chapter eight
Just in case you don’t know, you should never, ever say the following: “Well, I guess it can’t get any worse.” Because here’s the lesson that I learned today:
it can.
I’m sitting in art, spreading gesso over my canvas. Miss Beans is going around the room, watching. She’s different from the art teachers I had in the
City. There it was all art theory and “finding your inner muse.” Miss Beans is all about technique. “Art, like anything else, requires practice,” she says. I’m
trying to paint in long, smooth strokes, so you can’t see my brush marks, but it’s hard. I keep overlapping the last pass and leaving these little ridges.
The door opens and there he is again, but this time I know his name: Marcus. He has to pass right by where I’m sitting to get to the teacher. Ignore him.
My brain is trying to stay on task, but my hand seems to have a mind of its own. My next pass is s o wiggly that it looks like a wave is breaking right in the
middle of my canvas. I peek at the front of the room, where Marcus is handing an envelope to Miss Beans. I will him to look my way, but he doesn’t. He
waits while Miss Beans writes something on a piece of paper then folds it and gives it back to him. He turns, making me duck. Calm down. My next pass
of the brush is even worse. The pileup of gesso is starting to look more mountain range -ish and less wave-ish. I keep my head down as Marcus walks
toward me. He slows as he gets close. His hand hovers over the corner of my desk and then he’s past and out the door before I can register what’s
happened. The grape Jolly Rancher sitting on my desk is the only evidence that he was here. I fold my hand over the candy and pull it into my lap before
anyone can see.
“Miss Beans.” I glance up to see one of the girls at the back table, one of the Lindseys (yes, there are three of them), waving her hand. She asks
something about her canvas. Charity gets up and starts making her way across the room. I look back down at my work. If I mind my own business, they’ll
leave me alone. I try to brush out the ridges by going across them as Miss Beans showed us. I start on another ridge, happy that I’m finally starting to
figure out something.
That feeling lasts about seven seconds.
I hear it first, then feel it. The tub of gesso that I’m using is upended on my table and the paint slowly spills into my lap. Charity stands in front of me,
watching, waiting to see what I’ll do. What I do is just sit there. She smiles slightly and continues toward the supply closet.
“Oh, Pen Knee,” one of the Lindseys says from the back table. “What happened?” Miss Beans turns and looks at me, first at my face and then at the pool of gesso spreading under my feet. I stand up, watching it roll down my legs.
Unfortunately, Tally is in the library picking up some art books for Miss Beans, so I’m alone in my soggy mess. Miss Beans walks over and hands me a
stack of paper towels, which I use to try to mop up the front of my jeans. Charity is standing by the supply closet, smirking. I feel the heat behind my eyes. I
have to blink fast to make the tears stay inside. The only thing worse than their seeing me with paint all over is their seeing me cry about it.
“Start cleaning up, class,” Miss Beans says. She watches the back table as they put tops on their tubs of paint and stack their canvases on the drying
rack. I keep wiping my chair and then the floor—anything to keep my face hidden. I know my eyes are red. I’ve always admired girls who can cry prettily, all
shiny eyes and flushed cheeks. With me it looks like I have just had a terrible reaction to a bee sting. My eyes get all red and puffy and my nose starts
running like mad.
The bell rings and everyone heads out for lunch. I hear a burst of laughter from the Lindseys and their leader once they hit the hall.
Miss Beans walks over to me and I concentrate on her paint-splattered clogs. “Want to tell me what happened?” I shake my head and stand up. “Come
on into my office,” she says. I follow her, trying to ignore the squishing in my sneakers.
She stops at her desk and looks at me for a moment before leaning down to pull out a cardboard box.
Inside is a big mound of clothes. “Take whatever
you want,” she says. “I’ve learned to expect accidents in art class.” The way she says “accidents” lets me know that she knows it wasn’t really an accident.
She leaves the office and closes the door behind her so I can get changed. I peel my still damp jeans off my legs and try to wipe away the goo that
seeped through them. I just want to be away from here. I want to be back in my old life, where no one dumped paint on me and where the best thing going
isn’t some Hog festival and where people like Charity and the Lindseys would be eaten for lunch.
“Is Penny still here?” I recognize Tally’s voice out in the classroom.
“She’s just getting changed,” Miss Beans says.
I rifle through the box until I find a pair of jeans that might work. They’re too big, but I find a scarf and slip it through the belt loops. I stuff my socks and
jeans into a plastic bag I find in another box under Miss Beans’s desk. I have to pull my sti ll damp shoes on, but at least my legs are mostly dry. I blow my
nose and blot at my eyes, trying to catch the blue mascara before it streaks my face.
“Nice,” Tally says as I open the door. “Very bohemian.”
I smile slightly and walk to my table. I keep my head down, trying to make my hair hide my face. I pick up a paper towel and bend to wipe the gesso that
splashed up the legs of my chair, but Miss Beans stops me.
“Go have lunch, Penny,” she says. “I’ll get it.”
“Thanks,” I say, picking up my notebook. Tally and I walk over to my new locker. After the penny incident, I asked to switch. I pull out my lunch. The idea
of eating nauseates me, but I feel like if I don’t do the next thing, I’m going to really start crying or screaming or something.
“Let’s go where we can talk,” Tally says. Instead of going to the front lawn like most everyone else, Tally leads me to the wall outside of the library.
“Tell me,” Tally says. I just shake my head. “Charity?” she asks, and I nod. She sighs and looks away.
“I hate it here,” I say. Tally looks down at her sandwich. “I just want to be away from here, from all of —” I pause and look at my hands. What I’m saying
must hurt Tally’s feelings some, but I can’t stop. “I just want to go home,” I say, and this last bit makes me start crying again because I realize I don’t really
have one anymore. Tally hands me a paper towel from her lunch bag and I blow my nose hard. When I do, it makes a honking sound. “I’m a mess,” I say.
“A little.”
“A lot.” I blow my nose again, making sure there’s no honk this time. “It just stinks, you know?” Tally looks past me for a moment. “I know,” she says, and something about the way she says it makes it seem like she does. She reaches into her lunch
sack and pulls out a Ziploc of gummy cherries and hands it to me. “They’ll make you feel better,” she says. I bite the stem off of one. “Better?” she asks.
“A little. Thanks.”
Tally smiles her lopsided smile. “I told Blake about your mom being on the wall at the bank. Remember how he says he knows everything about this
place?”
I just nod, chewing the rest of the gummy.
“Well, his mom told him something about your mom. Turns out she beat Charity’s mom for the title of Hog Queen not just that one year, but all four years
they were in high school.”
I keep chewing the gummy until it doesn’t taste like much of anything anymore.
“What I’m trying to tell you is that
it’s not just what happened at Charity’s party.”
“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 ti mes before it resembles anything like my signature. Even then it
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
The Cupcake Queen Page 6