Besides, I kind of like that I am the first person to take a box of just ten cupcakes and not some fraction or combination of a dozen. The walk up to Jupiter
isn’t bad. It only takes me a little over half an hour from the bakery. I hear the crackle of the blowtorch even before I can see the top of the dome.
Mr. Fish is perched on the top of the metal scaffolding. He looks down at me and raises a gloved hand. I smile, not wanting to try to balance the box of
cupcakes in one hand.
Marcus waves to me when he spots me at the edge of the clearing. “Hey, what are y ou doing here?” he asks when I walk up.
“I was just in the neighborhood,” I say.
“Uh-huh,” he says. He smiles at me, and I exhale a little. I was nervous during the whole walk from the bakery. I can’t seem to predict which Marcus is
going to show up. The friendly flirty one who smiles a lot, or the distant one, who will barely meet my eyes. “Can you help me for a minute?” he asks. He
drags a heavy piece of pipe across to where his father is working.
“Just tell me what to do,” I say, smiling as I remember Marcus saying the same thing to me at the bakery. I put the cupcakes down on a cooler. I want to
give them to him when he’s not so busy.
Marcus hands me a pair of gloves. He lifts a huge, square piece of copper out of a pile and hands it to me. “Careful. The edges are sharp. Just take
that over to my dad.” I start to walk over to where Mr. Fish is working. “Oh, and don’t look directly at the blowtorch. It’ll hurt your eyes.”
I wait at the base of the scaffolding, feeling the heat from the sparks even though they’re falling several feet away from me. Mr. Fish douses the flame
and lifts his visor.
“Hey there, ghost girl,” he says. He climbs down a level, and I hand up the piece of copper. “Thanks,” he says, taking it from me. “Tell Marcus this is it for
tonight.” He flips his visor down and relights his torch. I watch for a moment as he carefully connects the piece of copper to the one below it, sealing the
edges together until it almost looks like it grew that way. Now, like the pine trees and aspen all around us, Jupiter just belongs here.
I walk back over to Marcus, who is peeking into the box. He looks up at me sheepishly. “Sorry,” he says.
“I do the same thing at Christmas. It used to
drive my mom nuts.” He smiles a little as he says it, but it’s the sad one that doesn’t quite make it up to his eyes. He sits on a log, still holding the box of
cupcakes. “Can I have one?” he asks.
“Have ’em all,” I say. “I made them specifically for you.”
“Really?” he says, with little-boy happiness, as if it is Christmas.
I sit down on the other end of the log. “Your dad says he’s almost done.” Marcus nods and looks up to where his dad is climbing down the ladder. Then he pulls at the tape on the box, opening it up all the way. “Wow,” he says.
“These are amazing.”
“They aren’t to scale,” I say. “One astronomical unit does not equal one sprinkle.” Marcus laughs. I like his laugh, and the way his eyes crinkle when he does. I make a note to try and make him laugh more often.
“How did you make the rings?” he asks, lifting Saturn out of the box.
“Pulled sugar,” I say. What I don’t tell him is that the rings took nearly as long to make as all the other cupcakes put together.
“You must have spent hours on these,” Marcus says.
I say softly, “It was worth it.” Just to see that crinkle again, I think.
Mr. Fish walks over to where we are sitting. Marcus shows him the cupcakes. “Wow,” Mr. Fish says.
“You’re a real artist, Penny.” He takes Jupiter out of
the box, holds it up toward the big Jupiter above us, and smiles. I shrug. “No, really,” he says. “I’m beginning to think there’s something in the water around
here. Seems like everyone’s an artist.”
I’m not sure what to say. I’ve never thought of myself that way. I just like to make things that make people happy. I’ve never thought of it as art before.
“They’re too pretty to eat,” he says.
I hear a crunch beside me and look over to see Marcus with half of Saturn’s rings hanging from his mouth. He looks a little sheepish again, but I notice it
doesn’t stop him from taking a bite out of the planet itself.
Mr. Fish returns Jupiter to the box. “I think I’ll save mine until after dinner.” He raises an eyebrow at Marcus, who just smiles with sprinkles in his teeth.
Mr. Fish smiles back, shaking his head. “I’m going to load up,” he says. He picks up the cooler and his visor and walks down the trail to where the truck is
parked.
Alone with Marcus, I suddenly feel nervous again. I want to ask him what’s going on, why he seems to be two people, but suddenly Blake’s voice is in
my head: When I hang out with guys, I just chill. I try to just chill, but I’m not very good at it. Finally, I just ask him about soccer. I listen, nodding the whole
time, still trying to figure out how to ask what I really want to know about—Charity.
“Will you look at that,” Mr. Fish says, walking back up the hill. I look toward where he is pointing, out past the hills, in time to see the sun just dipping into
the water. We all watch as the huge red ball slowly sinks into the ocean.
“Now that’s what I’d call art,” I say.
“I’ll eat to that,” Marcus says, and reaches in for his second cupcake. I watch as he does his own bit to extinguish the sun.
chapter twenty-one
The bakery is quiet because of the rain. It keeps seeping under the front door. Every ten minutes or so I have to use towels to try to sop up the water.
Normally the awning might keep the rain from even hitting the sidewalk out front, but the wind is blowing so hard, the water is coming at us almost
sideways.
“First big storm of the year,” Gram says, coming out of the back to stock the display case with more fall -
themed cupcakes. I made the expected: jacko’-
lanterns, colored leaves, scarecrows (stuffed with toasted coconut instead of straw). My favorites are the ones with a horn of plenty on top. They are
fussy, with all of the tiny fruit coming out of the chocolate horns, but they are the best sellers. Someone from the City called and ordered three dozen for a
party they’re having in a couple of weeks, so in between trying to stop the flood coming under the door, I’m rolling tiny squashes and apples and even
tinier grapes out of colored marzipan.
“Penny,” my mom calls from the back. I wipe the powdered sugar from my hands on the towel tucked into my apron. I take a deep breath and push
through the door to the kitchen. Here we go. I’ve been working up the courage to talk to her all morning. I know what Gram said yesterday was right. We
can’t avoid each other forever, especially after Dad’s latest e-mail. But each time I get up my nerve, the phone rings, or the puddle gets big again, or . . .
My mother is bent over her calendar, which is laid out across the big worktable in the kitchen. S he looks up when I come in.
“Mom,” I say, “I think we need to talk.” I take a breath, then another. I’m not sure how to begin. Do I ask about the meetings in the City she keeps going
to? She looks at me, waiting. “I’m just not sure about the Thanksgiving orders,” I say, wimping out.
She nods slowly. I think she knows that’s not really what I wanted to talk about. She pauses for a moment before looking back down at the calendar. “I’m
thinking we need to cut things off. It’s really starting to fill up. With all the traffic going past the shop because of the festival, this might be all I can handle.
As it is, I know I’m really imposi
ng on you.”
I walk around and look at the two weeks going into Thanksgiving. “It is a lot,” I say.
“Penny,” she says, “I want you to know that I really appreciate all of your help.” She looks up at me, and I take a deep breath, but as if on cue, the phone
does ring. My mom picks it up and turns away from me to talk. I try giving myself a little pep talk. I can do this. It’s my own mother. What’s the big deal?
“Of course. I’ll be here all afternoon. See you then.” My mom puts the phone down. “That was Tally.
She’s stopping by.”
“Didn’t she want to talk to me?” I ask.
My mom’s cheeks go pink. “Actually, she wanted to talk to me.” I raise my eyebrows. “About the pageant.” Great. Tally can talk to my mom no
problem. Me? I’m a mess. “She wanted to know if I could give her some advice.” Mom leans against the counter. “I don’t think I ever told you.” She shifts
slightly and won’t meet my eyes. “I was Hog Queen.”
“Really,” I say, a little frustrated. This isn’t the talk we are supposed to be having.
She nods and looks up at me. These days, instead of just being distant, she seems sort of fragile. It’s weird seeing her like this. She’s no longer the
unshakable Mom. The one who can juggle her own business and still make time for weekend picnics and staying up all night with me to make a volcano
out of plaster and paint. But she’s not a totally broken one either. She’s both.
“Tell me about it,” I say.
She smiles. The first real smile I’ve seen in forever. “There was this one time I almost set my hair on fire, thinking I could twirl a flaming baton.” She sees
the look on my face and laughs. “It was pretty exciting. They had to douse me with the fire extinguisher.”
“But you still won,” I say.
She nods and shrugs. “It did leave an impression on the judges.” She keeps talking. Gram walks back into the kitchen when she hears us laughing and starts adding her own memories. The talent stuff is the best.
Trained pigs, and hula hoops, and even burping. Gram and Mom can barely stop laughing when they tell me that one.
“She made it all the way to Q,” Gram says, wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron. I try to imagine a girl in a fancy dress belching the alphabet.
Tally arrives with her arms full of dresses she picked up at the secondhand store in Lancaster. We all take turns going out front to mop up the water still
coming in under the door while Tally starts her own mini fashion show, donning dress after dress to show my mother. We keep the ovens going, baking
cupcakes as we talk. The phone keeps ringing so much that finally my mom just lets it go to voice mail.
The smells of pumpkin and chocolate waft from the
ovens.
“This is the best day,” Mom says, putting her arm around me. I lean into her and watch as Gram zips Tally into a long blue dress. The kitchen is so warm
and bright that we barely notice the rain still pounding on the roof.
Gram drops us off at Tally’s house on her way home. “Your mom is the coolest,” Tally says, twirling in her dress in front of the long mirror on the back of her
bedroom door. She and my mother agreed upon a dark green velvet one with a l ong skirt.
I shrug and pull open her closet door to hang up the other dresses. I stop, not sure what to do. The inside of her closet is worse than I had imagined. I
look back at Tally, who has stopped twirling. It suddenly feels too close, too quiet. Then Tally comes and takes the dresses from me. She hangs them up
on the empty rod and firmly pushes the door closed. “Anyway,” Tally says, but then she doesn’t say anything else. She just stares at her toenails, which
she’s painted a bright shade of acid green—one last sign of the old Tally. “I guess I’d better change out of this.” She goes into the bathroom and shuts the
door, leaving me still standing in the middle of her nearly empty room.
Inside the closet were three suitcases, lying open and perfectly packed. Full of all the stuff that’s not in her room. For all of her talk about enjoying her
time here and making the best of it, she’s still waiting, ready to go at a moment’s notice.
I raise my hand to knock on the bathroom door, but I can hear Tally sniffling. To give myself—and Tally—
a little time to think about what to say, I go to the
kitchen and get something to drink. Poppy is sitting at the kitchen table, wrapping one of her witch balls in bubble wrap. She looks up and smiles when I
walk in. I sit in one of the other chairs and watch her work.
“That one came out really nice,” I say as she picks up one swirled in oranges and reds. She holds it up to the light. “It’s a tree,” I say, seeing the brown
glass threaded from the bottom and opening up into a series of glass branches at the top.
“I was afraid it only looked like a tree to me.” She twirls it, and we both watch as the tree slowly turns, the colors on its glass leaves catching the light as
it spins.
“No, it’s definitely a tree,” I say. “Are there others?” Poppy nods and points to one of the boxes on the table. I peer inside, seeing another tree captured
in colored glass. Instead of fall leaves, this one is covered with leaves in shades of green and yellow.
“Summer is there,” she says, pointing to a ball swirled with pink and blue. I touch it, lightly feeling the unevenness of hand-blown glass. She wraps the
autumn ball, folding bubble wrap over and around it until I can barely see the colors within.
“What about winter?” I ask.
“I haven’t done winter yet,” Poppy says. “It’s been giving me some trouble. Winter trees are hard.
They’re just nothing, nothing but brown sticks poking
up out of the ground.”
“You should walk through Central Park in the winter,” I say. “The trees there are amazing.” Poppy tilts her head at me. “Tell me,” she says.
I close my eyes to really picture them and start telling her. I think about the last time my parents and I walked through the park at dusk, making our way
home from uptown, where we’d spent the day. I tell her about the white snow frosting the branches and the blue light of the icicles dripping below. I
describe how the evergreens reflect in the ice. I tell her about the purples that night brings to the trees.
“Wow,” Poppy says, making me open my eyes. Tally is standing in the doorway, a faraway look on her face, like she’s trapped in her own memory. And
I know my face must look the same way, half haunted by something. I wonder what she’s thinking about. Underneath it all, does she feel sad, like I do?
That sadness you feel when you realize that the last time you did something was really the last time.
And how you wish someone could have told you it
was the last time, so you could pay extra attention. So you could really memorize it, because the memories were going to have to last forever.
“I’ll walk you home,” Tally says. Now she looks like the Tally I’m used to. It’s weird how she can just flip like that. Poppy smiles at me and tucks the
autumn ball into a box, taping it shut. “Did you bring in the mail yet?” Tally asks. Poppy shakes her head.
“I’ll check it on the way out,” Tally says. I follow her
down the hall, but not before I see the look on Poppy’s face. Almost broken. She seems to have her own secret, her own sadness.
Tally jogs to the end of the driveway while I take my time, breathing in the fog that is rolling off the water. Tally opens the mailbox and dips her hand
inside. She flips through the envelopes, then shoves them back into the box. “Nothing,” she says when I reach her. Her voice is brittle, as if defying me to
disagr
ee. We go down to the beach and walk slowly along the sand, our heads down against the wind.
“My dad used to send me letters.” Tally stops and kicks at a mussel shell. “Sometimes he’d put things in them, like a guitar pick or one of his set lists.”
I think about the collage we made for Miss Beans’s class. Knowing these were all gifts from her dad makes me think her project really was about Tally
after all.
“One time he sent me a dollar bill folded like a bow tie.” She smiles over at me.
“When was the last time you heard from him?” I ask gently.
She stares out at the water. “Three months ago.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling guilty. I start feeling anxious when I haven’t heard from my dad in three days. “Have you written him?” I ask. She nods and tucks her
chin into the neck of her coat. “He’s always traveling. Maybe he just hasn’t gotten them,” I say.
“Maybe.” We stand there for a long time just watching the waves. “Does your dad write you?” Tally asks.
“Some,” I say. “No letters, though. Just e-mails.” When we moved here I made a folder to save them.
There are only five e-mails in it. Five in five months.
And the last one came just last night. “Why don’t you e-mail your dad?” I ask. “Or call him?”
“He doesn’t do e-mail,” she says, shrugging. “I’ve tried to call, but—” I nod. “Listen, I should get back,” Tally says. She turns once and waves as she
walks away, but then she disappears into the fog.
“See you,” I call after her. I wish I could do more for her. I know a little about how she’s feeling. The calls are the worst. You know they’ve gotten the
message, so when they don’t call back, it feels horrible in steps. Day One, you feel hopeful. Day Two, you tell yourself he’s busy. Day Three, you realize
he’s just ducking you. I don’t know what you tell yourself on Month Three.
The first thing I do when I get home is read Dad’s e-mail again.
Hi, Bean
Great news. Mom and I talked, and everything’s cool.
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