When dinner was served, Mrs. Simpson got each of us to talk about ourselves: our happiest times, our best memories, what we want to be when we grow up—stuff that might seem silly, but actually was nice to share.
Gretchen talked a lot about her family and how close they are. I already knew her dad is a lawyer, but I didn’t know her mom is the head of HR for some bank. Or that she has an older brother who works for a clean water charity in Africa. No wonder Gretchen tries hard to be Ms. Perfect. And succeeds—most of the time, at least. “I want to study law like my dad,” she said proudly. “So I can help people with their problems. But I’ll need to know how to cook for when I’m at college. And, you know, after.”
Alison acted unusually shy when Mrs. Simpson asked her about her future ambitions. Before answering, she looked at Gretchen as if seeking permission. “I wanted to go to ballet school,” she told us, “but I had to have an operation on my knee. So, that’s not going to be possible now.”
I saw her through new eyes, feeling surprised and sympathetic. Alison has turned out to be nicer than I expected, but I didn’t know she’d had that happen to her.
“But I’m kind of okay with it,” she continued. “I was thinking I could start a dance studio someday. I like working with kids. But who knows…” She smiled in my direction. “Maybe I’ll teach cooking too, so that girls who want to be dancers can still eat healthily. It’s really fun—I never would have guessed.”
Mrs. Simpson nodded thoughtfully. “The best way to eat healthily is to use healthy ingredients—vegetables, nuts, fruits, fish—all as fresh as possible. I’ve got some special recipes I can show you.”
“Great,” Alison said. “I’d like that.”
When Mrs. Simpson turned to Violet and asked her what she wanted to be, Violet surprised everyone except me by saying she wants to be a doctor. “I want to save lives,” she said. Her eyes flicked over to me, but she didn’t tell the rest of them what she had told me. “But until I can do that, I’m happy enough baking things. I was really scared to come to a new school,” she admitted. “But now that we’ve got the Secret Cooking Club, I’m glad I did.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The Secret Cooking Club has been good for all of us.”
“And what about you, Scarlett?” Mrs. Simpson asked.
I’d been waiting for the question and made up all kinds of answers in my mind: like winning Cake Wars, writing my own cookbook, or helping end world hunger. But instead, I decided to answer truthfully.
“I don’t know, really,” I said. “I’m kind of just trying to enjoy what I’ve got now—like you guys.”
“Let’s toast the Secret Cooking Club,” Violet replied, raising her glass.
“To Mrs. Simpson,” I said.
“To mixing friends and flour,” Gretchen added.
“To buttercream.” Alison laughed.
Mrs. Simpson leaned forward. “To friendship,” she said.
“Hear, hear.”
The kitchen echoed with the tinkling of crystal as we all clinked our glasses together. And even though it took a long time to wash and put away all that fine china, it was a really good night.
But now…
“Hey, Scarlett, wait up!”
I turn around and see the person trying to get my attention is Nick Farr. I feel as if everything I ate for breakfast might come up again. Alison and Gretchen are good friends with Nick, so why does talking to a boy make me so nervous?
“Oh, hi.” I stop walking and turn.
“Alison said you needed some help—with an online profile or something?”
“Um, I do—?”
“That’s what she said.” His cute-as-a-boy-band-member face slips into a frown.
Get a grip, Scarlett! “I mean, yes, I do.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I’ve got my laptop in my bag. I can meet you in the library after school. But I don’t have long. I’m helping coach a junior soccer team later tonight.”
“Oh.”
“Okay, well…” He gives me a look like he’s sorry he bothered to speak to me in the first place. “I’ll see you later then?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I make a run for the girls’ bathroom. My insides feel liquid and gushy. Nick Farr spoke to me. Nick Farr is going to meet me after school. OMG! I am going to die/be sick/fall down on my knees and thank Alison/kill Alison/run screaming from the building/go home and change my clothes/wash my hair/take a cold shower/ crawl under the duvet and never come out.
“So did Nick talk to you?” Violet emerges from the far stall, smiling mischievously.
“You’re in on it too! I thought I was going to die.”
“Come on, Scarlett.” She laughs. “This is your big chance.”
“For what?”
She cocks her head like I’m stupid or something. “We all agreed, I thought. If we’re online, we might be able to raise money to help Mrs. Simpson.”
“But I’m still not sure how.” I stare at her without seeing. “Besides, I don’t have a clue how to get started.”
“Maybe not, but that’s where Nick comes in. We all think you’ll be a natural—with your mom and stuff—”
“My mom!”
She winks at me and heads to the door. “Let me know how it goes.”
The door swooshes shut behind her.
• • •
My big chance. I sit in class giving myself a pep talk. Part of me feels betrayed and ganged up on by my friends, but another part feels all giddy and stupidly excited. When school’s over for the day, I mostly feel self-conscious and scared. But the main thing I need to focus on is helping Mrs. Simpson stay in her own home.
I put on lip gloss, brush my hair, and go to the school library. I’m half expecting the other members of the Secret Cooking Club to be sitting at a nearby table, giggling and laughing. But other than a couple of kids studying for their exams, the library’s empty.
I grab a book from a random shelf and flip halfway through it before I realize it’s about the history of train travel in Britain. I slam it shut and put it back. Then I have an idea. I ask the librarian if there’s a cooking section. She raises an eyebrow like I’ve asked for something strange and points me to a shelf at the back.
There are a couple of books for little kids—teddy bear picnics and cooking around the world, plus a few of the usual Alice Waters and Rachael Rays. At the end of the shelf there’s a tattered old book bound in blue leather that’s turned around back to front. I take it off the shelf. It’s a copy of Recipes Passed Down from Mother to Daughter that Mrs. Simpson has in her kitchen. I flip through the recipes, realizing that, because of Mrs. Simpson’s handmade, handwritten recipe book, I could now cook any of them. Best of all, I’d no longer be scared to try. In fact, I want to try them all and share Mrs. Simpson’s recipes with even more kids.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Chapter 29
The Plan in Action
I’m going to start my own blog. It’s going to be called The Secret Cooking Club. I’ll put on lots of recipes and photos and inspire other kids to make things especially for their school. There will be posts called “Yummy Cakes and Bakes,” one called “Home-Cooked Dinners,” and one called “Recipes for Sharing.” And then I’ll write about this really cool old woman who’s helping us and about her special handwritten-recipe book. I’ll post photos of the book, the recipes, and all the little drawings and rhymes.
And when it’s all up and running, I’ll send the link to Mr. Kruffs. He’ll see we’re online, and if he tries to put Mrs. Simpson in a home, he’ll have nothing but bad publicity.
“Hi, Scarlett.”
The dream dissolves like sugar in water.
“Oh, um…hi, Nick.”
“Sorry I’m late.” He plonks his bag down on the table. “I’ve got to leave in thirty, so
let’s get started.”
“Great.” I walk over to the table and sit beside him. I let a curtain of hair fall over my eyes so I can watch his every move. His hands are slender, his fingers graceful as he takes his laptop out of his bag and turns it on.
“So, were you thinking of a blog, or what?” he asks me.
“Yeah, a blog where I can post some photos and people can leave comments,” I brainstorm out loud. “Maybe a place for guest posts too.”
“So, kind of like your mom’s?”
I shudder. I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Well, it won’t really be like hers.”
“No, I guess not.”
My mind races to think of something to say as the computer boots up.
“My mom won’t let me use the internet at home,” I ramble. “So I don’t really know much about how to build and design blogs. But I thought I might like to learn.”
He turns to me. “Are you trying to get back at her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mom,” he says. “To be honest, I was kind of surprised when Ali told me you wanted to set up a blog. I’ve always thought you had it pretty rough, with your mom writing about you and everything.”
“You did?” My awkwardness begins to melt away.
“I remember a few years back—you used to always speak up in class. You knew all the answers and you had lots of ideas… You were really smart.”
I give him a wobbly smile. “Really?”
“But then you stopped. After people found out about the blog.”
“Well, I guess…” I sigh. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”
He types in his password. “I’m sure your mom is cool and all, but I know I’d hate it if anyone wrote like that about me on the internet.”
“She isn’t cool. I hate that she does it. Most people don’t understand.”
He smiles. “Maybe more people understand than you think.”
I mull this over as he opens a web page.
“So there are some pretty good blogging sites out there. I think this one’s the best.” He types something into the browser. “It’s pretty easy to post photos, text, and video. And you can search by hashtags—so you can follow people, and people can find you.”
“Um…okay.”
“Here, I’ll show you.”
For the next twenty minutes, I half watch what Nick does and half understand it. The rest of the time I’m watching him and enjoying sitting next to the coolest boy in our class who thinks I must be smart, and who “understands” I haven’t had things exactly easy. I ask a few questions, but I can’t bring myself to ask the BIG question—he and Alison hang out at school and she talks about him all the time—do they have a thing going? Or is there hope for someone like me?
“Scarlett?” I realize Nick is waiting for a response from me.
“Oh, sorry. I was just trying to concentrate—it’s a lot to take in.”
“Well, I’m sorry I have to take off. But let me know how it’s going and if you need any more help.” He shuts down his computer.
“Thank you so much,” I say. The words can’t express my mixed-up feelings. “I know you’re busy, but I really appreciate your help.”
He hesitates for a second. “Well, if you really want to thank me, there’s something you can do for me too.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“Would you consider adding a new member?”
Chapter 30
The First Post
I’m fully prepared for my feet not to touch the ground. But actually, I’m remarkably calm as I leave the library. It’s like the whole Nick Farr thing has made me grow up all in the course of a single day. I grip the paper with his phone number in my hand. I’ve agreed to contact him the next time the Secret Cooking Club meets so he can join us!
“For the record, Alison didn’t tell me you were the ones leaving the free samples,” he’d reassured me after seeing my astonished face. “I guessed that day I saw you out of class just before lunch. And I think it would be fun to learn a little about cooking. I mean, lots of guys do it these days. And Mom and Dad don’t have time to cook. It would be nice if I could surprise them by cooking something good once in a while.”
“Yeah,” I’d said. “I think it’s something that anyone can enjoy doing. I mean, we all have to eat, don’t we?”
He laughed. “Yes, we do. Also, my mom has a big birthday coming up. Dad’s planning a party for her, and I’m supposed to order a cake. But how awesome would it be if I could actually make her one?”
“It sounds great,” I said. “And we’d all be happy to pitch in.”
“Okay,” he said. “My soccer schedule’s a little hectic right now, but I should be able to meet you one night next week? Monday?”
He’d written down his number and left for his practice. I’d rushed off to meet the other members at Mrs. Simpson’s house.
• • •
When I get there and let myself inside, everything is quiet, dark, and empty. In the kitchen, I see that some work has been done to repaint the wall and fix the window. It looks as good as new. Obviously, Mr. Kruffs didn’t waste any time getting workmen in. And if he was here, then where is his aunt now? I’m sure we’d arranged to meet her today. I was hoping she would be here so I could tell her about the blog—and about Nick wanting to join us.
I don’t feel like going home, so I nose around a little. Something is scribbled on the magnetic message pad that hangs on the fridge: “Gone to visit a friend—RS.”
That explains where Mrs. Simpson is, at least. It must have been a last-minute thing. Relieved, I sit at the table and take a notebook and pen out of my backpack. The words pop into my head and I begin to write:
Please don’t tell my mom you’re reading this. I mean, you probably won’t because you don’t know who I am, so you don’t know who she is. And I don’t know who you are. For now, I think we ought to keep it that way. It will be our secret.
You see, I have this problem with my mom. She’s a blogger, and she’s made my life a nightmare by posting lots of embarrassing stuff about me. I pretty much had to drop all my activities at school, it was getting so annoying.
I pause and read over what I’ve written, crossing out and changing a few words here and there.
But now I’ve started doing something Mom doesn’t know about. Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. It’s just that my neighbor was taken away in an ambulance, and when I went to feed her cat, I found this amazing kitchen and a special handwritten recipe book. And there was this new girl at school, and I told her about what I found, and she wanted to join me. So that’s our secret: we’re learning how to cook. Now there’s five of us—four girls and one boy, plus the old woman whose kitchen we use. We’re a real club—a secret club. No one knows who we are.
Except you...
And that’s what this blog is about. We’d like you to join us. Leave a comment below, and welcome to the Secret Cooking Club.
Yours truly,
The Little Cook
P.S. Don’t tell any grown-ups!
I put down the pen. Luckily, I’ve read enough of Mom’s blog to know how to do it. I think it sounds chatty, and it says what I want to say. I’ve chosen to sign it as “The Little Cook” in honor of Mrs. Simpson’s book. A strange feeling comes over me—not the calm of earlier, but more like the jolt of an electric shock. I was meant to come here and find the special recipe book. I’m meant to be doing this.
Just then, the front door opens. I jump up and pack my papers away. There’s a loud screech and the sound of small feet running. Then, voices:
“Ow, he scratched me!”
“Well, I guess he’s just hungry and glad to be home.”
“Achoo! I’m allergic to fur.”
Something small and black darts across the kitchen floor in front o
f me. “Treacle!” I say happily. The cat goes next to the fridge where his bowl used to be and begins to meow indignantly.
“Hi, Scarlett.” Violet comes in with Treacle’s bowl in her hand. She puts a finger to her lips. “We were out kidnapping Treacle.”
“Kidnapping?”
“Well, cat-napping actually.” Gretchen giggles. Alison gives another big sneeze.
“Where was he?” I ask.
“At the cat kennel on Priory Road.” Violet sets down his bowl, and I fill it with cat food. “I asked my aunt to find out from Mr. Kruffs where he had taken the cat. She told him we were thinking of adopting him, but really we just wanted to surprise Mrs. Simpson. Do you know where Mrs. Simpson is?”
“She left a note—she’s visiting a friend.”
“Oh,” Violet says. “That’s good, I guess. We came here earlier. The workmen were just leaving, but I was a little worried when she wasn’t here.”
“Let’s try to cook something, and maybe she’ll be back in time for supper.”
The four of us start raiding the fridge and cupboards. Violet suggests we try to make Simple Simon’s Cottage Pie.
I fetch the minced beef while Gretchen and Alison go out to the garden to pick some of the end-of-season vegetables. Violet chops the potatoes before mashing them.
“Where were you, by the way?” Violet says. Her little smirk tells me she knows exactly where I was.
My calm, cool resolve fades, and I break out into a silly grin. It’s all just too insane to think I was setting up a blog with Nick Farr, and that he wants to join us. Gretchen and Alison come back inside. I suddenly feel self-conscious.
“So how did your meeting go?” Alison says, her eyes watering from the cat.
“Um, good, I think.”
“You think?” Gretchen jeers. “Come on, Scarlett. You can do better than that.”
Secrets and Scones Page 11