Frosted Kisses

by Heather Hepler

  “Oh, hi,” she says.

  “Oh, hey,” he says. And it’s insane, but I try to figure out if her hey is the same as the hey I got.

  Esmeralda looks at me. “Penny, right?” she asks. I nod in what I hope is a neutral way. I mean, seriously. It’s not like we go to some megaschool with thousands of students. And besides, we have three classes together. And I sit right behind her in one of them. “Still studying for the history test?” I nod again. “Well, if you ever need help, let me know. My school in Paris was considerably more rigorous than the classes here.”

  “Thanks,” I say, vaguely feeling like I was just insulted. The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch.

  “I guess we’d better go. We wouldn’t want to be late,” she says. She tilts her head and smiles at Marcus.

  “Yeah,” he says. Esmeralda steps slightly away from us in a not so subtle follow me move. Marcus seems unsure whether he should go or wait for me to pack up all of my stuff.

  “Go ahead,” I say.

  “Good luck on your test,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say, watching him walk across the library with Esmeralda. She pauses at the door, which he opens for her. Her merci followed by her musical laugh floats across the library. I sigh and close my notebook. As I walk to history, I tell myself he’s just being nice to her because she’s new. But what if that’s why he’s being nice to me, too? I shake my head and tell myself that’s dumb. You don’t go on walks on the beach with someone just because she’s new. And you don’t almost kiss someone just because you’re nice. Do you?

  * * *

  Okay, three cords of wood is a lot. The pile of wood sitting in the middle of our front yard is huge. Gram informs me that when it’s stacked, a cord is four feet high, four feet wide, and eight feet long. For the record, that’s 128 cubic feet of wood per cord. Times three. Even with only the smallest break and both of us working, it’s nearly dark before we finish hauling the last of it into the barn. Gram asks if I can finish up so she can start dinner. I’m just sweeping all of the bits and pieces of wood into a pile when Mom pulls into the driveway. She climbs out and regards me for a moment. I know I must be a sight. Hair every which way and covered in sawdust and dirt and bits of bark.

  “Looks like I’m right on time,” she says.

  “Ha-ha,” I say. My mother is hysterical.

  “Well, this should cheer you up,” she says. She lifts a package from the front seat and hands it to me. It’s from my dad. I take off my gloves and tear it open. I love getting mail. It’s like mini Christmas six days a week. Inside is a blue blob of fabric and a long, flat box. I tuck the envelope under my arm and shake open the fabric. It’s a T-shirt with what looks like Japanese printing on the front and a drawing of a cat with one paw raised. I hand the shirt to my mom and turn my attention to the box. It’s wooden with a red lacquered top. I slide it open, revealing a pair of red chopsticks with a gold flowered pattern around the end.

  “These are pretty,” I say. Mom nods. “I guess he went to Chinatown?”

  “I guess so,” she says. It’s out of character for him to send me anything at all, much less something so random. I check the envelope again and see a small sheet of paper. I pull it out. Printed across the top in bold type is PETER LANE ESQ.

  Hey, Bean. I saw these and thought you might like them.

  Call me. We need to talk about Thanksgiving.

  Love, Dad.

  P.S. The mouse is for Oscar.

  Confused, I check the envelope again. Shoved way down in the corner is a tiny stuffed mouse with a long string tail. I pull it out and sniff it. Catnip. Oscar will be thrilled. “Guess I should call Dad,” I say.

  Mom nods. “Well, how about dinner first?” she asks. She smiles, but it’s thin. And I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am. Dad’s call mes aren’t generally good news.

  “I just need to close up the barn,” I say. She nods, but I can see the pain in her eyes. I know she’s trying hard to be normal about my dad, but I also know just thinking about him is difficult for her. I hand her the empty envelope and the trio of gifts. “Be right in,” I say. She heads toward the house as I turn toward the barn. I suddenly feel horribly sad. I know some of it is because I’m just tired, but some of it is because it strikes me that this will be the first Thanksgiving we won’t spend as a family. I know I should have thought about it before, but I guess I was so wrapped up in starting school and Charity and just the whole divorce that it didn’t really sink in. I turn off the lights in the barn, pull the heavy door across the opening, and hook the latch. I stand in the yard for a moment and look up. It’s barely dark, the sky a deep navy shifting into black. And it feels too big and I feel too small. I realize that Thanksgiving is just the start. Then there’s Christmas and New Year’s and my birthday and then a whole new year of holidays.

  And then, of course, there’s the other thing. The thing that Mom and I have never really talked about. My dad’s great at making plans, but he’s not the best at the follow-through. In fact, he stinks at the follow-through. Mostly I just assume things aren’t going to happen. That way if they do, it’s a happy surprise. If they don’t, well, then I’m not devastated.

  “This stinks,” I announce to the sky. I frown at the darkness. The sky doesn’t seem to care one way or another. “Fine,” I say, realizing how insane it is to be talking to the sky. Then I spot the first star, bright and shining. A tiny spot of light in the dark. And for some reason it actually makes me feel a little bit better. “Thanks,” I say. Then I head toward the house to where I know it’s warm and there’s a shower and the smells of chili and homemade corn bread are wafting out into the yard. Just before I step inside, I look up one more time. Now instead of one, there are a hundred stars all twinkling for anyone who takes a moment to look. “Now you’re just showing off,” I say, but it makes me smile. And I head inside. Tired, but hopeful, and really, really hungry.

  I leave messages for my dad on his work voice mail and his cell phone. I try texting him for the sixth or seventh time during breakfast on Friday.

  “Still nothing?” Mom asks from where she’s going over her calendar. I shake my head.

  “He’s probably just busy,” I say. But this is classic Dad. He makes a gesture, which gets my hopes up, and then disappears. I take a look at the clock.

  “I should go,” I say.

  “Is it that time already?” Mom sighs and pulls her hair back into a ponytail. She looks tired. I know the bakery has been busy and she still hasn’t been able to find a full-time baker to help her. I hug her as I pass, something I need to do more often. Then I rush upstairs, brush my teeth, and try to wrestle my hair into something less chaotic than usual. I give up and just pull it back into a knot. I give myself one last look in the mirror. I’m wearing the shirt my dad sent for the first time. I grab my backpack and then go back for my new chopsticks on a whim. I quickly jam them into my twist of hair and head downstairs.

  I grab my fleece and pull it on. Then I shoulder my pack. “Bye,” I call as I head out the door. Mom waves from where she’s still sitting, frowning over her calendar. I hurry to the bridge to meet Tally, but she’s not there. I check my watch and realize I’m later than usual. Maybe she gave up and went ahead. By the time I get to school, I only have a few minutes to get to my locker and make it to class. I’m barely in my seat just as the bell rings.

  School is mostly listen, write, answer questions about numbers or events or word choices. Repeat. And repeat. Art is a different story. Art makes me feel alive. It makes me feel like I fit. Not even the sight of Charity and her clones can make me stop smiling. I slide onto the stool beside Tally, who is frowning over a creased and stained letter.

  “Hi,” I say. She jumps at my voice and quickly slides the letter off of the table and onto her lap. “Tally,” I say. “What is that?”

  “Nothing,” she says. She folds the letter and jams it into the front pocket of her backpack. When she sits back up, her cheeks are flushed.


  “You sure you’re okay?” I ask.

  “Drop it,” Tally says. Her voice is harsh and cold. Nothing like it usually is.

  “Sorry,” I say, feeling hurt.

  Tally sighs and looks at me. “No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m just being emo.” She doesn’t offer up a reason for why she’s being emotional and I don’t press it. “Any idea who that is?” Tally asks, nodding toward Miss Beans’s office. Miss Beans is in there talking with some guy with long red hair pulled back into a ponytail and a tattoo of a fish on his forearm.

  “No idea,” I say. The door into the hall opens, spilling noise into the room. Then Esmeralda walks in. I notice once again how she doesn’t even seem real. How can you get all the way to fourth period and still look like you just stepped out of a magazine? I glance around the room. Most everyone else looks rumpled or wrinkled or just tired. Even Charity’s hair looks a little limp. But Esmeralda’s hair falls in swirling waves across her shoulders. And her dress, which would look like a sack on anyone else, makes her look sophisticated in a way that should be totally impossible for someone only fourteen. As she passes, she leaves the faint smell of oranges in her wake.

  I glance over at Charity, who is staring at me. “Nice chopsticks,” she mouths. And I feel my cheeks go pink. What for four hours seemed cool and funky now seems stupid. I resist the urge to take them out. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. Instead I pull out my sketchbook. I told my mom if I had to make another snowflake cupcake, I might scream. She said I was welcome to come up with something new. I frown at the sketches I made during French class. A wonky penguin and a sad snowman. Not exactly my best work.

  Charlotte comes in and slides onto the stool on the other side of me. “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi,” I say. I still don’t know how to act around Charlotte. I’m trying to be nice but cautious, but I have a feeling I’m mostly being awkward. It’s just hard. Three weeks ago, she was laughing along with the other minions every time Charity pranked me or said something mean to me. And now she seems to want to be friends. I guess I’m just trying to keep an open mind and keep my eyes open.

  “I like your hair,” Charlotte says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “What are you working on?” she asks.

  “I’m trying to come up with a new winter cupcake design.” I turn my sketchbook so she can see what I’ve done so far.

  She looks at them thoughtfully. “A couple of years ago my family spent Christmas with my mother’s family in Sweden. There everything was red and white. And everything was from nature. Birds and pinecones and reindeer.” She smiles. “And gnomes. Lot and lots of gnomes.” Her cheeks get pink. “Sorry,” she says.

  “Why?” I ask. “You just gave me a lot of great ideas.”

  She shrugs. “Charity always said—” She looks down at the sketch pad again. Whatever Charity always said to her must have been about as awesome as what she always says to me.

  “Maybe Charity was wrong,” I say. Charlotte looks sort of shocked, like I just suggested that maybe breathing air isn’t good for you, but then she grins.

  The door to Miss Beans’s office opens. Miss Beans walks out, followed by the guy with the red hair. She lifts her hand to get everyone’s attention. “I’d like to introduce Chad Stinson. Mr. Stinson is both a sculptor and painter. He’s recently moved here from New York City.” Miss Beans smiles at me. “I’ve invited him today to share with you all about the exciting new work he’s doing.” She steps back slightly, giving him the floor.

  Chad Stinson holds up a handful of springs and a broken plate. “What would you call these?” he asks.

  “Um, junk?” one of Charity’s minions says.

  Another says, “Trash.”

  There are the usual titters from the rest of the clones, but those are quickly silenced by one look from Miss Beans.

  Chad Stinson isn’t fazed; he just nods. “That’s one way of looking at it. Anyone else?” I tilt my head, trying to see what he’s seeing. He looks around the room from face to face. But then he looks at me. “What about you?” he asks.

  “Um,” I begin, drawing smirks all around from the back table. I ignore them and study what he’s holding for a moment, trying to see what he sees, and then I say something before I really even think it through. “Possibility,” I say.

  Chad Stinson leans forward and really looks at me. “Nice,” he says, nodding. “I was going to say inspiration, but I like your answer better.” He puts the springs and the plate on the table and walks over to the corner of the room where a cart is covered with a drop cloth. He wheels it into the center of the room and then removes the cloth. Everyone leans forward to see what he’s brought. Boxes and boxes of possibility. Broken clocks, mismatched silverware, a Mason jar full of corks. There are pipes and dials and a battered whisk. And a whole bowl full of doorknobs. Tally leans forward.

  “Cool,” she whispers.

  Chad Stinson picks up an old broken windup clock. “Repurposing or upcycling is all about honoring what was with what could be.” I see Tally nodding out of the corner of my eye and smile. She loves anything vintage or funky or just old. I love the idea of taking something that someone doesn’t want anymore and turning it into something beautiful.

  Miss Beans walks into her office and wheels out another cart. “Mr. Stinson and I are going to pass around some of his latest projects.”

  “Feel free to touch them, poke them, prod them,” Chad Stinson says.

  “But don’t break them,” Miss Beans says. She lifts the sheet from the cart she is pushing. At first it seems like another cart full of random objects, but then I see what looks like a birdhouse. It’s not exactly like the one in the library. Instead of twigs, this one is made from colored pencil stubs, but it’s obvious it’s from the same artist. Miss Beans picks up one of the sculptures, a frog made from old clock parts and what looks like the gas tank of a motorcycle. She carefully delivers it to the closest table. She and Chad Stinson distribute different sculptures to each of the tables. We get a Ferris wheel made from a bicycle wheel and mismatched china teacups.

  “Holy wow,” Tally says.

  “Holy wow?” I whisper. She just grins at me.

  Miss Beans talks with Chad Stinson for a few minutes while we look at his work. I glance over at Charity, who is mostly rolling her eyes and looking bored. She glances over at me and sneers. Lovely.

  “So, what do you think?” Miss Beans asks, walking over to us.

  “Amazing,” Tally says. Charlotte nods and smiles.

  “What about you, Penny?” Miss Beans asks.

  “Holy wow,” I say. Tally just laughs and Miss Beans smiles. She walks back to the center of the room and raises her hand for everyone to be quiet again.

  “As you might have guessed,” she says. “This is your next project. Actually this is your final project for the semester, so I expect big things.” She outlines the project, telling us how large our sculptures need to be (huge) and that they need to capture something about ourselves. “Glue, paint, and any kind of mounting materials are fine, but everything else has to either be repurposed objects or things you find out in nature.”

  We spend the rest of the class period poring over the boxes of materials and selecting things we want to use for our sculptures. By the end of class, I have a coil of wire, a copper finial from an ornate lamp, and a handful of wooden Tinkertoys. Tally has a box full of Christmas ornaments and an old film reel. Miss Beans tells us to put our finds into our cubbies. Then Chad Stinson spends the rest of the class demonstrating different techniques that he uses for his work.

  After class Miss Beans asks for a volunteer to help put things away. I raise my hand, earning me an eye roll from Charity. She leans over to Esmeralda and whispers something, but Esmeralda is too busy talking with one of the clones to notice. Charity sits back up and frowns.

  “Hey,” Tally says. “Want me to wait for you?”

  “No,” I say. “Go ahead. I’ll meet yo
u in the lunchroom.”

  “You sure?” Tally asks, glancing over at Charity. I nod and wave her away. Charlotte, who is slowly stacking her books, cuts her eyes at Tally. The sight of her sitting in the library during lunch comes back to me. I realize I haven’t seen her in the lunchroom after she stopped hanging out with Charity. And I wonder if she’s been hiding out in the library ever since.

  “Charlotte,” I say. “Maybe you’d like to sit with us at lunch?” She looks from me to Tally and back.

  “You sure?” she asks.

  Tally nods. “Totally.” Then she looks at me. “See you in there?”

  “Yep,” I say. Charlotte follows Tally out into the hall. Esmeralda is right behind them, trailed by the clones. Charity, who is still putting away her things, is left behind. I stand up and push in my stool, watching her. She looks sort of lost and sad, and for a moment, I feel sorry for her. Maybe everything isn’t so awesome in mean girl land. But then she looks up. She narrows her eyes at me and I have the distinct feeling that she didn’t want anyone, least of all me, to witness the fact that she was left behind. She picks up her things and walks toward me. She pauses, sniffs, and then makes a face.

  “You might try to take a shower once in a while,” she says. “Maybe then you wouldn’t smell so horrible.” Chad Stinson walks back into the room. Charity offers him her best pageant smile. “Later,” she says to me before heading out into the hall. I cringe. With Charity even one word can unglue me.

  I spend most of lunch helping box up the sculptures and then transporting them to Chad Stinson’s truck. Miss Beans teases him about his truck’s wonky paint job. It’s mostly blaze orange, but the driver’s-side door is fuchsia. He stands back and looks at it critically. “It’s not horrible,” he says. “Besides, it only cost me a little over seventeen dollars.” He looks at me. “I did it myself,” he says.

  “He also did the body work himself,” Miss Beans says, nodding toward the front bumper, which is held in place with blue duct tape and zip ties.