulas and cookie cutters.

When Charles heard of Emma’s newest obsession, he
started picking up dessert magazines for her. Emma took the limo home from school every afternoon, and it was always a happy surprise when Charles pulled up to the school parking lot with a big grin and the latest edition of
Sweet Tooth
in his hand.

After three months of haggling, Emma convinced her parents to let her take cooking classes. They agreed only after the instructor promised to teach strictly low-fat recipes, and Emma promised to take modeling classes as well.

“But,” Mr. Burblee warned, “you are not allowed to taste or eat anything you make.”

Mrs. Burblee added, “And if you
ever
make another cream pie or dessert”—here she daintily swooned but recovered herself—“you will spend each evening for the next month counting your calorie intake with Mrs. Piffle.”

Though she was never allowed into the kitchen at home again, Emma dreamed and planned and hoped for the day when she could move far, far away from her parents and learn to bake every kind of dessert.

O
ne rainy afternoon shortly before school ended, Emma came home with her finger smarting. It was the third time that week she had accidentally scraped herself on the elevator button. When she opened the front door, she saw her mother standing there with a lovely smile on her face.

Emma sensed trouble.

“Mom, do we have Band-Aids? I cut myself.” Emma held out her finger.

“Darling, do you know what next Saturday is?” Mrs. Burblee’s smile widened. Her polished teeth gleamed.

“Yup. It’s my birthday. I need to clean this cut,” said Emma, and headed toward the bathroom.

Her mother followed. “It
is
your birthday!” Mrs. Burblee’s voice sang with excitement. “And it’s your
tenth
birthday, Emma. Do you know what that means?”

“A birthday party?” Emma stood over the sink and twisted the handle. A hiss of cold water ran over her finger.

“It means a
dinner party
, darling! With all of our friends here to see just how much you’ve grown!”

Emma dried her finger and hunted through the medicine cabinet for the Band-Aids. “Couldn’t I just have a party in the park with my friends and no grown-ups?” There were no Band-Aids in sight.

Mrs. Burblee’s lightbulb smile lost a few watts. “Of course not! How are your father and I supposed to show you off if we don’t invite our own friends?”

“Mom, you said I look plain and ordinary. Why would you want your friends to see me? And have you seen any Band-Aids?” Emma closed the cabinet doors.

Mrs. Burblee sighed. “We do not have Band-Aids. Graceful people like your father and myself are never clumsy enough to hurt ourselves.”

Emma gritted her teeth and went to the kitchen, where she found a roll of paper towels. She tore off a piece and pressed it against her finger. She found a rubber band and wrapped it around the towel to hold it in place.

Mrs. Burblee watched her worriedly. “I do hope that finger of yours heals by Saturday. You need to look perfect for our guests.”

Emma exploded. “Mom! I am not perfect and I do not look perfect. And I don’t care!”

Mrs. Burblee’s voice suddenly became low and hard and very, very cold. “Emma, this party means a lot to your father and me. You
will
look stunning for this party. I have
already ordered your dress. Saturday morning we will go shoe shopping and find you some proper heels. You have a hair appointment at ten. You are forbidden to kick the stylist. At noon you will have your nails manicured and your feet pedicured. At three my makeup artist will do your face. Afterward, we will go home. You will not rip your dress. You will not muss your makeup. You will do nothing to look less than perfect. The party is at six.”

Emma cringed. “I have to stay in my dress with makeup on all afternoon?”

“Yes. And”—Mrs. Burblee’s voice became even frostier—“if you complain or do anything to embarrass your father and me, you will spend your summer vacation at your uncle’s instead of going horseback riding and attending karate camp.”

Emma felt a horrible clutch of fear in her stomach.

Although her parents were not very nice, Emma knew that they were too stuck-up and shallow to be seriously unkind. Uncle Simon, however, was a true horror. She had met him only once, but it was enough to know that she never wanted to see him again.

Uncle Simon lived far from the city, on the edge of a town called Nummington. He was a professional hunter and owned dozens of guns. Every winter he would go on safari, returning only after he had amassed a collection of exotic heads, pelts, teeth, and claws. He then sold them to high-end buyers looking to decorate their walls with rare animals.

Two years ago, Mr. Burblee had planned a two-day visit to see him, because he wanted squirrel tails to paste on a new line of Chic-Chic hats. Mr. Burblee figured that bagging a couple of squirrels would be easy for a hunter like Uncle Simon. He had dragged Emma along because Mrs. Burblee was on a Chic-Chic model shoot in Hawaii, and the Burblees’ regular babysitter had broken both her ankles and couldn’t look after Emma.

Emma remembered meeting Uncle Simon for the first time on the front porch of his house. He had cold, mean eyes and soft, hairy hands. Slabs of fat rolled off his sides like blobs of melted wax oozing down a candle.

When Mr. Burblee introduced Emma, Uncle Simon turned to her and barked, “Young girl! Do you know how to make backyard stew?”

“What?”

“Backyard stew! I swear, they don’t teach kids anything useful these days.” Uncle Simon fixed a nasty glare on Emma. “Listen up, twerp. This is how you make the best dish in the world. What you do is nail a couple of scampering rabbits and tweeting bluebirds in the backyard. Then you churn them up in a blender. Next, you dump them in a great big pot with tripe and sheep’s tongue, add a bucketful of lard, boil it awhile, then serve.” Uncle Simon smacked his lips. “I make it at least twice a week for dinner. And that’s what we’re going to have tonight!”

Emma had spent two miserable days at Uncle Simon’s as he decimated the local squirrel population, bragged about
his grisly hunting exploits, and slurped down his foul stew every night at dinner. Once Mr. Burblee’s suitcase was full of squirrel tails and she and her father were safely on their way back to the city, Emma had vowed never to go back.

A
s she looked at her mother’s determined face, Emma decided that one miserable tenth birthday was worth a summer at camp, miles away from Uncle Simon.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” she sighed.

Mrs. Burblee clapped her pretty hands. “Wonderful! I knew you would see reason. Don’t worry about the party details. I’ll make sure they’re perfect. Of course, we’ll need nonfat, sugar-free ice cream, and I suppose we’ll get a cake, but we’ll make sure that it won’t be full of nasty calories. And we
must
find some adorable shoes at Madame Chouchou’s Shoe Emporium to go with your dress, and, yes, the candles must be custom-made Italian, and I’ll order some champagne for all of the guests—of course, you won’t be able to drink it, dear, but I’m sure all the adults will appreciate it—and, good heavens, we’ll need our maid to clean the apartment; those bathroom gargoyles are positively
dusty
and …”

Emma left her babbling mother and went into her room to read. She curled up with a battered copy of her favorite cookie recipe book and tried not to think about her birthday.

F
ive days later, the dreaded Saturday arrived. An hour before the party, Emma found herself staring at the bathroom mirror. She wore a poufy red dress with sequins large enough to choke on. Her hair-sprayed curls clicked together as she moved her head. Glittery black high-heeled shoes pinched her feet, and her face was stiff with makeup.

Her mother swept in and took a look. She frowned. “Your sleeves aren’t puffed enough—here, let me help.”

Emma shifted uncomfortably. “They’re fine. Besides, none of my friends are going to see me, since you didn’t let me invite anyone.”

“Your tenth birthday is too important to spend with insignificant children.” Mrs. Burblee bustled over and began to plump up Emma’s dress. “You will be introduced to people who could make you a
star
and give you a
career
, and you mustn’t be prattling with your little buddies when the time comes. Why, the president of Bicklee’s Super
Duper Toothpaste will be here, and if you smile nicely enough, he might let you be in a commercial!”

“That’s right, Emma,” said Mr. Burblee, striding into the bathroom. “Imagine how much money you would make if Mr. Bicklee chose
you
as his toothpaste model!”

“Dad, my teeth aren’t straight,” said Emma.

Mr. Burblee cringed. “Well, maybe you’ll have better luck with Mrs. Finch.”

“Mrs. Finch? Doesn’t she sell baby diapers?” asked Emma.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“But we must keep our options open,” trilled Mrs. Burblee. “Because”—and here Mr. Burblee joined in—“YOU NEVER KNOW WHO’S GOING TO MAKE YOU RICH!”

Emma sighed and wriggled away from her mother’s fussy hands. “I really don’t think I’m going to impress anyone.”