Frosted Kisses

by Heather Hepler

  By the time the bell rings, Tally and I have figured out a strategy for trying to get Gram and Dutch together and get them to pull together the Pudding Plunge with only minimal help from us. “Hurry up,” Tally says. “I’m starving.”

  “You go ahead,” I say.

  “You sure?” she asks.

  “I need to finish this,” I say.

  Charity walks past and gives me a little wave. That can’t be good. Tally’s back is to her, so she doesn’t see.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Tally asks.

  I spot Blake waiting outside in the hall. “No, go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

  In moments, everyone is packed up and gone. Miss Beans tells me to close the door when I leave and heads to the teachers’ lounge. I work through lunch, framing out the whole balloon of the dirigible. The bell signaling the end of lunch rings just as I’m tying the last joint. I pack everything away and then I carefully pick up my sculpture and carry it back to the cubbies. It’s too big for the space, so I have to leave it on top of the shelving unit. I push it way back, where there is no chance for it to be knocked over. Then I grab my bag and head out, pulling the door shut behind me.

  The hall is packed. I merge into the press of people all trying to get to their lockers, trade gossip, and generally goof off. I step around two guys loudly debating whether a lightsaber or a plasma gun would win in a duel. I slide free of the mash of people and stop at my locker. There’s a funny smell, like nachos, but I decide it must be from the cafeteria. It must be taco day or something. I spin the dial and lift the latch. I’m so unprepared for what’s inside that it takes me a moment to get it. There’s something neon orange coating the entire inside of my locker. The smell hits me hard and I flinch back. It’s cheese. My jacket was draped over my books, so the cheese didn’t get on them. But my coat is covered. I look around for Charity. I thought she was through with stuffing gross things in my locker. I guess I was wrong. I fold my jacket in on itself to contain the cheese and push it to one side. The door is nasty, but that’s going to take longer than I have to clean up. I glance around to see if anyone has noticed me and my cheese-covered locker, but no one is looking at me. Even though it’s not my fault. Even though I’ve done nothing wrong, I feel ashamed. Because even if I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve this, maybe other people do. No one normal gets cheese poured all over her stuff. Do they?

  “Oh, Penny!” I turn and see Esmeralda walking toward me. Great. Of all the people, it has to be her. Perfect, beautiful, smart, and completely cheese-free. Esmeralda walks over next to me and peers into my locker. Her eyes widen.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. Even if my locker smells like a fiesta, I don’t want her help.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” she asks, pointing at the goo clinging to my locker door.

  “Cheese,” I say.

  She makes a face. Clearly le fromage français is not neon orange. “I’m so sorry, Penny,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say. Then the bell. And Esmeralda says she’s sorry again and that she’ll see me in class. Then she walks away. Right past Charity, who is standing not twenty feet from me, watching me and smirking. She offers me a little wave and then she also walks away. I want to follow her. I want to tell her off, but I’m too angry. And when I’m too angry, I usually start crying. And the very last thing in the world I want to do is make Charity think she can make me cry. I slam my locker shut and then instantly wish I hadn’t. Because I hear the distinctive sound of cheese product being flung from one surface to another.

  Don’t look, I tell myself. Just walk away. So I do.

  The bakery is dead. I’ve been here two hours and I’ve rearranged the cupcakes three times and cleaned the windows twice and still no one has come in for cupcakes. The only person to walk through the door is the UPS guy with an envelope for my mom that I have to sign for. I stare at it, wondering what it is. Last time something like this arrived, it was the papers my mom had to sign for their divorce. I put the envelope on the back counter and go back to working on my algebra.

  I try calling Tally, but no one answers. And maybe that’s just as well. I want to talk to her, but everything is just so weird between us. One minute we’re fine and laughing over something and the next we’re barely speaking to each other. I had to stay late to clean out the cheese, so I didn’t get to see her after school. The janitor kept glaring at me every time he’d make another pass with his mop. Like this was my fault. What exactly does he think I did? Cheese bomb? Thankfully he gave me a pair of gloves so I was saved from actually touching it, but I still had to smell it and see it. As far as I can tell, Charity must have just poured it into my locker through the vents. I guess I should be thankful. She could have opened my locker and dumped it right on my books. Yes, thankful she only poured it through the vents. Funny how a little nacho cheese can really change your perspective.

  The janitor finally took pity on me and told me he’d finish up. I gathered my books together and picked up the plastic bag with my coat stuffed inside and made my way to the front of the school. I tried to ignore the fact that I smelled like old nachos as I made my way down the sidewalk to the bakery.

  I’m almost all the way through my homework by the time Mom gets back from her delivery. I hear her in the kitchen, talking to someone on her phone.

  “I’ll have them notarized, and I’ll put them back in the mail right away,” she says. Then she’s quiet. I peek through the crack in the door. She’s leaning against the island and listening. “Just take it one step at a time,” she says. Then she says goodbye and hangs up. She takes a deep breath and sighs. I push into the kitchen.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  “What?” Mom asks.

  “The phone call,” I prompt. I was on the outside of everything as my parents were splitting up. I’m not about to let that happen again.

  The front door jingles and my mom smiles. “Sounds like we have a customer,” she says. She is past me and through the door before I can say anything. Then I hear her talking with someone about Tahitian versus Madagascar vanilla. I head out to the front, figuring once this customer leaves, I can try to talk to her again. I wait for a woman to finish her order for three dozen Snickers cupcakes. She wants them with gingerbread men on top.

  “I want them to be festive,” she says.

  “Of course,” Mom says. She’s amazing. I’ve never ever seen her get impatient with a customer. Even when they ask the dumb questions like do the banana walnut muffins have nuts in them? Or are our maple bacon cupcakes vegan? I pretend to straighten the cupcakes while Mom finishes writing out the order and the woman leaves with a handful of samples.

  “Anyway,” I say. Mom looks at me and for a moment I think she’s going to tell me something, but then she spots the envelope.

  “When did that come?” she asks.

  “About an hour ago,” I say.

  She checks her watch. “I need to run over to the bank,” she says. She grabs the envelope and heads for the front door. “I’ll be back in a bit.” The bells on the door jingle as she walks out. I watch her make her way across the street and down to the bank.

  “Seriously?” I say out loud.

  I’m back to homework when I spot her walking back. But she doesn’t come into the bakery. She just keeps going to the other end of the street. I step onto the sidewalk, braving the cold, and watch her head into the post office. “Seriously?” I say out loud again. Mrs. Hancock, the owner of the antique store next door, gives me a funny look. I smile at her, but she just mumbles something about teenagers and heads back into her shop.

  By the time Mom returns, Gram is back from taking holiday photos of some family who insisted that their nine-foot banana ball python be in every photo. I try a couple more times to ask Mom about the phone call and the envelope, which clearly are connected, but she isn’t talking, except to tell me that she’ll tell me everything at some point. Unless, of course, she ca
n’t. Yeah, that’s super helpful.

  * * *

  Tally isn’t waiting for me before school again, so the first time I see her is in art class. She’s looking at the sheet of paper again.

  “Hey,” I say, sliding onto the stool beside her. “Where were you?” I ask.

  “When?” she asks. She refolds the piece of paper she was looking at and stuffs it into the front pocket of her backpack.

  “This morning,” I say.

  “I overslept,” she says. She pulls out her sketchbook and starts doodling, drawing dots and crosses and curlicues and stars.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yep,” she says. She keeps doodling, refusing to look at me.

  “Tally—” I say.

  She shakes her head, silencing me.

  Charity and her clones come in. Charity barely glances in our direction on her way to her seat. I lean over to tell Tally about the cheese in my locker, but Charlotte walks in. I don’t really want to talk about everything in front of her. She starts heading toward us, but someone at the back table clears her throat. Well, fake-clears it. It actually sounds like ahem-hem. I glance over and see Charity is looking at her. Big surprise. Charlotte pauses in the middle of the room. She looks from Charity to me and back again. Then she frowns and walks over to Charity’s table. She sits on the stool next to Charity and stares at the desk in front of her.

  “Wow,” I say. I actually thought Charlotte was done with Charity. She’s eaten lunch with us a few times and even talked about volunteering at the ARK. Tally looks up and then over to where Charlotte is sitting. Charlotte glances over at us, but then quickly away. Tally just goes back to doodling as if nothing happened.

  Miss Beans comes out of her office. She makes a couple announcements about when our sketchbooks are due as well as a request to stop leaving the caps off the glue. Then she tells us to get to work. “You can talk,” she says. “Just work while you talk.” Unlike some of my teachers, she seems to get that we sometimes have a lot to talk about and that the ten minutes in between classes isn’t enough time to say all we have to say.

  For once, though, Tally and I don’t seem to have much to say to each other. We work quietly for most of the class period. By the time class is almost over, Tally is all but finished with her sculpture, while mine still looks like a big white blobby thing that vaguely resembles a whale with a pointy nose.

  I sigh. “Maybe I should do something else.”

  “It’ll work,” Tally says.

  “I just hope it doesn’t implode,” I say. Although not as deadly and catastrophic, my dirigible is about as flight-worthy as the Hindenburg.

  “It would be historically accurate to have it self-destruct,” she says. “But it would be in really bad taste.” Tally offers me a tiny smile, which I take as a good sign. Then she helps me smooth the last of the paper over the framework.

  When the bell rings, I tell Tally to go ahead to the cafeteria and that I’ll meet her there.

  Once everyone is gone, I stand back and look at the dirigible, trying to see it for the first time. It’s not terrible. There are places where the papier-mâché is uneven, but once it’s painted and hung, I’m not sure anyone will notice.

  I’m carrying the dirigible toward the cubbies when the door to the classroom opens and Chad Stinson walks in. “Oh,” he says. Not hi. Oh. Weird.

  Miss Beans pokes her head out of her door. She sees me and says the same thing. Oh. Then, to Chad, “Be right there.”

  “Take your time,” Chad Stinson says. He puts the paper grocery bag he’s carrying on the nearest table and comes over.

  “Hi,” he says. “Penny, right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  “Wow,” he says, peering at my sculpture. “May I?” He nods toward the dirigible.

  “Sure,” I say.

  He reaches out and taps it gently. “Nice job. Getting papier-mâché this thin without sacrificing the integrity of the structure is really difficult.”

  I want to say tell me about it, but I just say, “Thank you.”

  Miss Beans comes out of her office. I look at her and raise an eyebrow. Her hair, normally pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail or held in a bun on top of her head with pencils or the ends of paintbrushes, is down around her shoulders. And I’m pretty sure she has on fresh lip gloss.

  “Wow,” I say, looking at the clock. “I just realized I’m starving.” I quickly put away my project and then grab my books and my bag. There’s a folded piece of paper sitting on the floor right where Tally’s backpack was. I pick it up and examine it, realizing it’s not just a piece of paper, but the piece of paper.

  “We have plenty—” Chad Stinson says.

  “What?” I ask, turning to look at him.

  “Food,” he says, nodding toward the paper sack.

  “Oh no,” I say. “It’s Frito pie day in the caf.” Like that explains why I’m running out of the room like my head is on fire. “Bye.” I glance back at Miss Beans, who is smiling and shaking her head.

  I step out into the hall and pull the door shut behind me. I look at the piece of paper I’m holding, trying to decide whether to read it or not. If I read it, I’ll know what’s going on, but I’ll also be betraying Tally big-time. I slide the paper inside my sketchbook without opening it. Tally’s friendship is too important to risk over one piece of paper.

  I head toward my locker to drop off my books. I have to pass the library on the way to my locker. I try not to look. I actually tell myself out loud. Don’t look. But, of course, I do. And, of course, I see them. Marcus and Esmeralda sitting across from each other. He’s reading something from the book and she’s twirling a piece of her hair and looking lovely. He says something and she laughs and leans toward him. She points to something in the book in front of him and he leans closer to read what she’s pointing at. Their heads are only inches apart. And for a crazy moment, I think they’re going to kiss. Right there in the library. But then Esmeralda looks up and sees me. She smiles and nods toward where I’m standing and spying. I try to hurry away before Marcus can see me, but somehow I manage to trip over my feet and almost, but not quite, run into a post. I duck my head and quickly walk away. Why am I always such a spaz? Will there ever be a day when I can just be normal?

  I head to my locker to retrieve my lunch. I spin the dial and open the door. A paper drops to the ground at my feet. I pick it up and unfold it. It’s pink with a border of tiny hearts along one edge. The initial C is embossed into the top in curlicue script.

  Be careful. Things are not as they seem.

  C. No big mystery there. Charity. I frown at the note, then crumple it up and chuck it into the nearest trash can. I don’t know what game she’s playing at, but I don’t want any part of it. I grab my lunch and head toward the cafeteria, where the smell of Frito pie is blending nicely with the smell of grungy soccer uniforms and sweaty feet.

  Okay, for people who have never worked in the food industry, the words grease trap would be somewhat disgusting. But for anyone who has worked in any kind of restaurant or other purveyor of food, the words grease trap have the ability to induce nausea, a deep-seated fear, and possible complete cerebral shutdown. Until about ten minutes ago, I was in the first category, blissfully unaware of the horrible secret lurking just under my feet.

  When I arrive Mom announces that it’s time to clean the grease trap. Apparently that’s the big job she needs help with. I say, “Sure.” Because first of all she’s paying me. And second, it’s my mom. And third? Well, I’m still ignorant. She tells me to get a bucket and rubber gloves. Then she hands me a giant spatula I’ve never seen before and tells me to follow her.

  We head out the back door and around to the side of the building where there’s a door to the cellar. Cellar is actually a pretty nice way of describing the space beneath the bakery. More like scary room with rusty drains lit only by bulbs hanging from extension wires. Mom flips the switch and leads me past the hot water heater and the oil furnace and
to the far side of the room. Sitting in the corner, connected to a bunch of pipes, is a metal box. It’s about four times the size of a shoe box.

  Mom reaches into her pocket and pulls out two of those paper masks that dentists always wear when they’re cleaning your teeth. She hands one to me and puts the other on. This is when I start thinking maybe this grease-trap thing isn’t going to be the cakewalk I thought it was going to be. She tells me to put on the rubber gloves. Then she kneels in front of the box and pries up the top. She lifts the cover and places it to one side.

  “What is that?” The question is out of my mouth before I even realize it. Mom laughs. She’s kneeling in front of what can only be described as the most disgusting substance on the planet, and she actually laughs. She puts on her gloves and takes the spatula from me.

  “Just hold the bucket for me,” she says. I kneel beside her. For the record, I have never smelled anything as horrible in my life. And I’ve had up-close-and-personal experience with many species of poop. Chicken, cat, dog, cow. And I attend school daily with a bunch of guys who somehow believe that enough cologne will cover the fact that what they really need is a shower and some deodorant. Mom starts scooping the brownish yellow sludge into the bucket one disgusting spatula full at a time. Once it’s empty, she takes the bucket from me. She retreats upstairs and returns with another bucket full of hot, soapy water. I help her wash the inside of the trap and the lid and put the whole thing back together. Finally we’re finished.

  “Well, that was gross,” I say. Clearly I have a knack for stating the obvious. We head back upstairs, where Mom tells me to just throw away my mask and gloves. She washes her hands, then heads out front to see if Gram needs any help. I wash my hands at least half a dozen times, but the smell of the grease seems to cling to me. Finally I give up, deciding I’m not going to get clean until I can get home and get a proper shower. Preferably a long, hot one. I console myself with the fact that as long as I stay in the kitchen, I won’t see anyone I know. Then the back door opens.