The Cupcake Queen

by Heather Hepler

  “Me, too,” Marcus says, his voice happy. We start walking away from the lights glowing in Gram’s house. I wonder if Mom and Gram are worried. Then I decide I don’t care. If they aren’t going to tell me things, I won’t bother either.

  “I used to live here,” Marcus says when we draw even with his darkened house. Sam is already sitting on the bottom step leading to the porch, making me think he’s probably been here with Marcus before. I look over at the Marcus, at the way wind is blowing his hair away from his forehead. “But then you probably already know that,” he says.

  I nod, making him laugh softly. “Small town.”

  He walks over to the steps leading up to the porch. “Here,” he says, taking my hand. “Watch the third step. It’s rotted through.” We sit on the top step, watching the water. Sam hops over the broken step and sits in front of me, his tail making soft brushing sounds against the wood. He puts his head in my lap, leaning his weight against me. The wind whips through the dunes, pushing at us. Despite Sam’s warmth on my lap, I shiver. “Cold?” Marcus asks. I shrug, but end up shivering again. “I can walk you home,” he says. I shake my head. No amount of weather is going to move me from this step. Marcus slides closer until I can feel his leg against mine. He puts his hand behind me on the steps and leans toward me, so he almost, but not quite, has his arm around me. “Better?” he asks. I can feel his warm breath on the side of my neck. I just nod, feeling my face flush. We sit like that for so long that Sam starts snoring softly against my leg.

  “Did you know that there are more than ten billion stars in the Milky Way alone?” Sam shifts against my leg and sighs deeply. “But that even on a really good night, with a new moon and no clouds, you can only see a couple thousand of them?” He leans toward me again, but this time it’s to lift his hand toward the sky. “There’s the Pleiades, and Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.” He goes on to list some of the other constellations hovering over us.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” I say. “One time my family spent a week on a lake in Maine. My dad took me out in the canoe one night. It was really cold. I didn’t want to go at first, but once we got out on the water, it was amazing.” I pause, suddenly shy, but I can feel Marcus beside me, listening. “The whole sky was filled—thousands of stars. We could even see the cleft in the Milky Way,” I say.

  “Not many people get to see that,” he says. He chuckles softly. “Not many people even know what that is.” Then he’s quiet again, thinking. “Listen,” Marcus says finally. And I do, but before he can say anything more, Sam lets out a snort that makes us both laugh. Marcus turns toward me, then looks back out over the water. “At the end of Hog Days . . .” He pauses again, making me smile. “I know, it’s lame. I guess really lame, considering where you moved from.” He’s quiet again.

  “The City wasn’t that great,” I say, and I mean it.

  “Well then,” Marcus says, and he leans forward a bit so that I can only see the side of his face. “There’s this dance. . . .” He pauses for a moment and I hold my breath. “I wonder if you might like to go.”

  “I’d like that,” I say. A tiny part of me wonders why he’s not asking Charity, but I’m not about to ask him that.

  He smiles at me—a real smile. “I’ll walk you home,” he says, standing up and reaching down for my hand. His bracelet slides down his wrist and rests against my fingers. We both hop over the rotten step onto the sand. I loosen my fingers on his, just in case he wants to let go of my hand, but he doesn’t. We walk toward Gram’s, Sam leading the way.

  “How do you know where I live?” I ask, even though I already know what he’s going to say.

  “Small town,” he says, squeezing my hand. He walks with me most of the way up the trail to Gram’s porch.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “For what?” he asks.

  I shrug a little. “Walking me home.” Even though what I want to say is asking me to the dance, holding my hand, making my night.

  It’s only then that I hear her. My mother is standing on the porch, a blanket wrapped around herself.

  “Penny,” my mother says, “you should come in now.” The strain in her voice makes her words clipped.

  Marcus takes a step back and I put my hand on his arm. I don’t want him to feel guilty about anything.

  “Coming.” I give Marcus an apologetic smile and say, “See you soon, okay?” before I turn to walk up toward the porch. I know the faster I get inside, the less likely it is that my mother will ruin things completely.

  chapter fifteen

  I sit on the end of the sofa and pull my knees up into my chest. I was hoping Gram would be here. Maybe to be on my side or maybe just to soften things a little. As if reading my mind, my mother says simply, “She’s sleeping.” She sits in the straight-back chair near the fireplace, the one Oscar always sleeps in. Oscar threads through her legs, wanting his spot back, then gives up and joins me on the couch.

  “I stopped by the bakery tonight after the chamber of commerce meeting.” I stare at my feet, noticing that the ankle of one of my socks is gray and speckled. Coffee grounds. “I thought you might like a ride.”

  “Really,” I say, and it comes out nasty, but I don’t care.

  She pauses for a moment. “I was worried when I couldn’t find you.”

  I just shake my head and look past her.

  “Penny . . .” She sighs.

  I keep looking past her, as if I’m looking out the window, but it’s so dark all I can see is my mother’s reflection.

  “I know this is hard for you.”

  “What exactly is hard for me?” I ask. My voice is sharp and too loud.

  She sighs again. “Starting a new school . . . making new friends . . .”

  Say it! I think. Just tell me what I already know. I think about asking her, but I want her to say the words, not just nod in agreement.

  Finally she says, “Penny, your father and I are separating.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, feeling even more anger rise in me. “Living three hundred miles away from each other already seems pretty separated to me.”

  She nods and looks at her hands. “Right. But now it’s more . . . official.” She takes a breath and I wait for more, but she’s quiet, maybe waiting for me.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, Penny,” she says flatly.

  I grab a pillow from the couch and hug it when what I really want to do is punch it. The fact that she doesn’t know what now is worse than her announcement that they’re separating. Without a plan it’s pretty obvious. Even though she hasn’t used the D word yet, unless somebody does something, that’s what’s next.

  When I came inside I thought I was in for a lecture about letting people know where I am or the dangers of being with strange boys in the dark. But instead I get this. We sit for several minutes. I put down the pillow and pet Oscar, feeling him purr.

  “Penny—”

  I hold up my hand. “If you’re going to tell me that you and Dad both love me very much, just don’t.”

  She looks at me for long enough to let me know that was exactly what she was going to say. Now she doesn’t know how to go on. Minutes of silence click by on the clock over the mantel.

  When she finally does speak again, it’s random and weird. “When did you do your hair?”

  “A couple of days ago.” I reach up and tuck my hair behind my ear again. Tally helped me put highlights in it, so now instead of just plain brown, it looks almost red in the light. I think red was a good choice, better than the green stripes Tally suggested.

  “You don’t like it,” I say, judging by her frown.

  “I don’t like that it took me a couple of days to see it.”

  The sadness in her voice takes some of my anger away. There’s more I want to talk about, but I don’t because she looks too tired and stressed right now.

  She keeps starting to say something, but each time she gives up. I wonder if this awkwardness drove Dad as cr
azy as it drives me. I immediately shut down the thought, feeling guilty.

  When she finally does speak again, it’s just, “Guess I’ll head up.” She folds her blanket over the back of the chair and walks toward the stairs. “Penny . . .”

  She waits for me to look at her, but I don’t.

  “Don’t stay up too late,” she says finally.

  “I won’t,” I say. But I’m lying. I know I’ll be up most of the night. Sleep seems to be another one of those things I forgot to pack when we moved here.

  I’m working the front at the bakery again. It’s become my after-school thing. Afternoons are usually pretty slow, so I can get some of my homework done. And boxing up cupcakes and cleaning the glass cases help keep my mind off last night’s conversation with my mother.

  In between customers, I’m trying to come up with a float design for the parade. I’m the last person who should be working on this. This year’s theme is The Way Life Should Be. Right now my life is anything but the way it should be. All I can come up with are suggestions for changing things. I crumple up another piece of paper and lob it toward the trash can.

  My mother has been on the phone for most of the afternoon, which is fine with me, because it means we can’t have another big talk. I don’t know who she’s talking to now, but she’s obviously not happy with whoever it is. Her voice keeps rising. So much that soon she’s going to start hitting an octave only dogs can hear.

  Just thinking about dogs makes me think of Sam, and thinking of Sam makes me think of Marcus, and thinking of Marcus makes my heart beat too fast. Half of me is sure he likes me, but only half. Because again today he sat with Charity at lunch. And when he’s with her, he won’t even look at me. I push my pencil too hard and snap off the point.

  I know I’m supposed to be all sophisticated. The big-city girl. But the truth is, Marcus is the first guy I’ve ever like-liked. Unless you count Tucker in seventh grade, and I don’t. Well, I did until he shaved off all his hair, started wearing combat boots, and talked about Warcraft all the time.

  I keep telling my heart that it shouldn’t get all crazy over Marcus, because maybe he’s just playing me. Maybe he’s even part of Charity’s big plan to get back at me. Unfortunately, my heart’s not listening very well.

  I give up on the float and try to come up with a design for the cupcakes that some woman ordered for her daughter’s wedding. Do something creative!!! is all that is written below the order details. The many exclamation points tell me it was Gram who took the order. My mom is more of a period woman. I try to think of something new, but it’s hard to get all that creative with shades of cream and white.

  I lean against the counter and watch the people walking by. Suddenly Tally appears in the front window, waving frantically. I push away from the counter and walk outside.

  “What?” I ask, but before I can get out another word, Tally starts talking breathlessly.

  “I’m entering—” she says. She’s holding a piece of paper, but I can’t read it.

  Blake runs toward us, his hair flopping with each step. “You have to hurry!” he says. “The form has to be in by five o’clock.”

  All three of us look at the big clock mounted on the bank building. Five minutes.

  “I’ll call you,” Tally says. Before I can say anything, she’s gone.

  “What was all that about?” I pull open the door of the bakery to let two women inside.

  “Tally is running for Hog Queen,” he says.

  “What?!”

  He shrugs and looks up the street toward where we can just see Tally disappearing into the town hall.

  “What possessed her to do that?”

  Blake looks as clueless as I feel. “I hope it wasn’t anything I said,” he says, smiling.

  One of the women I just let in peeks around the door and asks me, “Do you work here?” I nod. “I need to order some cupcakes for a baby shower.”

  “Gotta go,” I say to Blake. “I can’t wait to hear her explanation for this one.”

  At least baby shower cupcakes are easy to do when your brain’s on overload. I spend the next couple of hours making three dozen cupcakes covered in tiny blue and pink dots, each capped off with an icing bassinet. As I work, the dots seem to spin on the cupcakes, just like all the thoughts in my head. I stop and blink my eyes, trying to focus. It works for the dots, but not so much for everything in my brain.

  chapter sixteen

  I was hoping Tally would call immediately and fill me in about her decision. After dinner, I finally give up waiting for the phone to ring and walk down to her house.

  “Tell me,” I say as soon as she opens the door.

  Her hair is up in a high twist and skewered with a pencil. She leads me into her kitchen, where she has clothes spread out on all the counters. She picks up a shirt and looks at it.

  “Tell me,” I say again.

  “Okay already!” she says, laughing. “I was helping Poppy hang some of her glass balls in the window of Parlin’s store. I’m halfway up a ladder, trying to loop a fishing line over a hook in the ceiling. . . .” Tally looks at me. “That sounds easier than it is. I mean, that fishing line is hard to see and—” Tally stops, seeing my expression. “Anyway, Mrs. Wharton—you know, Charity’s mom—comes in and starts blabbing to Rhonda about how her daughter is a shoo-in for Hog Queen. Blah blah blah.” As she parrots Mrs. Wharton, Tally moves her hand like an incredibly lame puppet.

  “At what point during all of this did you lose your mind?” I ask.

  “Shh,” Tally says, pointing the hand puppet at me. “Then—get this—she says: ‘Thank you for your contribution to the cash prize.’ ”

  “So?”

  “So, I’m thinking that the cash prize would go a long way toward raising money for the ARK. Throw in the added bonus of seeing Charity denied the crown.”

  “Not to mention the pork products.”

  “Not to mention. But still, I’m minding my own business, hanging Poppy’s witch balls, when suddenly Mrs. Wharton is right there.” Tally puts her hand puppet close to her face and then recoils from it. “She starts in on the whole ‘Isn’t it nice that you’re helping Poppy out—considering your situation.’ ”

  “Eww,” I say.

  “Double eww,” Tally agrees. Either Mrs. Wharton is tactless or she’s just as mean as her daughter. “Then”—Tally scowls at her hand—“she tells me it’s cute that I’ve started my little campaign. Cute! Saving animals is not cute.” I shake my head in disgust, even though I’m not completely sure why Tally is getting so bent over cute. “So that’s it,” Tally says. She smiles at her hand then shoves it into the front pocket of her hoodie.

  “What’s it?” I ask.

  “That’s when I decided. I have officially cast my hat into the ring.” Tally flings an imaginary hat onto the floor.

  “Are you a hundred percent on this, Tal?” I ask, although I know the answer before she even opens her mouth.

  “Hundred and ten,” she says. “You’re going to help me, right?”

  “What about all that subjugation-of-females stuff?”

  “Oh, I still totally think pageants are degrading, but I’m not doing it for me, so I can look past the evil machine of modern culture that delivers propaganda to support the value of superficiality.”

  I nod, trying hard not to laugh.

  “Really, I’m not doing it so I can feel okay about myself. I’m solid.”

  “Okay, then,” I say. “What do you want me to do?”

  Tally leans against the counter. “Make me more . . .” She pauses and pulls her hair down out of the twist on top of her head. She flips the ends of her hair up to look at them.

  “More mainstream?” I ask.

  Tally nods. “I mean, Blake says I’m good as is, which earned him some serious brownie points, but I know I’m not exactly what pageant judges go for. I guess I just need to be more . . . more boring.” She sighs and tucks her hair behind her ear.

  I tilt my head
and look at what she’s wearing now. Leopard print cat’s-eye glasses, green-tipped hair, a skirt that she pieced together out of an old pair of jeans, rainbow-striped leggings, and checkered Vans. “More like me,” I say.

  Tally considers my jeans and long-sleeved blue T-shirt and smiles. “You are not boring, Penny,” she says. “You just keep all of your interesting stuff on the inside.”

  I shake my head.

  Tally picks up a bag from the pharmacy. Through it I can see the outline of a box of hair color. Tally should buy stock in L’Oréal. “Just brown,” she says, walking toward the stairs. She turns and looks at me. “Well, come on,” she says. “We can talk while we wait for the new color to set.” I wonder when was the last time Tally saw her real hair color and if she even remembers what it is.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever been in Tally’s room. It’s weird, too, because if Tally hadn’t told me it was hers, I wouldn’t have known it. It still looks like someone’s den or a guest room. The top of the dresser is bare except for a vase full of dried flowers and a sepia-toned photograph of two very stern-looking people.

  “You’re quite the minimalist,” I say.

  Tally looks around her room. “I guess I just haven’t really moved in—considering my situation.”

  “Just ignore her,” I say, giving Tally the same advice about Mrs. Wharton that Tally gave me about Charity. Tally goes into the bathroom and closes the door.

  I sit on the chair in Tally’s room. It’s huge, one of those double papasans that you could fit four people in. It’s good that it’s big, because I’m sharing it with three of Poppy’s now nine cats. I hear the sounds of water running and then a box being ripped open.

  Petting Mr. Blick, cat number seven, makes me remember petting Oscar during my “talk” with Mom last night. I want to tell Tally what happened, but I’m not up for it yet. I need to figure out how I feel about everything before I talk about it with anyone else.

  “So listen,” Tally calls from the bathroom. “I have this new theory.” I wait for her to continue, but she’s quiet again. Finally, the door opens. Tally looks pretty much the same except she’s traded her cat’s-eye glasses for some bright blue square ones and has her hair bundled on top of her head under a big purple towel. She sits on the bed across from me and puts her hand out.