The Cupcake Queen

by Heather Hepler

  I just shake my head, not trusting my voice. I feel like recently everything is either really good or really bad. Mostly really bad.

  chapter seven

  If someone found out they only had one day to live, they should totally move to Hog’s Hollow, because here every day feels like an eternity. So, three eternities later and finally it’s Friday. And the only thing I can think to be happy about is that I actually have something to do that doesn’t involve butter, sugar, or heavy cream. Today’s the day I’m supposed to go over to Tally’s house.

  I decide to walk there along the beach instead of along the road. I tell myself that it is because it’s a nice day and walking along the water is better than along asphalt, but it’s not really a nice day. It’s raining and the wind is whipping across the water and I have to duck my head to keep the blowing sand out of my eyes. So, exactly what is the reason? Because I’m looking for a big golden dog named Sam. And truthfully not so much the dog, but the guy with the dog.

  I climb up the warped wooden steps onto Tally’s back porch. Before I reach the door, it opens. “Hi,” a woman with curly red hair says. “Come in out of the wet.” I try to shake off as much sand and water as I can before entering. Even the inside of my mouth feels gritty. “You must be Penny,” she says, smiling. “I’m Poppy. Tally’s aunt.” She twists a blue ring on her left hand as she talks. “They’re in the living room,” she says, pointing the way. Then she steps outside. “Tell Tally I’ll be in my studio if you guys need anything.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Then it registers. She said they. I keep telling myself I’m from Manhattan and this is Hicksville and I should be able to handle meeting new people, but my stomach keeps flipping over. I pass four cats sunning themselves on the windowsill. Each is fatter than the last.

  “Yay,” Tally says, standing up and walking over to me. “Right on time.” She pulls me toward a boy with brown spikes of hair sticking up everywhere. He’s bent over two pieces of paper on the floor. “We need someone to break the tie,” she says. Okay, when Tally told me “some people” took Rock, Paper, Scissors very seriously, I didn’t know she meant she does. Or rather they do. On the floor are two drawings. One simply says CHOOSE WISELY above a sketch of three hands, one making the sign for a rock, one a pair of scissors, and the other a piece of paper. The other drawing says: PAPER IS THE NEW ROCK.

  “They’re for our fund-raiser,” the guy says. When he talks, the spikes move a little, making him look like a palm tree in the wind.

  “Fund-raiser?” I ask.

  “For the ARK.”

  “The ARK?” I’m starting to feel like a parrot.

  “Yeah, R-P-S for the A-R-K,” Tally says, saying each letter separately.

  “ASAP,” Blake says.

  “H-U-S-H,” Tally says. She turns to me. “The ARK is the animal shelter on the other side of town. We’re selling T-shirts to raise some money.” I nod, feeling D-U-M-B.

  “So which one do you like, Penny?” Both of them are looking at me. Talk about high pressure. I look from one drawing to the other, then at the two of them waiting.

  I get down on my knees and look closer. “Can I have a piece of that?” I ask, pointing to the pad of paper. “And a pencil.” I hunch over the pad and sketch quickly. I pause when a cat comes over and bats at the end of the pencil. I’m pretty sure this is a different one—cat number five. When I’m finished, I’ve combined the two shirts into one. On the front it simply says PAPER IS THE NEW ROCK. On the back are the graphics and the warning to choose wisely. Below that in big letters I’ve written SAVE THE ARK. I sit back on my heels to let them see.

  “Cool,” Tally says. “See, I told you.” She elbows the guy in the ribs, making his spikes wobble more.

  “I’m Blake,” he says finally. “Welcome to the Save the ARK Society.”

  “There are usually more of us—” Tally stops when she sees my questioning face. “Really,” she says. “It’s the rain. Or maybe it’s because school just started.”

  “Tal,” Blake says, leaning back over the pad of paper for a closer look, “it’s not the weather. Or school starting.” Tally frowns. Blake turns to me. “Tally is in denial.”

  “I am not,” Tally says, folding her arms.

  “You’re denying you’re in denial?” he asks. She squinches up her nose at him. “Everyone is over at the library for the Hog’s Hollow Days meeting,” Blake says.

  Tally is still frowning. “Not everyone,” she says.

  “Okay,” Blake says, smiling at Tally. “Most everyone.” He turns to me. “It’s a very big deal around here.” Tally shrugs. “You didn’t tell her?” Blake asks, turning to Tally.

  She shakes her head. “I do have other things to talk about,” she says. She keeps her arms folded and continues to frown, but I can see she’s having a hard time keeping up the mad thing.

  “Tally was banned from Hog’s Hollow Days.” He smiles as he says it. I notice Tally lost her battle and is smiling, too.

  “How does one get banned?” I ask.

  “Tally and the events coordinator had creative differences.”

  I lift my eyebrows at her. She shrugs again. “Long story. Let’s just say I could have handled it better,” she says. Blake shakes his head. “You hungry?” she asks. I guess I’m not going to get the whole story now.

  “Starved,” I say, and follow them into the kitchen. We stand around the island, munching on apples and oatmeal cookies. I count six cats now. Blake turns on the radio. “I love this song,” I say. Tally bites into her apple.

  “You like Nathan’s Sunday?” Blake asks.

  “Like them? Doesn’t everyone?” I ask. He nods and smiles. “I tried to get tickets when they played Madison Square Garden.”

  “No luck?” Blake asks.

  “No. I mean, maybe if my mom had let me camp out overnight.” That was a huge argument between Mom and me. One that lasted for weeks. It’s funny—I used to really stand up to her on things. But moving to Hog’s Hollow has changed that somehow. Now I can’t even stand up to her when she wants to buy Super Chunk Skippy instead of the smooth Jif that I like.

  Blake reaches for another cookie and I turn and gaze out at the ocean. The whole back wall of the kitchen is windows, so you can see a wide length of the beach. The sun is fighting through the clouds, brightening the sky. Hanging in front of the window are dozens of glass balls, each swirled with color.

  “They’re Poppy’s,” Tally says, seeing me looking at them.

  “She made those?” I ask. Tally nods. I walk over and reach up to touch one of the balls gently. It spins slowly, casting rainbows of light all over the room.

  I hear a door slam and soon Poppy enters the kitchen. She pulls a handkerchief from her head, letting her red hair spill across her forehead.

  “You found the cookies,” Poppy says. She takes one of the apples and bites into it. She reaches down and rubs an orange cat behind the ears.

  “These are amazing,” I say, touching a ball covered in spirals of blues and greens. “It looks like the ocean.” Poppy leans against the counter, watching me. I walk along the window, examining all of them, but I’m drawn back to the first one, the ocean one. I touch it again, watching the waves of blue and green shift as it spins gently. I always feel like I’m not going to say the right thing about someone’s art, like I don’t know the right words. “They are really beautiful,” I say.

  Poppy smiles and says, “Thank you,” and I feel like maybe I did say the right thing. Is it that easy—just say what you think?

  “Oh,” Tally says through a mouthful of cookie, “I saw Mr. Fish the other day.”

  Poppy looks at Tally. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.” She takes another bite of apple and chews thoughtfully. “Not really since he moved.”

  “He seemed good,” Tally says. “He’s working at the dairy.”

  “If you see him again . . .” Poppy stops and looks at the apple in her hand. “I was going to tell you to ask him to drop by.” Tal
ly nods, and they look at each other for a moment. “Maybe I’ll swing by the dairy and just say hi.”

  Poppy smiles at me. “Penny, feel free to come over anytime. You seem to have a real eye for art.” She picks up the handkerchief and ties it over her hair again. “Of course I mean that in a very self-congratulatory way.” She laughs at herself. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have a date with a soldering iron.” She lobs the apple core at the trash can as she walks toward the window. “The rain’s stopped. You should go out.” She smiles over at Tally. “You know, fresh air and all that.”

  Tally rolls her eyes, making Poppy laugh again.

  “I am always up for a walk on the beach,” Blake says. I nod, feeling a little flutter in my stomach. Quiet, I tell it. I can’t be all fluttery over some boy I’ve only just met.

  We head out, pulling on jackets and sweatshirts against the mist that the rain left behind. We walk along in silence for a while. Tally seems lost in thought and Blake is munching on the two cookies he swiped before heading out the door. We step over a long swath of seaweed and pass a cluster of seagulls that seem overly territorial when we get too close to their pile of rocks.

  “Listen,” Tally says, stopping and taking my arm. “Do you trust me?”

  “I, uh . . .” I’m not sure how to answer her question. Luckily Blake does.

  “Tal, she just met you. All she knows about you is that you committed some sort of crime serious enough to get you banned from a wholesome community event, and you are obsessed with items you can find in office supply stores or here on the beach.”

  “You can’t find scissors on the beach.”

  “You know what I mean,” Blake says.

  “Okay,” Tally says, turning back to me. “I’ll rephrase. Do you trust me enough to let me spearhead your revenge on Charity?”

  I hadn’t really been thinking revenge. More like truce.

  It’s as if Tally can read my thoughts. “You can’t just let them get away with it,” she says.

  I look at Blake, and he shrugs, leaving it up to me.

  “Okay,” I say. “What’s your plan?”

  “The fewer people who know about it, the better,” she says. I wait, but she doesn’t say anything else. I almost ask again, but then I think about Tally’s question: Do I trust her? And I decide I do, because that’s what trust is—a decision.

  “Can we get a hint?” Blake asks.

  “Let’s just say that when it’s over, Charity will have suffered a blow and she will have no one to blame but herself.”

  “Sweet,” Blake says. “What can we do?” Again there’s that word we I’ve come to like so much.

  “I am going to need a little petty cash,” she says.

  I think of the seventy-five dollars I have stuffed into my Tootsie Roll bank. “Done,” I say.

  She smiles. “Okay, then.” She turns and walks quickly down the beach. As Blake and I follow behind, Blake tells me who owns each house we pass. He seems to have a story about every family.

  “Do you know everyone in Hog’s Hollow?” I say.

  He shrugs and bites into his last cookie. “I’ve lived here all my life,” he says. “In small towns, knowing things about other people is like breathing. You can’t help it, even if you wanted to.” We walk a little farther, stepping across another big piece of seaweed that was dragged up in the last storm. “That’s the Cathance place.” I look up at a house with purple pansies spilling off the back porch. “He’s a botanist,” he says. “Orchids mostly,” he says. “He’s trying to create a new kind. He wrote out a whole explanation for me if you want to read it.”

  “You never know when you’re going to need detailed orchid information,” I say, making Blake smile.

  Another house comes into view, but this one is closed up, its back door boarded over. We keep walking and I wait for the story, but Blake is quiet.

  “How about that one?” I ask.

  “The Fishes,” he says.

  “As in Mr. Fish?” I ask.

  He nods. Tally has stopped and is looking out over the water. We stop and stand with her.

  “Why is it all boarded up?” I ask.

  “About a year and a half ago, there was an accident.” Blake nods toward the distant islands. “Out there.” Blake looks back at me. “It was pretty bad.”

  “An accident?” I ask.

  “His wife went out by herself in a kayak. A freak storm hit. The divers from the state police were all over the bay, searching. They finally found parts of the boat and then they found her.” Blake looks back out at the water. “Like I said, it was pretty bad.” I nod, not knowing what to say.

  Tally picks up the story. “Mr. Fish kind of went nuts. He used to just walk the beach. Up and down, for hours.” She looks over at me. “Poppy used to come out with food for him. On nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d go out on the porch and he’d still be out there. Just walking.” Tally kicks a piece of drift-wood, scaring some seagulls that were cracking mussels against the rocks. “Sometimes I would see his son out here with him, all bundled up against the cold. Then one day, they were gone. They just boarded up the house and moved into town.”

  “That was the last time Mr. Fish has ever set foot on the beach,” Blake says. He picks up half of a mussel shell and throws it into the water. It floats for a moment, like a tiny boat, until a wave hits it and it disappears.

  “So, he’s better now?” I ask.

  “Define better,” Tally says, looking at me out of the corner of her eyes.

  That’s a tough one. I’m not sure I can. Luckily Tally lets me off the hook. “Now he spends most of his time out in the woods.” She waves her hand toward the hills above town.

  “Doing what?” I ask.

  “Some kind of project,” she says. “There are all kinds of theories—”

  “Like I was saying about small towns . . .” interjects Blake.

  “—but no one knows for sure.” Tally talks over him.

  “What happened to Mr. Fish’s son?” I ask.

  “He’s around.” Tally pauses, looking up at a gull circling above us. “Sort of. For a while it seemed like he was out of school more than he was in it. He was always ditching and taking off. He started volunteering at the ARK around the time I did, some sort of community service thing to keep him from getting suspended.” Tally shades her eyes against the sun that’s just peeking through the clouds. “That’s where he got his dog,” she says. “Since then, he seems better. Happier.”

  “The dog?” I ask, feeling the flip-flop. I tell it to hush. There are a bazillion dogs in the world.

  “He is awesome,” Tally says. Blake looks at her, making her smile. “I meant the dog!”

  “Uh-huh,” Blake says. “I see how all you girls are around that guy.” Blake makes his voice go all high. “Ohhh, he’s sooo cute.”

  Tally punches him lightly in the arm. “He’s got nothing on you, Pineapple Head.” Blake starts blushing like crazy. Tally turns to me. “However, Marcus is cute. Messed up, but cute. You’ve probably seen him. Just before dark, running on the beach. Just him and his dog, Sam.”

  chapter eight

  Just in case you don’t know, you should never, ever say the following: “Well, I guess it can’t get any worse.” Because here’s the lesson that I learned today: it can.

  I’m sitting in art, spreading gesso over my canvas. Miss Beans is going around the room, watching. She’s different from the art teachers I had in the City. There it was all art theory and “finding your inner muse.” Miss Beans is all about technique. “Art, like anything else, requires practice,” she says. I’m trying to paint in long, smooth strokes, so you can’t see my brush marks, but it’s hard. I keep overlapping the last pass and leaving these little ridges.

  The door opens and there he is again, but this time I know his name: Marcus. He has to pass right by where I’m sitting to get to the teacher. Ignore him. My brain is trying to stay on task, but my hand seems to have a mind of its own. My next pass i
s so wiggly that it looks like a wave is breaking right in the middle of my canvas. I peek at the front of the room, where Marcus is handing an envelope to Miss Beans. I will him to look my way, but he doesn’t. He waits while Miss Beans writes something on a piece of paper then folds it and gives it back to him. He turns, making me duck. Calm down. My next pass of the brush is even worse. The pileup of gesso is starting to look more mountain range-ish and less wave-ish. I keep my head down as Marcus walks toward me. He slows as he gets close. His hand hovers over the corner of my desk and then he’s past and out the door before I can register what’s happened. The grape Jolly Rancher sitting on my desk is the only evidence that he was here. I fold my hand over the candy and pull it into my lap before anyone can see.

  “Miss Beans.” I glance up to see one of the girls at the back table, one of the Lindseys (yes, there are three of them), waving her hand. She asks something about her canvas. Charity gets up and starts making her way across the room. I look back down at my work. If I mind my own business, they’ll leave me alone. I try to brush out the ridges by going across them as Miss Beans showed us. I start on another ridge, happy that I’m finally starting to figure out something.

  That feeling lasts about seven seconds.

  I hear it first, then feel it. The tub of gesso that I’m using is upended on my table and the paint slowly spills into my lap. Charity stands in front of me, watching, waiting to see what I’ll do. What I do is just sit there. She smiles slightly and continues toward the supply closet.

  “Oh, Pen Knee,” one of the Lindseys says from the back table. “What happened?”

  Miss Beans turns and looks at me, first at my face and then at the pool of gesso spreading under my feet. I stand up, watching it roll down my legs. Unfortunately, Tally is in the library picking up some art books for Miss Beans, so I’m alone in my soggy mess. Miss Beans walks over and hands me a stack of paper towels, which I use to try to mop up the front of my jeans. Charity is standing by the supply closet, smirking. I feel the heat behind my eyes. I have to blink fast to make the tears stay inside. The only thing worse than their seeing me with paint all over is their seeing me cry about it.