the five designs I have to make, and that leaves ninety-six of each kind. I finished the first batch, a Swiss dot pattern, in a couple of hours. The simple shell
design and even the more complicated reverse shell took about the same amount of time, but these last two batches are awful. I keep resting my hand
because it’s cramping so much. The really pathetic part is that my mother isn’t even here to help.
Normally she would at least help with the decorating.
She had to go to some meeting in the City and won’t be back until late. Way too late to do much more than drop into bed and then get up early to deliver
the cupcakes out to the beach for the dawn wedding. I keep hoping that all these meetings are maybe going to change things. It seems like as long as
everything is still in the air, there’s still some hope.
“So you should come by the ARK one Saturday,” Tally says. “We open at nine for adoption.”
“I have to ask Gram,” I say for the hundredth time.
“She’ll say yes,” Tally says. She’s probably right. Gram probably will say yes, but I still have to ask. “I know,” Tally says, spinning to look at me, “bring her
with you. Then she’ll be sure to say yes.”
I nod and start the next cupcake.
“Just say yes to Tally,” Blake says. “She won’t stop until you do.”
“Marcus will be there,” she says. “He’s always there on Saturdays.” If I needed any more convincing, that was it. “Okay,” I say, pretending to be a little annoyed. “Yes.” Dot.
Dot. Line. “Tell me again why you think Charity is
going to go for it.” Line. Dot. Dot. “She’s not fat,” I say.
“She’s fourteen and she has to walk across a stage in a bathing suit,” Tally says.
“Maybe,” I say. “But why would she trust anything we say? I mean, she hates us.”
“I’m betting that Charlotte’s not going to share the source of her information. She is going to tell Charity that she heard it on the radio and she checked
the Web site.”
I nod, agreeing. That much is pretty sure. Charlotte is always following Charity around like a lost puppy.
Having the inside scoop on something would
make her seem more important in Charity’s eyes.
“The Web site’s pretty lame,” I say. I smile over at Tally.
She shrugs and smiles back. “That’s what you get for seventy-five dollars,” she says.
“You have to admit that the success stories are pretty good, though,” Blake says. He and his brother, some sort of computer genius, put the whole thing
together. The money was for buying server space.
“They’re totally over-the-top. Fifteen pounds in two weeks?” I ask.
“It has to be over-the-top,” Tally says. “It has to promise big results. Otherwise she might not go for it.”
“When will we know?” I ask.
“I predict that by Monday there’s going to be a rash of lard purchases at the Shop ’n Save.” I shake my head and look back down at the cupcake in front of me. Lard. Yuck.
“Tell me the stuff in the can isn’t lard,” I say, thinking of the spoonfuls of goop she’s been eating every day.
“It’s vanilla frosting,” she says. “It’s not as bad as lard, but pretty gross anyway.” I nod. That’s one thing about working at the bakery, you get pretty sick of
sweet stuff. I keep piping, trying to stay on track.
“Who gets married at dawn?” Blake asks, tucking more cupcakes into one of the big pink boxes.
“I think it’s romantic,” Tally says.
“Romantic is getting enough sleep.” Blake keeps putting cupcakes into the boxes, avoiding eye contact with Tally.
“Remind me to get you an I HEART SLEEP shirt for Valentine’s Day,” Tally says.
I put the pastry bag down and shake out my hand again. Tally looks over and frowns. “I wish we could help more with that.”
I shrug and smile. They helped with the first coat of frosting, but I have to do the fussy decorating work myself. “I’m going to need more buttercream
soon,” I say, twisting the pastry bag a bit to make sure all of the icing is forced toward the ti p. Blake and Tally both touch their noses at almost the same
time.
Gram comes into the kitchen from the front, wiping her hands on the towel tucked into her apron string.
“Why are we touching our noses?” she asks.
“Last one to touch has to make buttercream,” I say.
“Are we out?” Gram asks, pulling the refrigerator door open. She opens a big plastic storage tub and shakes her head. Blake is still standing with his
index finger on his nose. Tally sighs. “I’ll make it,” she says. “Just tell me what to do.” I start rattling off the recipe. If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve made about three hundred batches of buttercream since I’ve been here. That’s in addition to the fudge and cream cheese icing, and the mountains of whipped cream I’ve made. I keep decorating, mumbling the pattern under my breath while Tally
starts stirring the mixture of egg whites and sugar over the double boiler on the stove.
“I’m going for pizza,” Gram says, pulling her jacket on. “Any requests?” We each throw in some suggestions. Tomatoes and spinach for me.
Mushrooms and extra cheese for Blake. Tally wants pineapple. She winks at Blake when she says it, and he smiles. Gram pulls the back door shut behind
her and then I hear her Volvo wagon start up.
Tally keeps stirring the mixture on the stove, trying to get the sugar to dissolve completely. “Hey, Rip Van Winkle,” she says. “Can you get some butter
out of the fridge for me?”
Blake walks over and rummages in the refrigerator for a few moments. “Where is it?” he asks. Tally sighs and walks over to where he’s standing. She
starts pushing things aside.
“It’s in the big brown box on the bottom,” I say. Tally pulls the box out and upends it over the floor.
Empty. I hold up the almost empty pastry bag. “This
isn’t enough.”
“Call the dairy,” Blake says. We all look at the clock. Seven-thirty. “Probably not.” Tally walks toward the desk in the back and picks up the phone book. In Manhattan there were four huge volumes of numbers. Here it’s barely the size
of a magazine.
“What is she doing?” I ask Blake.
He shrugs. “You’ll learn not to ask,” he says.
She pokes some numbers into the phone and waits. She starts talking. All I hear is mumbling and then a laugh. She turns and looks at me while she
talks. “Done and done,” she says, pushing the Off button on the phone. “Someone from the dairy will be here in about ten,” she says. She goes back over
to the stove and scrapes the bottom of the bowl again, folding the sticky mixture. “You might want to go and freshen up a bit.”
“Why?” I ask. I look over at Blake, who is shaking his head and making a slicing gesture across his neck.
“Don’t ask,” he says in an exaggerated whisper.
“Trust me,” Tally says. She laughs right after she says it, which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. But I put down my pastry bag anyway and head for
the bathroom.
For me, freshening up consists of washing off the blob of buttercream that somehow made its way onto my cheek and making my ponytail less chaotic.
Against Blake’s advice I did ask Tally why I should care about what I look like, but she just shook her head at me and smiled. I feel foolish cleaning up for
the dairy delivery. It’s usually either this old guy named Gus, who always always calls me Patti, or this woman who constantly pops her cinnamon gum
while I check the order.
“Better?” I ask, walking back out into the kitchen. Blake is standing with Tally at the stove. He has his chin on he
r shoulder, and she is leaning into him.
They spring apart at the sound of my voice. I notice that Blake even blushes on the top of his head. It’s weird sometimes how they are, all teasing and
jokey when other people are around, but then so sweet to each other when they think no one can see.
“Let’s see,” Tally says, making a circle with her finger. I spin slowly. She nods and reaches into her pocket. “Here,” she says, tossing me a tin of Altoids.
“Tal, what is going on?” I ask. I hear the sound of a motor in the alley behind the bakery, but it’s not loud enough to be either the dairy truck or Gram’s
wagon.
“Hold that thought,” Tally says. I look over at Blake, but he won’t meet my eyes. He just keeps smiling into the bakery box that he’s filling. I hear the back
door open and then Tally’s voice saying, “Come in, come in.” She rounds the corner, followed by someone carrying a huge box of butter. Marcus. “Put it
anywhere,” she says, then laughs slightly. Every spare surface is covered with half -filled boxes of cupcakes. Tally clears a small corner of the desk.
“Hi,” Marcus says, smiling at me. He puts the box down. Tally immediately starts ripping into the box and hauling out several pounds of butter.
“Hi.” I’m probably blushing more than Blake did. “Thank you so much,” I say, gesturing toward the box of butter. I notice that Marcus is blushing a little,
too. It seems that only Tally is immune to embarrassment. She just hums as she starts pouring the buttercream base into the huge Hobart mixer. I help her
put the whisk on.
“What can I do?” Marcus asks.
“Oh, you don’t have to—” I begin.
“Maybe he wants to,” Tally whispers, elbowing me.
“Maybe I want to,” Marcus says, smiling.
“You can help box cupcakes,” I say, pointing to where Blake is trying to put the tops on some of the boxes before sliding them into the refrigerator.
“Yeah. I could use an assistant,” Blake says.
Tally rolls her eyes at him. “Okay, Blake, you’ve been working here for an hour. I’m pretty sure we’ll be starting Marcus off at the same level.”
Marcus washes his hands and pulls an apron off one of the hooks in the back so he is outfitted like the rest of us. “Just tell me what to do,” he says.
I have to study the cupcake in front of me to remind myself where I am in the pattern. Dot, dot, line.
Marcus. Line, dot, dot. Like me as much as I like
you.
Gram comes in carrying two large pizzas. The smell immediately makes my mouth water.
“Yum,” Blake says, starting for the first box.
“Not until you’re done,” Tally says, her voice sounding just like Blake’s when we were picking tomatoes.
With Gram helping me decorate, Tally turning out another batch of buttercream, and Marcus and Blake boxing, the remaining cupcakes go quickly.
“Last one,” I say, poking the final silver ball onto the last cupcake.
“Sweet,” Blake says, placing it into the box and taping the top shut. We don’t bother to clean up right away. Instead we fall onto the pizza, all of us eating
like we haven’t had any food in a month. Blake manages to put away almost a whole pizza all by himself.
“I have only two words for that,” he says, leaning
back against the shelves behind him. “Goo-ood.” Tally just shakes her head, but she leans into him slightly, so that her shoulder is against his. After only a little bit of convincing, Tally gets Gram to agree to come to the ARK with me. Blake pushes the last bite of crust into his mouth. “Who’s up for dessert?” he
asks. Even Gram groans at that one.
It takes a while to clean up. Not only do we have to wash all of the equipment and make sure everything is properly boxed and labeled and put away, but
we also have to mop the floor. Blake loses at RPS to Tally in a best of three out of five. He gets stuck with the floor, while Tally and I start washing out the
pastry bags.
“So, Marcus,” Blake says, his back to us, “how’s your knee coming along?” I look over at Marcus, who is struggling to wash out the big mixing bowl.
“It’s better,” he says to Blake. “Why? You worried?”
Tally sees the expression on my face. “Soccer,” she says, and rolls her eyes. I start washing the decorating tips, using a skewer to get the icing out of
their tiny ends. I half listen as Marcus and Blake talk about the upcoming season. They both played forward on rival teams all summer. Marcus’s team won
the final. Blake’s got second place.
“Saw you on the field yesterday,” Blake says.
Marcus turns to look at him. “When?” His voice sounds funny. Tense.
Blake shrugs. “Four-ish. Didn’t know she played soccer.” His voice sounds weird, too, almost hostile.
I feel my stomach twist, thinking about Charity alone with Marcus on the soccer field. I look over at where Blake is leaning on the mop. Tally looks up,
too, but Blake won’t meet our eyes. Marcus keeps scrubbing the bowl, but the back of his neck is red.
“So, what’s the deal?” Blake asks. Tally shakes her head at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Nothing,” Marcus says. “There’s no deal.” He finishes with the bowl and turns to me. I can’t tell whether he’s angry or embarrassed or if his cheeks are
just flushed from the steam coming off the water in the sink. “Want me to take the trash out to the Dumpster?” he asks, nodding toward the two bags
waiting by the back door.
“Sure.” He walks over and opens the door, picking up both bags in one hand.
When he is out of earshot, Tally asks Blake, “What was that all about?” Blake goes back to mopping. “Just telling him what’s up.”
“What are you talking about?” Tally asks.
Blake looks over at me. “Just making sure he knows I’ve got my eye on him.” He points to his eye and then to the door. He goes back to mopping. I look
over at Tally, but she just shrugs.
Marcus comes back in before any of us can say anything else.
No one says anything to him for a moment. “Thank you again for helping,” I say to him, breaking the silence.
“It was fun,” he says, untying his apron.
“Anyone need a ride?” Gram asks, coming back into the kitchen from the front.
I’m about to say yes, but Tally elbows me and says, “I think we’re good.” Gram winks at me before heading out, with reminders to lock up when we
leave. We finish up quickly and trade our aprons for our jackets.
“Okay, then,” Tally says, stepping out onto the back porch. I flick the li ghts off and pull the door shut behind me, hearing the lock click into place.
“Marcus, can you give Penny a ride home?”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I can walk.”
“Maybe he wants to,” Tally says in an exaggerated whisper.
“Maybe I want to,” Marcus says, smiling.
chapter nineteen
Marcus takes a second helmet from the compartment under the seat of his four-wheeler. Either this was planned or he’s used to riding with someone
else. But I’m not going to think about that and ruin a perfectly good night. Before I can thank them for everything, Tally and Blake are riding off side by side
on their mountain bikes. I can hear Tally laughing even as they make their way around the corner onto Main Street.
“You ready?” Marcus asks. I pull on a helmet and climb on behind him, aware of how close we are.
“Hang on,” he says. I look for somewhere to put my
hands. “To me,” he says softly. It’s good that it’s so dark. I’m pretty sure I’m hitting a personal best for blushing. The four-wheeler rumbles under us as
Marcus starts it up. I slide my hands around his wa
ist, feeling his warmth beneath his fleece coat. “Do you have to go straight home, or do you want to go
see something first?” he asks.
“I’ve got time,” I say. I’ll go see anything with you, I’m thinking. I don’t care what it is.
We steer out onto Main Street and slide past the darkened shops, past the clock tower with its face lit up. We go farther, past the turnoff for the beach
and out to where the edge of town gives way to apple orchards and the rolling fields of the pig farms.
We slow down and Marcus turns us off the main road
and onto a dirt road almost invisible in the trees.
“Hang on,” he says again, taking his hand off the handlebars for a moment and touching my arms. “It gets a little bumpy up ahead.” I pull in a little closer,
pressing my cheek into the middle of his back, and breathing in the smell that is all but gone from the sweatshirt that I still have at home. But now his smell
is layered with the scents from the bakery. “It’s just up here,” he says. We both lean forward as he steers the four-wheeler uphill. The cold wind bites at us,
making me shiver a little. “Can you see it now?” Marcus asks. I lean out to the side to look around him. I start to ask what I’m looking for, but then I see it.
An enormous ball of some kind, just a dark shadow against the night sky.
“It’s huge,” I say. “What is it?”
“Just wait,” Marcus says. “You’ll see.” The road veers to the right, taking us past some trees that temporarily obscure the ball. The road curves again,
this time to the left, and we go right up to the base of the object. It’s even bigger than I thought. As big as a truck or a minivan—maybe bigger. I can see
from this side that it’s only half of a ball. The inside is a huge web of wire and beams. It’s s upported on four metal poles, each maybe six feet tall.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. The closer I look, the more I see. It’s actually pieced together out of several metals, each a slightly different color. Marcus turns off
the motor and douses the headlight. We don’t need it—the clearing is bright enough in the light of the full moon. And the cool, almost blue light of the moon
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