Alexis the Icing on the Cupcake

by Coco Simon

  Katie informed us that Mrs. Dreher had called last night to say the cupcake proposal looked great, and she was going to e-mail me today to tell us to go ahead. We whooped and high-fived. It was a big job and would be good money and good neighborhood exposure for us. She also said that Mrs. Dreher had invited us all to the party, since Katie and Mrs. Brown were already going.

  “And guess what?” continued Katie. “I have more great news!”

  “What?”

  “George told me he’s invited, since Ben Dreher is in his class, and all his friends are invited too, so that means Matt’s going!”

  “Yay!” I squealed. “Sorry, Emma!” I said.

  But Emma waved her hand. “It’s fine. He and I are getting along pretty well these days, anyway. Maybe it’s because I’m all mature and cool now,” she joked.

  “Maybe it’s because he likes your friends,” teased Mia, raising her eyebrows at me.

  I blushed again, looked down at my tray. “I just hope he likes freckles,” I said.

  CHAPTER 7

  F

  So I failed the test.

  Yes, there’s a first time for everything, it’s true, and there are exceptions to every rule, et cetera, et cetera. But the bottom line is Beckers don’t fail. Our family motto is: The Beckers try harder. I mean, that’s a winning motto if ever I heard one. I have never brought home an F, or even a D, on anything. I think I’ve gotten two Cs in my life. One was on a pop quiz and the other was on a history test I’d had after I’d been out with strep throat for two days.

  Mrs. Carr was very kind about it when she called me up to her desk before class on Tuesday. “Alexis, you are usually an excellent student. I know this is not your normal work. I will make an exception this time and allow you to retake the test on Thursday, and I will award you half credit for every point. That will bring you out of the F zone and more into a C. It’s the best I can offer you. I will have to offer it to all the students in the class to improve their grade, just to be fair.”

  I nodded miserably. It was all I could do not to cry. Mrs. Carr being nice about it almost made it worse. It was pretty huge that she was allowing me to retake the same test, but a C? But what could I do? “Thank you so much, Mrs. Carr. I will study so hard tonight and tomorrow, and I will do much better on the retest. I promise. Thank you.”

  In a daze, clutching the test, I slunk to my desk and dropped into my seat. I jammed the paper into my binder and spent the rest of the class trying to think about how I was going to tell my parents.

  That afternoon, I certainly did not forget to bring home my vocabulary book. In fact, I spent an extra half an hour cleaning out my locker before I left school, so that everything was in its place. At home, I diligently wrote out note cards for all the vocabulary words, and then I randomly interspersed them with my science note cards and quizzed myself for two hours. Academically, I felt more in control than I had in a week.

  But meanwhile, the pile of clothes in my room had grown to new heights. In my mind I was starting to call it the Hulk. It was taking on a life of its own. I was down to two outfits that I was rotating, washing one each night. My mom’s turquoise T-shirt was officially mine now (I couldn’t even get excited about it, really, since now I was almost sick of it).

  And I had to tell my parents about the F.

  My mom made a Spanish egg-and-potato frittata for dinner, with a microgreens salad. I ate it all and remarked a couple of times on how delicious it was. I didn’t want to overdo it, because I didn’t want her to think I was buttering her up, even though I kind of was. The frittata was pretty good, actually, so I wasn’t making it up. The micro-greens, not so much, but at least I didn’t have to choke down any kale.

  Dylan cleared her plate first and went up to finish her studying. That left me and my parents alone at the table, thank goodness. They were chatting excitedly about a ballet they were going to see in the city next week. It had gotten a good review in the paper today, and my parents were psyched they had “the hot tickets” in hand already. I hated to burst their bubble, but it was the perfect time to strike: happy news, full bellies. Ideal.

  “Um . . . guys?” I began.

  They looked at me with identically pleasant expressions on their faces, right at the same time, and suddenly, I was so ashamed. I started to cry. It wasn’t for sympathy; it was because I felt guilty. Here I was, living this great life they’d built for me, and I was about to tell them I’d just failed a test. I mean, how easy is it to do well on a test? But I’d been disorganized and selfish and a slacker.

  “Alexis! What ever is the matter?” asked my mom.

  My dad reached out to pat my arm. “What is it, Lexi?”

  I didn’t bother to correct him on the name. Not only would it have been a tactical error, but I was actually comforted to hear that name right now. It made me feel less guilty, like I was still a little kid or something.

  “I failed a test!” I sobbed.

  There was a shocked silence.

  “What?” My mom blinked.

  Oh no. Are they going to freak out? I wondered. Will I be grounded for life?

  “What subject?” asked my dad, all businesslike.

  “It was . . . a vocabulary test. In my English class.” I sniffled. “I thought the test was Tuesday, so I didn’t bring my book home over the weekend. I didn’t do my usual note cards. I just . . . I tanked,” I cried. “I’m so sorry. It’s so embarrassing!”

  My parents looked at each other, and I looked back and forth between them. I suddenly realized that they had no idea what to do or say. They were just as baffled by the news as I was; I’d just had longer to get used to the idea. No one in our family ever failed anything!

  My dad cleared his throat. “Well, what did the teacher say?” They looked at me expectantly. Thank goodness I’d gone to the teacher!

  “She said I can retake it on Thursday. The same test. It’s because I’m usually a good student.”

  They smiled in relief. “Well done, honey,” said my dad.

  “Yes, good for you for handling it!” said my mom.

  “The only thing is . . . ,” I continued, wincing now. “I can only get half credit back on the retake. So”—I started to sob again—“the best I can do is a C!”

  There was a pause while the only noise in the room were my sniffles. It was mortifying. I was waiting for yelling and reprimands, but none were coming.

  Finally, my dad said, “Alexis, you are an excellent student. You’ve never given us a moment’s trouble in school. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine. I’ve just . . . I’m . . . I just feel superdistracted and disorganized these days. I mean, this sounds really dumb, but none of my clothes fit, and my knees are hurting all the time, and now I have this dumb sunburn, and we have all this baking to do, and my exams . . . And I’m just so tired all the time!” I might as well lay it all out on the table, I figured.

  “Honey, I’m sorry,” said my mom. “How can we help?”

  I looked up. “Wait, I’m not punished?” I asked.

  “Punished?” My dad laughed. “Why would we punish you?”

  “For the F!” I said.

  “Alexis, you’re punishing yourself more than we ever would,” said my mom. “They’re your grades. I mean, certainly, if you were a poor student, or if it was a pattern, or you seemed to not care or to be blowing things off . . . then we’d be talking punishment. But you’re a good kid, and you do try hard. Harder!” she joked, referring to our motto. “What can we do to help you?”

  I sighed, feeling emotionally spent. “I just need to get through this week of exams, then I have my baking on Friday. Mia’s going to help me clean out my clothes. I might need some money to get a few new things at Big Blue. I mean, I have a little money from Grandma and from the Cupcake Club, but . . .”

  “We can give you some money for new clothes,” said my dad. “It’s not like it’s a splurge. It sounds like you need them.”

  My mom nodded
and patted my hand. Then she said, “It sounds like you were troubled about the test, so you reached out to your teacher and she helped you. And then you were upset and you told us, and we can help you, at least with the other stuff. Remember, Alexis, that’s the best thing you can do when things are troubling you in life: ask for help. Especially ask a grown-up, okay?” She looked at me.

  Normally, I would have cringed at her little lecture, but right now I was just grateful. I nodded.

  “As for your legs hurting, that might be due to your growth spurt, but let’s take you in to see Dr. Stephens, just in case, okay?” Dad looked at my mom, who nodded again. “Maybe there’s something you can be doing so it doesn’t hurt as much.”

  “Now, would you like me to quiz you?” offered my mom.

  I nodded and slowly stood up to clear.

  “I’ll do the dishes,” said my dad.

  Upstairs, my mom glanced around my room.

  “Alexis, it is kind of a mess in here,” she said. She perched on the edge of my bed while I sat in my swivel desk chair.

  “I know,” I said. “I just don’t want to keep putting away the things that don’t fit, and I don’t know where else to put them.”

  “After I quiz you, I’ll get some shopping bags, and we can pack them up and bring them downstairs, okay? This is a little depressing.”

  “What are we going to do with the clothes? Throw them away?”

  My mom was shocked. “Absolutely not! We can give them away. Some of those things are brand-new!”

  “Okay, sorry!” I said. “Who do you give them to?”

  My mom bit her lip and thought for a second. “I used to drop them off at the shelter, but they closed that place. I’ll ask around. I’m not really sure. I have some things I could pass along too. A few fashion choices that didn’t work out, as Dylan was quick to point out,” she said with a laugh.

  I handed her the note cards and explained about the intermingled subjects.

  She nodded and began the quizzing. After about forty-five minutes, we decided I was in pretty good shape. “There’s the Alexis I know!” My mom beamed.

  I smiled back, hoping she was right. Maybe I’d just had a crazy weekend. The ocean air tired me out, the sunburn, the distraction of the clothes not fitting. I was back on track, for sure.

  We packed up the clothes, and while my mom brought them downstairs to the front hall, I took the opportunity to straighten up my desk. I love my desk, usually, but I’ve been too tired to clean it up lately, so it was piled with all the papers I’d used to review for exams, and all my pens and pencils were out of order, and stuff like that.

  By the time my mom came back to say good night, I felt a lot better. It sounds dumb, but sometimes just getting things in order—cleaning up, organizing, feeling in control—can make everything seem a lot easier.

  “Looks like things are back on track in here!” said my mom, bending down to plant a kiss on my forehead.

  I smiled. “Yup.”

  “Good job, bunny,” she said. She turned off the overhead light and stood in the doorway.

  “Mom?” I asked.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Is there a way to get rid of freckles?”

  She laughed. “Not that I know of. But I think your freckles are cute!”

  I made a gagging sound. “Barf. Please!”

  “Oh, come on, Alexis. They’re so natural-looking and pretty.” She thought for a second. “I suppose if you wanted to tone them down, you could put a little tinted moisturizer over them or something, just for special occasions.”

  “Do you have any?”

  “Yes, I’ll leave it in your bathroom. You know, in some cultures, freckles are considered good luck. . . .”

  “Where?” I demanded.

  “Good night!” she trilled, and closed the door. I knew she was making it up, but I had to laugh.

  I snuggled in and drifted off for a good, restful night’s sleep.

  Only that wasn’t what I got.

  At eleven thirty, my legs were aching so badly, they woke me up out of a dead sleep. I tried changing positions and rubbing them, and I even got up and stretched them out. None of that helped. It was a dull throbbing in my knees and in my shin bones that went on and on, occasionally turning into a piercing, stabbing feeling. Finally, I turned on the light. I was so tired and feeling really sorry for myself. I started calculating how many hours of sleep I’d get if I fell right back to sleep, and it was not much. I got up to google “aching legs,” and that was when I heard a little tap on the door.

  “Lexi?” It was my mom.

  “Come in,” I said.

  “What are you doing?” She was in her nightgown and all squinty, which meant she’d taken out her contacts.

  “My legs are killing me. It woke me up.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. I remember when that used to happen to me. My mom would rub them with lavender oil, and it did help a little. Want me to do that?” She yawned.

  “No, that’s okay, Mom. I can do it myself. Do you have any?”

  She nodded and left the room, returning momentarily with a little brown bottle with a dropper in it. “It smells pretty strong so I brought you a towel to put down, too. Here, let me do it. Come on.”

  She laid the towel over my sheets and had me lie down, then she used the dropper to put some oil on each of my knees and began to massage them. It felt so, so good.

  “Mom, thank youuuuuu,” I whispered.

  “Mmm hmm,” she said. Her eyes were closed, and I could tell she was half-asleep herself. I felt guilty but not guilty enough to have her stop.

  “You’re the best mom ever,” I said.

  “I hope you remember that when your teen angst kicks in for real,” she said, a half-smile on her face.

  “Oh, please. I’m not going to have teen angst,” I said.

  “Right,” Mom said.

  CHAPTER 8

  Worst Mom Ever

  The rest of my exams went well, thank goodness, and I aced my vocab retest, though it was not much of a consolation, since my grade did average out to a C. I had to chalk it up to experience and move on, my dad said. My mom told me not to dwell on it, but not to let it happen again. Quack.

  I was actually looking forward to Friday afternoon, even though the Cupcake Club had a lot of work to do. I needed Mia’s help with my clothes cleanout ASAP, and I knew Saturday would give me an opportunity to shop with my friends and fill in the gaps in my wardrobe.

  So that’s why it hit me pretty hard when my mom announced on Thursday that we were going to visit my grandmother out in the country on Saturday.

  “Bummer! I can’t go!” I said. I love my grandma, and I hated to miss a trip to see her.

  “It’s not optional,” said my mom. She continued folding the laundry.

  Wait, is this a joke? “But, Mom! I’m going shopping with my friends on Saturday. Remember? I have the barbecue on Sunday, and I need something to wear.”

  “Grandma would love to take you shopping out there,” said my mom with a chuckle. “And she pays!”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. “I have this all planned.”

  My mom stopped folding and looked at me. “It’s not optional, I said. It’s the only time we can get out there to celebrate Grandpa Jim’s birthday, and I can hardly tell them you can’t make it because you’re going shopping!”

  “You aren’t serious? You’re going to make me bag all my plans?”

  “I’m sorry, but your friends will understand.” My mom began folding again, which meant this conversation was over.

  “This is totally unfair!” I yelled. “You’re the worst mother in the whole world!” Then I stomped up the stairs and slammed my door.

  Inside my room, I was fuming. How could she? She knew I had plans. Maybe not the specifics, but she had an idea! Why didn’t she check with me first? Who did she think she was? I punched my pillow and went to kick the side of my bed, but decided against it. No point in hurting myself just b
ecause I was mad at her!

  I flopped onto my bed and then crossed my arms, glaring at the ceiling. When I grow up, I will never, ever make plans for my kids without checking with them first! Ever!

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Go away!” I yelled.

  “Jeez, it’s me!” said Dylan.

  “Fine. Whatever,” I said.

  The door opened, and she came in and then shut it behind her. “Mom’s making you go to Grandma’s?” she asked.

  “What, you don’t have to go?”

  “Well, I told Mom I couldn’t go because I had plans, but I actually just canceled them because I hadn’t been out there in a while. Anyway, maybe Grandma will take me to the mall.”

  “Wait, first you didn’t have to go because you had plans? And my plans don’t count? And now you’re bagging your friends so you can get free clothes out of Grandma?” I asked incredulously.

  “Well, it’s not exactly like that . . . ,” said Dylan.

  “Pretty much,” I corrected her.

  Dylan smiled. “I guess. I just wanted to say, I don’t think you should have to go. I’ll tell Mom that I’ll go, and then the pressure will be off you.”

  I sat up. “Really? Why are you helping me?” I narrowed my eyes.

  “Like I said before, I’ve been through all this before. I can relate.”

  “Is that all?” I asked suspiciously.

  “For now.” Dylan shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t mind you owing me a few favors. You never know when I’ll need to collect. See ya.” And she left, closing the door behind her.

  It was a little weird to have this new, nicer Dylan in my life. I wondered when she would change back. It made me think of my parents’ “teen angst” comments. Maybe she was over the bad years, and I was the new Dylan? The thought horrified me, and I shuddered. But it was kind of right on track. I remember when Dylan turned thirteen, suddenly, there was a lot more fighting, more slamming doors, lots of crying, some bad grades. I seemed to be following the same pattern. And, if all stayed true to Dylan’s path, it meant there would be two more hard years to come before my parents and I pulled out of it. It also meant it was likely that I’d have a boyfriend soon! That thought, at least, made me smile.