I place the cupcake on a white plate and take it over to Mrs. McTibble’s usual table, beside the bay window. We don’t usually offer table service, but Mrs. McTibble is Mrs. McTibble, so we do things her way. She takes a prim little bite of the cupcake, and her frown lines soften. “Thank you, dear,” she says.
“Y-you’re welcome.” I stammer a little, because (a) Mrs. McTibble has never said thank you to me before and (b) she’s never called me dear before. She offers a little piece of cake to Gwendolyn, who sniffs and wags before gobbling it up.
Well, that was an unexpected triumph.
I help two good-looking college guys with their order — one gets a cupcake and the other a scone — and then wipe down the glossy dark wood counter. Gran isn’t paying me much to help in the café, but I don’t really care. I just like to be here, with the light streaming in through the bay window and the heavy wood tables. Gran has hung the walls with faded pictures of English flowers, and the whole place seems very quaint and old, which it is. She has been running the Tea Room for over twenty years. Mom told me that it was popular for a while in the late 1990s, but now it’s mostly just a fixture on the block that survives because of our regulars.
The bell over the door jingles, and my mother walks in. She’s wearing her red silk shirt and black pants, and has a black jacket slung over one arm. Her shoes are polished and her hair looks perfect, but her face seems harried. She looks at my grandmother, then at me. “I blew it,” she announces. Then she tosses her jacket over the smooth counter and steps to the coffeemaker.
“What happened?” I ask as Mom reaches for a teacup.
Mom shakes her head and pours coffee into the cup. “I snorted water through my nose.”
“What?” I screech, just as Gran says, “Oh, Margaret — how could you?”
“Mother! I didn’t do it on purpose,” Mom says, and it’s funny to hear her sound just like me. In fact, snorting water through her nose — that sounds just like me. I guess that sort of thing is genetic, like brown eyes and an inability to play soccer.
“It’s just — they gave me a bottle of water. And the interview was really going well, I thought. Then I said, ‘Believe me, Mr. Alper, if I can corral two kids and handle a full-time job, which I did for seven years, then I can organize your office.’ And I took a big drink of water. But then he said, ‘Sounds like you’re overqualified,’ and he had this dead serious look on his face, and it — I just laughed — but my mouth was full of water —”
“Oh, no,” I say. Really, I’m horrified.
“It came pouring down right in my lap. Nice guy — he dashed off to get me some paper towels.”
“That makes it worse,” I say.
Mom sighs and takes a swig from her cup, then makes a face and spits the coffee back. “Mother! What is this?” she demands.
“It’s coffee,” Gran replies.
“When did you brew it?”
Gran looks at the clock. “Eight this morning.”
“That’s almost eight hours ago!” Mom puts the teacup on the counter. “Mother — don’t you know you need to have gourmet coffee these days?”
“I’m English,” Gran replies. “What do I know about coffee? Besides, this is a tea shop.”
“If you want to have customers, you need coffee. Good coffee. In mugs, not teacups.” Mom looks at me as if to say, Am I right?
“And iced coffee, maybe,” I suggest.
“This is why I need your help!” Gran insists.
Just then, I hear a laugh. When I look over, I see that the two handsome college guys have pulled their table over beside Mrs. McTibble’s. She’s smiling and telling them a story that involves a lot of gesturing.
“What’s that all about?” Mom asks.
“Cupcakes make people happy,” I tell her.
My grandmother raises a delicate eyebrow. “People, but not dogs,” she says, as Mrs. McTibble’s gesticulating is clearly putting Gwendolyn out of sorts.
The door jingles again, and in walks Chloe. She is looking like her usual rumpled self — I swear that her clothes are never wrinkled when she leaves in the morning, so it’s always a little odd to see her come home with her shirt untucked, her socks covered in dirt, and one of her braids undone, as she is now. She holds the door for an African-American boy wearing small oval spectacles and a serious look. They don’t speak to each other, but they step up to the counter at the same time.
“Can I help you?” I ask the boy.
“I’m with her.” His voice is a whisper, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, so he juts his chin at Chloe.
“Okay, so what’ll it be?” I ask Chloe.
“We’ll have two of whatever’s good,” she says.
I catch Mom and Gran exchanging a smile and I whip out two pieces of wax paper. I place one of Gran’s ginger-pear scones on one plate, and a Shoot the Moon cupcake on the other. “Who wants which?” I ask, holding out the plates.
“We’ll share,” Chloe announces, reaching for both.
Chloe’s companion chooses a table in the corner. He dusts it off with a paper napkin as she sets down the plates.
“A new friend,” Mom whispers in my ear, and I smile.
“Don’t stare at them,” I tell her. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Of course not.” Mom bustles off, and I start making notes for a new cupcake. A friendship cupcake. Maybe two different flavors swirled together?
“Hayley?” Chloe is standing before me, an empty plate in her hand. “I need another cupcake, please.”
“You’re done already?” I ask, opening the case.
“It’s for Horatio,” Chloe explains.
I hesitate a moment, then give her the cupcake. “Okay.”
She flashes a huge grin at me, then lopes off to join her real friend and her imaginary one at their table in the corner.
Oh, I’m not talking about Mrs. McTibble. She’s grouchy, but I don’t think she’s mean. The only person she really makes unhappy is herself.
No, the people I’m talking about are the kind who could be mean to a sweet eight-year-old.
There are four elementary schools in Northampton — Branson School, Jefferson Street School, Waterville Road Elementary, and Cunningham Elementary. Chloe used to go to Cunningham. But this year, Mom switched her into Branson, even before we moved. Why?
Chloe was getting teased.
All last year, there were three girls who made Chloe’s life miserable. They were only in the second grade, so I can’t really call them the “popular girls.” They were just nasty for no reason. One of them even punched Chloe in the stomach, but when Chloe told the teacher, the other two acted like my sister was making it up. But I know Chloe — she has an impressive imagination, but she’s not a liar.
The worst part of it is that those three girls used to be Chloe’s best friends. But one of them turned on her, and then the other two did, too. And it was awful. Chloe was too sad and too shy to try to make friends with anyone else. Those mean girls teased her for her clothes, her freckles — even the fact that our parents were getting divorced. Chloe started to shrivel up under their words, like a plant that isn’t getting any water or light. It didn’t matter what I said, or what my mom said. It didn’t matter that we loved her. She tried to ignore them, but how could she? She was lonely.
So she spent more and more time with Horatio.
I guess that’s why Mom and I are kind of freaking out that she’s got a new friend, maybe. A real friend.
It’s just been so long.
Oh, please. Please let this be a nice, normal friend.
My dad pulls the Lexus to the curb and honks the horn, as usual. The first couple of times Dad picked us up, he came inside and we all suffered through an awkwardly polite conversation between him and Mom. But since we’ve moved in with Gran, he just honks the horn. I guess the thought of interacting with his ex-mother-in-law just put him over the edge.
“Here he is,” I announce from my perch
beside the upstairs bay window. Chloe comes dashing out of our room and through the apartment door.
“Aren’t you going to give me a hug?” Mom calls after her. I hear a loud squeak as Chloe’s sneakers skid to a halt, followed by thundering footsteps. Chloe zips back into the living room, gives Mom a quick squeeze, and hurries out again.
“Tell your father that I want you home by seven,” Mom tells me.
“Okay.” I sigh. Mom holds out her arms — one hand carefully holding a coffee mug — and I give her a hug. Then it’s out the door and down the stairs after Chloe. She’s giving Dad a bear hug on the sidewalk. I just wave awkwardly.
“Hello, Hayley,” Dad says. We’re kind of formal with each other lately.
“Hi.” I reach for the car door, and my dad’s face contorts, like I’m about to touch a hot stove, but I’ve already yanked it open. A young woman with jet-black hair and light brown eyes looks up at me, surprised. “Oh, sorry,” I say, and slam the door.
Dad and I stare at each other for a long, weird moment. Then I look back at the car. “Oh,” I say again. “Wait — this is our car.”
My brain isn’t working right. I’m confused. What’s this person doing in our car?
“Who’s that?” Chloe asks.
Dad hurries over to the door and pulls it open. The young woman is still there, smiling now. She’s glamorous in a short tweed skirt and high heels, and her eyes twinkle under sparkly brown shadow.
“Girls, this is Annie Montri,” Dad says. “Annie, this is Hayley.”
Annie sticks out her hand, which is at an awkward angle, because she’s strapped in by her seat belt. I shake her hand, and Chloe waves enthusiastically. “Hi, I’m Chloe!” she says, then climbs into the backseat like everything’s normal.
I look over at Dad, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He just goes around the back of the car to the driver’s seat, leaving me to climb in with Chloe. Which I do, like a good daughter.
But in my head, I’m pitching a crazy screamfit, like, “Oh, so I can’t bring someone, but you can? What happened to ‘This is our time together, Hayley’? You are so full of it! Is this your girlfriend, Dad?”
I’m seething there in the backseat while Chloe is looking out the window, humming along with the radio. The silence in the car is dense, like a thick fog, clouding everything.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “So, how do you two know each other?”
“Annie’s a paralegal at the firm.”
I guess Annie doesn’t want me to get the wrong idea, because she smiles over at Dad and pats him on the knee.
I want to hurl.
She twists in her seat to give me a big smile, flashing white teeth and red lipstick. “I’ve never been apple picking,” she says.
“You’ll love it!” This is Chloe, who is beaming at Annie.
What’s wrong with you? I wonder, glaring at my sister. She’s so shy around kids her age — why is she being so friendly to this random person?
“I think it’s so hilarious that Americans do this for fun,” Annie says. “Where I’m from, we leave this sort of thing to laborers!” Then she laughs like someone who’s just taken a class in how to laugh — head thrown back and hahahaha!
Wow. I didn’t realize it was possible for me to like her less than I did two minutes ago, but I do.
“Where are you from?” Chloe asks.
Oh, jeez, Chloe, who cares? I want to tell her, but I just cock my head and try to act fascinated.
“My family is from Thailand. We came to America when I was twelve.” She runs her long red fingernails through her glossy black hair. Who does she think she is? I wonder, eyeing her elegant outfit. A supermodel? She looks really young to me, like ten years younger than Dad. Maybe people will think we’re out with our dad and our babysitter. I hope.
“You don’t have an accent,” Chloe notes.
“Thank you.”
Even that irks me. My grandmother has an accent. Mr. Malik has an accent. What’s wrong with an accent? Nothing!
I guess Annie has noticed that I’m not contributing to the conversation, because she turns to me and says, “So, Hayley — do you have any crushes on boys?” She smiles, like we’re best friends at a slumber party.
“No.”
More uncomfortable silence. After a minute, Annie asks Chloe what her favorite subject is, and for a while they chat happily about science. Dad volunteers, “Hayley’s favorite subject is English.”
Not true, but I don’t argue.
“What’s your favorite book?” Annie asks.
“I like a lot of books.” The end. And … silence. Yay. It’s like we’re starting a silence collection.
Finally, Dad pulls into the dirt driveway at Stone’s Throw Farm, and we get out of the car.
“Oh, how charming,” Annie says as she looks at the farm stand.
My dad walks over to her, and she slips her hand into his.
I grab two half-peck baskets and hand one to Chloe. The guy at the farm stand — apple-cheeked and Mohawked — smiles at me and says that the Empires are ready, so I head down the hill. Chloe runs ahead and dances down a path between McIntosh trees.
“Why don’t you guys just wait up here?” I snap. I know my voice is harsh, but I don’t want them with us. I never should have said yes to apple picking.
Annie looks hurt, and my dad’s face gets stern. “Go ahead, Hayley,” he says. “We’re right behind you.” Dad takes a basket, too, and he and Annie slowly start to totter down the hill after us. I guess the four-inch heels aren’t seeming like such a great idea to her now.
It rained last night, and my sneakers squelch over the muddy grass as I follow Chloe to the Empires. These are my favorite apples — they’re an heirloom variety, very small and sweet. Not many people grow them.
I hear someone cry out behind me, and I turn to see Annie clutching at Dad, one of her heels buried completely in the mud. Annie tries to pull her foot up, but her toes pop out of the shoe, and the heel stays stuck in the ground. She takes another step forward and the other heel sinks into the mud.
I feel myself smile a smug little smile. I’m horrible, but I can’t help it. Dad reaches down to pull out the shoe, and the heel breaks off.
My dad scowls at me. “Hayley! Get over here and help!” Like it’s my fault!
I have no idea what he thinks I can do, but I obey. Chloe comes dashing out of the trees and takes in the situation. She looks at Annie’s red face and her glistening eyes, and says, “Oh, Annie, your beautiful shoes!” She runs over to give Annie a hug.
Annie stands there in stocking feet, my sister’s arms wrapped around her, and pats Chloe’s head awkwardly. “They’re just shoes,” Annie says, even though she looks humiliated and sad.
“But they were so pretty,” Chloe says. “And you got all dressed up to meet us!”
The words are like a knife to my heart. An image flashes in my mind: Annie, trying to choose an outfit she’ll wear to meet her boyfriend’s daughters, having no idea what apple picking is like.
“The apples here are the best in the world.” Chloe reaches into her basket and gives one to Annie, who takes a bite. Annie smiles and nods while she crunches the sweet fruit.
“Delicious,” Annie says. Her face is still flushed, but her tears seem to be drying up.
I lean over and carefully twist the broken heel from the ground. I hand it to my father, who says, “Thanks.”
“Well, you can’t go around in your tights,” I say to Annie.
“Why don’t you girls go pick apples,” Dad suggests. “We’ll meet you at the stand. Annie and I can get some doughnuts.”
“Ooh — cider doughnuts!” Chloe cries. “I’m going to pick super fast!” She gives Annie another squeeze, then dashes off again.
I watch as Dad pats Annie on the back. He is carrying her muddy, ruined shoes in one hand as they turn and start back up the hill.
I guess I got what I wanted. I can pick apples with my sister in peace.
So why do I feel so horrible?
Apple Cupcakes
(makes approximately 12–15 cupcakes)
This is the ideal cupcake to make on a rainy fall day. Extra points for a cup of apple cider, too.
INGREDIENTS:
1 tablespoon margarine
3 tablespoons brown sugar
2 large apples, any variety, peeled and chopped (about 1/2-inch to 1-inch pieces)
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar
1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup canola oil
INSTRUCTIONS:
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with foil cupcake liners. (Paper ones are too sticky! If you don’t have foil ones, grease the inside of the muffin pan instead.)
In a skillet, on low heat, melt the margarine and brown sugar together. Then add the apple chunks and ground cinnamon, and sauté until nice and soft. Remove from heat and let cool.
Whisk the milk and vinegar together in a bowl and set aside for a few minutes to curdle.
In a large bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and mix.
In a separate large bowl, mix together the curdled milk, sugar, vanilla extract, and oil. Then beat with a whisk or handheld mixer. Add the dry ingredients a little bit at a time, and mix until no lumps remain.
Spoon apple chunks into each cupcake liner, enough to cover the bottom.
Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way and bake for 20–22 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.
Vanilla Frosting
INGREDIENTS:
1/2 cup margarine, softened
1/2 cup shortening
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3-1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar
1–2 tablespoons milk
INSTRUCTIONS:
In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream together the margarine and shortening. Beat in the vanilla extract.
Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! Page 4