“Let me try,” Charlotte suggests. She can’t get the egg to break at all.
“We need to make sure we have two eggs in the batter,” I tell her. So I crack the egg using two hands. This time I get most of it in the bowl, so we move on to the butter and sugar. That part goes a little bit better. The sugar is easy to pour, and the butter only has to be unwrapped.
I check the recipe once more. I’m like a Cupcake Champion already. “A little milk, and then we are ready to go,” I announce. Charlotte pours, and I measure. Guess what? We get it exactly right!
We put the bowl underneath the mixer and turn it on. This I already know how to do.
“Did you put in the baking powder?” I can’t remember if I did or she did. The recipe says one half teaspoon. We need to make sure we have all the ingredients in the mixture. Mom says baking is very precise.
She has a smear of flour across her nose. “I think so.”
So Charlotte and I put the pink wrappers into the cupcake pans. Then we take turns pouring the batter into them.
I pull out the jar of pickles from Gram. First, I do a taste test. (What? I have to make sure these are top-quality pickles.) I cut one in half, and Charlotte and I each take a piece.
Yum! Super-salty and delicious.
I’m not sure how to add these to the batter since we have already scooped it into the cups. I decide to cut slices and then cut the slices in half again. I drop three of each into the cupcake batter in my tray. “This should work,” I say with a grin.
“I’m going to leave mine plain,” Charlotte decides. “Then I can jazz them up with decorations.”
“I think that will be most excellent,” I say in my fake British accent.
That’s when Mom comes into the kitchen. Her eyes get really big when she sees the mess. “Wow, this is some project.”
“Sorry, Mom. We got a little carried away. We’ll clean it all up.” I plan to eat three more pickles and then start cleaning.
“Good idea.” She peeks into our trays of cupcakes. “Looks like you’re ready for the oven.” Mom doesn’t like me to use the oven by myself. That’s why she watches while I slide the trays onto the rack and close the door.
I set the timer for sixteen minutes.
Sixteen minutes whiz by when you are cleaning up a really big mess in the kitchen. Before we have even finished the counter, the timer beeps. I am so excited to see our work.
“Mom!” I call. When she doesn’t come immediately, I run into the living room to get her. “The oven beeped. I need you.”
She sets down her book and follows me back into the kitchen. Charlotte and I stand side by side as Mom opens the oven door.
“Oh no!” I can hardly believe what I am seeing.
Something has gone wrong.
Very, very wrong.
Mom puts on her yellow daisy oven mitts and takes out the trays. When she sets them on the counter to cool, we take a closer look. Charlotte’s cupcakes are way too big. They have overflowed onto the tray. They don’t even look like cupcakes at all. More like blobs of cake.
My cupcakes are worse. Worser even (if that was a word). They are a Disaster with a capital D.
Because my cupcakes are shrimpy little cakes that look runny and greenish. They are the exact opposite of appetizing. In fact, they look like something you would find underneath Will B’s desk. (Need I say more?)
The only person to blame for this Disaster is me. It isn’t Charlotte’s fault. Because she came over to bake with me and my mom, even though she could have baked with her grandma at home. My attitude ruined her cupcakes too.
I turn to my friend. “I’m so sorry, Charlotte. I know the cupcakes would have been perfect if I had let my mom help. I wanted to do it by myself, and that wasn’t fair to you.” My apologies are getting a lot of practice lately. I can tell they are getting better.
“It’s not your fault, Ruby. We both got confused about the recipe.” Charlotte gives me a little hug.
But I have another apology to make. More practice.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. Could you help us?” I try to make my best puppy-dog sad face. It gets Mom every time.
“Of course I’ll help you,” she says as she touches her finger to the tip of my nose. When she does that, I know everything is going to be all right. Maybe even better than all right. “All you had to do was ask.”
“Let’s get rid of these,” she says as she picks up the tray of pickle cupcakes. “Unless you want to try one?”
Charlotte and I call out at the same time. “No way!”
• • •
The second round of cupcakes is much better than the first. I have still insisted on my pickle cupcakes. Mom gets me to chop up the pickles into tiny pieces, and the liquid doesn’t mess up the recipe. She encourages Charlotte to add sprinkles to her batter so the cupcakes have confetti pieces in them after they bake.
Then we make frosting. I add some green food coloring to mine to keep with the pickle theme. Charlotte likes hers in plain white so the sprinkles really show. We both decide not to try our cupcakes until tomorrow at the bake sale. I want my tasting to be a big reveal like on Cupcake Champions.
When the doorbell rings at 6:00 p.m. with the three pizzas from Charlie’s, I’m exhausted. I never knew saving a library could be this much work.
• • •
In the morning, Mom helps me bring the cupcakes to school in plastic containers. We leave them in the office because the Poetry Read isn’t until after school.
“I’ll see you at home tonight,” Mom says as she kisses me good-bye. She’s wearing her officey clothes, a black shirt and gray pants. Gram is picking me up today since Mom has to go to work.
I hold on to her a little tighter than usual. I know I’m ten, but sometimes a girl just needs her mom. This is one of those moments. Mom seems to understand even without me saying it because she kisses the top of my head and whispers, “You know how to fix this. I believe in you.” I hug her one more time and consider following her out the door and hiding in the trunk of the car. Except that I’m not sure I could breathe in there. And also, how would I eat lunch? I’m a big believer in the importance of good nutrition. Without it, your brain just doesn’t seem to work right. At least mine doesn’t.
I’m not supposed to go to the classroom today. It’s a completely mixed-up sort of day. Because I have to go to straight to a field trip. Well, it’s not a real field trip because we don’t actually leave school. We stay at school, and the field trip comes to us, which makes it a field trip that isn’t really a field trip.
I meet my friends in front of the auditorium. They are all wearing their fancy black-and-white poetry clothes. Mrs. Sablinsky said we should line up here today and leave our backpacks outside. “Do you know what we’re doing?” Siri asks.
I shake my head. “No idea.”
“I hope it’s about animals,” Jessica says. “I heard there’s one field trip where they bring an actual wolf to the school.”
“A real wolf?” Charlotte’s eyes are big at that thought.
I’d like to meet a wolf in person. I’ve met a lot of them in books, and they are usually the bad guys. I’m guessing they are different when you meet them on a leash at your school.
Mrs. Sablinsky arrives just then. “Here we are,” she says. “Students, follow me.” We all smoosh behind our teacher and walk through the door to the auditorium.
Right away, I know what we are doing. We are taking a trip around the world.
Because there is a giant map covering the floor.
“Everyone, please take off your shoes so you can walk on the map,” Mrs. Sablinsky tells us. Take off our shoes? Really?
(Fact about me: I am not a big fan of taking off my shoes in public because:
Sometimes feet can smell. Hey, it happens to all of
us. Only this would be super-embarrassing at school.
Occasionally I wear socks that do not match. I don’t do this on purpose. But sometimes I grab the first two socks I can find in the drawer. Many times they are not matching, which is also potentially embarrassing.)
Today I am wearing mismatched socks. It’s true. I have on one pink tie-dyed sock and one sock that has a pig on it. Except that the pig looks like a cross between a pig and a cow. In case you have never seen a pig crossed with a cow, let me tell you, it’s not cute at all. Not even a little bit. I wonder where I got these socks in the first place.
Mrs. S hands out papers with the same map printed on it. She also passes out pencils. “I will be calling off numbers to pair you up. Then you can walk around the map and try to locate all the places marked on the floor.”
Oh no. It’s the worst when teachers count off numbers like one, two, three, four, five. Then they start over: one, two, three, four, five. After that, they tell the ones to pair up. And the twos to pair up. You get the idea.
Only we thought we would get to pair up with a friend standing next to us so we have lined up with our chosen partners. So I’m next to Siri. That’s when the teacher pulls a switcheroo, and there is no possible way that the person standing next to you will be your partner. Which is a very long way of saying…I get partnered with Will P!
Will is wearing black-and-white socks with dominos on them (his match) and a white shirt with black pants (no shorts!). Also, he is wearing a frown.
“I like your socks,” I tell him. No response.
“What kind of cupcakes did you bake?” No response.
Will is taking this Shun very seriously. I’m thinking that’s because he is really mad at me, maybe even never-be-friends-again mad. I try to hide my socks from view. But now we have to walk across the map and try to locate different places. Every time Will looks down, I move my foot back so that the pig is hiding behind my other sock. It’s not easy to balance on one leg. This must be what it’s like to be a flamingo.
I am not me. I am a flamingo with mismatched socks. All the other flamingos are wearing striped socks and polka-dot socks that actually go together. When no one is looking, I take off one of the socks while still balancing on one leg and throw it into the lake. A frog hopping by brings the sock back to me. Now everyone knows it is mine.
I know what I have to do. I’m getting better with practice, but it’s hard to apologize to someone who won’t even look at you. Plus, everyone in class would hear me. That would be super-duper embarrassing, even worse than wearing one weird pig-cow sock.
When the field trip that isn’t really a field trip is finally over, I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe I can say sorry later. Or maybe a dragon will come and carry me away to an island where friends never get mad and everyone has matching socks.
Chapter 11
Polar Bears Can Bake
Setting up for the bake sale is one of the highlights of my fifth-grade year. We have our own table in the back of the auditorium, and our posters are taped all around to advertise.
My poster is right in the middle of the table. One of the office ladies brings us an actual cashbox. It’s gray metal and has some dollars and quarters inside to make change. Mrs. Xia comes by to help. She suggests we charge one dollar for all items. Everyone agrees that this is a good price.
When I open my box of cupcakes and set them on the table, I think they look pretty delicious. Charlotte’s look even better. If I’m being honest, green isn’t the most appetizing frosting color.
Siri’s lemon bars are more like triangles than squares. “I had a little trouble getting them out of the pan,” she explains.
Jessica and Daisy have their blondie bars and brownies plated together in two circles. They look like bestie treats. “I can’t wait to try one of each,” I tell them. Mom has given me money to buy treats and to donate to the cause.
Charissa, Brooke, and Sophie’s cookies look like they are from a real bakery. I know they will be big sellers. “Yours look professional!” I say with a smile.
The smile stays on my face all the way until I see the other bake sale set up across from ours. The Polar Bears have a real red-and-white tablecloth and little stands for all the cupcakes. I move closer to be sure. Yep, it looks like a finale for a baking competition. Now I know why Mrs. Sablinsky makes us do projects in class. There is no way Will and his friends made all these cupcakes. I can’t believe they even helped make these cupcakes. They have perfect swirly frosting and real candy flowers.
Will P is arranging napkins in a flower shape. I realize that maybe he did bake some of these himself. Maybe he likes cooking as much as my brother Sam does. Somehow that makes what I did even worse. Before I even think about it, I am walking right up to his booth.
“Will, your booth is stupendiferous! It’s even wondermazing.” The Will P signature word mash-up gets him to look at me. But I don’t stop there. “I am so sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. Not even a little bit. It wasn’t about you, not really. It was more about your friends. Sometimes they mess up our book club meetings with their food fights.” I sigh. “I really don’t like salami.”
Will’s frown completely disappears by that last part. He grins at me. “I really don’t like salami either! I just wanted to help the library too. I didn’t want to be in a fight with you.”
I smile at him. “Me neither.”
“Friends?” he asks.
“Friends.” I answer. “Did you really bake these?”
Will nods. “Baking is one of my talents.” I look at the cupcakes close up. They are fancier than the ones at Lizzie’s Bake Shop.
“Mine can’t even come close to yours. Only did you make any with pickles?”
Will scrunches up his nose like he smells something awful. “Absolutomundo not. Did you?”
I can’t help but giggle as I say, “Absolutomundo yes!” Then, “Now let’s sell some cupcakes!”
I am not at the bake sale anymore. I am in an empty white room with three doors. There are a red door, a blue door, and a green door. I open the green door. Outside is a gigantic mountain of shiny slime. In my hand, I hold my envy. It’s gooey and sticky and clings to anything it touches. I drop it onto the mountain and close the door. Now it will stay where it belongs.
Then it’s time for the Poetry Read. Only, instead of being mad that I’m not up there reading my poem, I actually listen to everyone else. Their poems are funny and sad and even silly. I realize that Mrs. Sablinsky was right (I know, I can’t believe I am thinking this either!), and that it was the getting up in front of everyone that was holding me back and not the actual writing. It sort of makes sense now. I was getting in my own way. Next time I need to
let
myself
just
be
me.
Daisy and I sit in chairs at our booth and watch from the back of the auditorium so we have a really good view. At the end, I am pretty sure I clap even louder than the parents. The minute the show is over, all the students and parents get up from their chairs. And then come to our booths!
Mrs. Xia is our very first customer.
“I’ve been a librarian for twenty-five years,” she tells us. “You are the most wonderful students I have ever had.” Then she buys a brownie and three cookies. The other girls have joined Daisy and me so we have plenty of help.
“The Macarons can take the payments if the Unicorns hand people their cookies and cupcakes,” Charissa offers.
“That sounds like a good plan,” Siri answers. We all agree. So Siri and Jessica hand Mrs. Xia her baked goods, and Charissa puts the money into the metal box.
Mrs. Sablinsky is second in line.
“This is a very impressive table,” she tells us. “What kind of cupcakes are those?” she asks us as she points to my greener-than-green masterpieces.
“Ruby made pickle cupcakes,” Charlotte tells her.
Mrs. Sablinsky nods as if this isn’t unusual at all. Then she says the most unbelievable thing ever: “I absolutely love pickles! I’ll buy one of those.”
Now I know that I made a really big deal out of these cupcakes. And I’ve told all the doubters that these cupcakes will be fabulous. But I haven’t actually tasted one. So watching my teacher prepare to eat my cupcake sends fear shivering down my neck all the way to my pig-cow sock. The other girls are selling to everyone in line, but I am not moving. I am not even sure I am breathing as I watch Mrs. Sablinsky open her mouth and bite into the green cupcake. I press my lips together as I watch her chew.
And then it happens. I see my teacher smile. It’s a smile I have never seen on her face before. It’s a stupendous best-day-ever kind of smile.
In that moment, I realize the craziest thing I have ever realized in my life: Mrs. Sablinsky is a little bit like me. She really is. I will never, ever look at her the same again. Because someone who would eat a pickle cupcake and like it just might be the kind of person who would invite a talking chipmunk to tea. And that changes everything.
After that, time zooms by like dragonflies as we sell cupcakes, cookies, and brownies to parents and teachers and lots of students.
“I’d like to try a pickle cupcake, please,” my next customer says. Only it isn’t just any customer. It’s my dad. I am so happy to see him that I run around the booth and hug him tight.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell him. It means a lot that he is here, even though I didn’t get to read my poem.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says with a wink. “I thought a little publicity might help your bake sale and the library.”
Dad points behind him to a camera from the news station. There is even a reporter with them. “I’m running a story on your mission to save books.”
I am so excited I can’t speak. And that’s really unusual for me. A little tear even squeezes out of my eye. (Ruby Starr Exception to the No Crying at School Rule: Happy tears are acceptable as long as they are limited to one or two tears in total.)
The Fantastic Library Rescue and Other Major Plot Twists Page 8