Frosted Kisses

by Heather Hepler

  Then she shakes herself. Literally. “Sorry,” she says. Then she grabs the sleeve of my jacket and pulls me to go faster. By the time we make it to school, we’re nearly running. She pulls the door open and heads inside. And I follow, wondering what that was all about.

  Charlotte walks past, well, scurries past. It’s so bizarre that Tally, Blake, and I are all watching her.

  “What’s her deal?” Blake asks. “I thought you guys were friends now.”

  Tally just shrugs like it doesn’t matter to her, which is weird. Charity is waiting for Charlotte near the front doors. Charity’s body language makes it clear she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

  “Well, I’m out,” Blake says. He walks away without saying goodbye.

  Tally is still staring at Charity and her minions. With the addition of Charlotte, the count is up to five. Tally would say six because she sees Esmeralda as one of the minions. Esmeralda smiles over at us. Tally just makes a face and turns away.

  “Tally,” I say, “what’s with you?”

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “One minute you’re fine. And the next—”

  “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just …” I wait, thinking here it is. She’s going to tell me what’s been bugging her, but then the bell rings. “See you in art?” she asks.

  “Okay,” I say. She heads toward her locker and I head toward mine, which still smells vaguely of cheese.

  * * *

  I finally have my dirigible looking, well, dirigible-ish. And I have Esmeralda to thank for a lot of it. She actually came over and asked if I wanted some help. Charity looked furious, but Esmeralda didn’t seem to care. Esmeralda is the one who suggested I paint it to match the sky. “Like le camouflage.” (Which is apparently a French word.) She’s also the one who helped me figure out how to attach the gondola to the balloon. (Also a French word.) Tally is completely silent the entire time.

  “Are we still on for this afternoon?” I ask Tally when Esmeralda heads over to the supply cabinet for more glue.

  “For what?” she asks. She’s back to doodling in her sketchbook. Hundreds of stars crowd together, taking up two full pages.

  “Puppy-cups?” I say. Tally asked my mom if we could make some dog-friendly cupcakes to sell at the bakery to help raise money for the ARK.

  She shrugs. “I guess.”

  Miss Beans walks to the center of the room and asks for our attention. “I have an exciting announcement to make. The Winter Fest committee has agreed to allow any of you who wish to donate your pieces to the silent auction held during the festival. As you know, proceeds from the auction go to support various groups in the community. This year, they have selected the ARK as the recipient.”

  Tally grins.

  I lean over to her. “Did you know about this?”

  She nods. “Monica and I talked about it, but I didn’t want to tell you until it was for sure.”

  Miss Beans looks around. Maybe everyone’s blood sugar is a little low because it’s almost lunchtime, but no one seems that into it.

  “I’m in,” Tally says.

  “Big surprise,” Charity says.

  “I’ll just pass around a sign-up sheet,” Miss Beans says. “Now back to work.”

  I go back to tying on the gondola and Tally returns to her stars.

  Esmeralda just sits quietly on the other side of me, sketching. I glance at what she’s drawing. It’s startlingly good. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; she seems to be awesome at everything. It’s a simple line drawing of a dog, but it’s so realistic that it almost looks like a black-and-white photograph.

  “That’s really good,” I say to Esmeralda. She smiles at me. Tally frowns at what Esmeralda is drawing and then stands up and walks toward Miss Beans’s office. I watch her walk away and sigh. Then I turn my attention back to Esmeralda.

  “Is it Marcel?” I ask.

  She looks at me and smiles. “You remembered his name.” Then she looks back at her drawing. “I just miss him.”

  “You can still come to the ARK sometime with us. There’s some pretty cute dogs there. I mean, they’re not Marcel, but …”

  Esmeralda shakes her head. “I don’t think so,” she says. She nods toward where Tally is talking to Miss Beans.

  “She’ll be fine,” I say, but, in truth, I’m not totally sure. She’s been acting so erratic lately. Esmeralda isn’t convinced either. “Well, I don’t have a dog, but I have a giant cat who thinks he’s a dog. If you want, you could—” I pause. Did I just invite Esmeralda to my house?

  “I’d like that,” she says. Tally is heading back to our table.

  “Great,” I say. Tally sits back on her stool and starts drawing stars again. Esmeralda gets up and drifts back to her table. Then Tally looks at my sketchbook. The edge of a piece of paper is poking out of the top. Her eyes narrow.

  “Is that mine?” she asks. She yanks it out of my sketchbook. Tally glares at me. “You stole this?”

  “No,” I say. “I found it on the floor. I was just looking for the right time to give it back to you.”

  She shakes her head. “Well, then I guess you know.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t—”

  “You want to hear my favorite part?” Tally asks. She unfolds the paper on the table in front of her.

  “Tally, I didn’t—”

  “ ‘The petitioner requests that any legal obligation between himself and the aforementioned minor be severed,’ ” Tally reads. She looks at me. “It almost makes my dad giving me up sound okay.” Tears form in her eyes. She swipes at them impatiently. “Turns out it’s totally legal to cut ties with your daughter.”

  “Tally,” I say softly. “I didn’t read it.” She looks at me for a long moment and then closes her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  She shakes her head. Tears slide out from under her eyelashes and down her cheeks. “Just leave me alone,” she whispers.

  The bell rings and she’s the first out the door. And I’m left sitting alone staring at a stained and crumpled sheet of paper that is far worse than I ever imagined.

  * * *

  I don’t see Tally before the end of the day, but I head to the bakery right after school. I have all kinds of ideas for decorating the puppy-cups. Making cupcakes might be the last thing Tally would want to do, but I’m hoping she shows up. I start laying out the ingredients in between helping customers. Peanut butter and oats and pumpkin and blueberries. It sounds gross, but they were a hit with the dogs at the ARK.

  Mrs. Whippet arrives to pick up the order for her daughter’s birthday. The order was for three dozen gingerbread cupcakes with brown butter frosting topped with a tiny gingerbread cookie. I do what I always do. I find the ticket, search through the cooler for the order, open the box to show it to Mrs. Whippet (who nods), tape the box shut, and take her money.

  I head back to the kitchen and start mixing together the puppy-cup batter, figuring the fun part is really the decorating anyway. I tell myself that Tally’s just running late. I’m pulling the last batch out of the oven when Mrs. Armitage arrives for her order. Snickers with a gingerbread man on top. (Because she wanted them to be festive.) She’s excited to see how they look and peeks in the box when I am ringing her up. Not only does she look in, but she sniffs. Several times.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “Actually—” she begins. I turned toward her, tape in one hand and her change in the other. “These smell an awful lot like gingerbread.”

  “Oh,” I say. “You’re probably just smelling the gingerbread cookies.” I nod toward the tiny gingerbread decorations.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Armitage said. “You’re probably right.” And so I tape the box up and send her on her way.

  I mix up the frosting for the puppy-cups and fill the pastry bags. I make up a couple of sample puppy-cup designs. A dish with a bone in it. A fire hydrant. A doghouse. Mom comes back to pick up the cupcakes for her last delivery.


  “Hey,” she says. “Those are cute.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I thought Tally was coming by,” she says.

  “Me, too,” I say. I want to tell her about the letter. I’m almost certain it’s part of the phone calls and notarized papers, but what if it isn’t? I don’t want to betray Tally. She’s angry enough already.

  “She’s probably on her way,” Mom says.

  “Probably,” I say, even though I know it’s a lie. When Tally told me to leave her alone, I did. But maybe I should have run after her.

  “Do you think you two can lock up tonight?” she asks. “I thought I’d head home after this last delivery and make a proper dinner. You know, something other than soup.”

  “I don’t mind soup,” I say.

  She kisses the top of my head. “I know, but something else might be nice for a change.” I help her carry the boxes to her car. “Just don’t forget to turn off the ovens,” she says.

  “I won’t,” I say. She climbs into her car. She waves as she pulls away. I walk into the kitchen and get back to work on the puppy-cups.

  By six, I’ve given up on Tally showing. I wrap up everything for the puppy-cups and put it away. I’m just about to lock the door when the phone rings. It’s Mrs. Armitage. She starts by apologizing for bothering me. And then she tells me a long story about how she has a terrible sweet tooth and how much she loves our Snickers cupcakes. And how she decided that the guests at her holiday party the next day wouldn’t notice if she snuck just one. Right? I make a hurry-up gesture with my hand, wondering why Mrs. Armitage’s secret snacking is any of my concern.

  “So, imagine my surprise when I bit into the cupcake and found out that it was gingerbread,” she says. Okay, maybe I’m distracted by seeing Marcus driving past on his four-wheeler. But it takes me several long seconds for everything to sink in. And while I do agree that it is terrible that I gave Mrs. Armitage gingerbread instead of Snickers, I am more concerned with the fact that at this very moment a dozen or more little girls are arriving at the Whippet house to celebrate Daisy turning seven years old. Daisy, who has such a terrible peanut allergy that she’s been hospitalized several times.

  “Mrs. Armitage,” I say, interrupting her second apology for bothering me. “Can I call you right back?” I hang up before she can answer. I find the order receipt and call Mrs. Whippet’s cell phone number. But it clicks over to voice mail. I try their home number, but that, too, just asks me to leave a message. I try my mom’s phone, and then Gram’s and then the house phone, but no one answers. I stare at the receipt, unsure of what to do.

  “Marcus,” I say aloud. I so do not want to ask for his help, but I can’t think of anyone else. I run to the door and look up and down Main Street. There’s his four-wheeler at Ed’s Minimart. I sprint down the street, not bothering to even take off my apron. He’s just coming back out, carrying a carton of eggs. He looks up and sees me.

  “Hey,” he says. “I was just going to stop in and—”

  “I need your help,” I blurt out.

  “Okay,” he says. I quickly explain my dilemma and how I need to get to the Whippet house on the other side of Tide Mill Farms. And can he please drive me over there? “Sure,” he says. “Grab your coat.”

  “No time,” I say. He takes off his coat and gives it to me. And if I weren’t so freaked out, I probably would have melted right there in the middle of the parking lot. But all I do is pull it on, accept the helmet he retrieves from the storage space under his seat, and climb onto his four-wheeler. No time for romantic gestures.

  He climbs on in front of me and secures his own helmet. And off we go. It’s already dark and really cold and we have to go slowly to avoid the icy patches. It seems to take forever to make the trek up to the Whippets’ house. But finally we arrive. Marcus pulls into the driveway and I am off and running toward the door almost before he stops.

  I ring the bell and wait. As I do, I realize I still have on the helmet. I quickly take it off. The door opens, spilling warm light and the screeching laughter of a dozen girls out onto the porch. Mrs. Whippet is standing there, staring at me with a butane lighter in her hand.

  “Penny?” she asks. She seems unsure, which is odd considering she just saw me only hours before, but then I realize what I must look like. Wild hair sticking up in a million directions. Eyes red and nose running from the cold ride. And wearing a frosting-streaked apron and a fleece coat at least four sizes too big.

  “Don’t eat the cupcakes,” I blurt out. “They have peanuts in them.”

  She blanches and flies back into the house. I peer around the door and watch as she takes her daughter’s cupcakes from the table ringed by girls just waiting to sing “Happy Birthday” and tuck into birthday cupcakes. She balances the plate in one hand and grabs the empty box with frosting still clinging to its sides with the other. She hurries to the door and thrusts the whole mess into my hands.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  She just nods. Terse. Angry. Then Daisy is at her side, eyes brimming with tears, wondering why the girl with the snotty nose and wild hair is stealing her cupcakes.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say again and again. Another quick nod from Mrs. Whippet. Then the door shuts, leaving me juggling a plate full of cupcakes, a helmet, and an empty box. I turn and look at Marcus standing near the four-wheeler. I don’t know what to do.

  What I do is burst into tears. Marcus quickly takes over, boxing up the cupcakes. He finds a hose to wash off the plate and places it on the porch. He then walks me to the four-wheeler and holds the box of cupcakes while I climb on. “We should just throw these away,” I say.

  “Not here,” he says. And I nod at his wisdom. Better to take the death-inducing cupcakes elsewhere for disposal. I put on my helmet. Marcus replaces his own before climbing on in front of me. We have to drive even more slowly on the return trip, not only negotiating the darkness and ice, but now trying to do so while I hold a box of cupcakes and a carton of eggs. We finally arrive back at the bakery.

  He helps me climb off and together we throw the cupcakes into the Dumpster behind the bakery. I take off his coat and hand it to him, and then I hand him the eggs, which are miraculously unbroken. Then for the first time, I think about him and Charity. And it hits me like an icy wave.

  “Well, thanks,” I say, taking a step back.

  Marcus starts to hug me, but I hold out his helmet in between us. He frowns and takes it from me. The thought of him hugging me just like he hugged Charity makes me feel sick.

  He stashes the helmet under his seat and climbs onto the four-wheeler. “Good night, Penny.” His voice is flat and detached, and it makes my heart ache.

  “Night,” I say.

  He starts the engine and pulls out and down the alley. I stand and watch until he turns the corner. Then the back door of the bakery whips open.

  “Penny.” My mom is standing in the doorway, backlit by the bright lights of the kitchen behind her. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” She doesn’t wait for a response. Instead she just turns toward the kitchen. “She’s here,” she says. Gram joins her at the door. Both of them looking at me, anger and worry and relief etched into their faces. The fading sound of Marcus’s four-wheeler makes Gram look up. Mom narrows her eyes at me. “You were with Marcus?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I said. “But let me explain.” My eyes sting for a moment and then the tears start. In moments I’m sobbing and Mom’s hugging me and smoothing my hair.

  “Shh,” she says. “Whatever it is—”

  I cut her off, babbling about cupcakes and Tally and Marcus and peanuts. Mom keeps hugging me until I finally calm down. She leads me into the kitchen, grabbing the box of Kleenex off the desk on the way. I spend the next fifteen minutes alternating between blowing my nose and recounting everything that happened.

  “Well, thank goodness for Marcus,” Mom says. Then she gets on the phone. First she calls Mrs. Whippet and apologizes in ten different
ways, telling her we’ll issue her a full refund and bring fresh cupcakes out for the party immediately. Then she calls Mrs. Armitage, apologizing for the mix-up on her order. Then Gram drives two dozen nut-free cupcakes out to the Whippets’ for Daisy’s birthday while I remake cupcakes for Mrs. Armitage.

  It’s late by the time the three of us make it home. The chicken my mom made for dinner is cold and the rice has congealed into one giant rice ball. Mom says she can reheat the chicken and whip together a salad, but none of us is very hungry. I nibble on some cheese and crackers. Mom and Gram opt for cold chicken sandwiches and tea. I escape upstairs as soon as I can. When Mom comes up and checks on me, I pretend I’m asleep. I just don’t have any more words. They’ve all been pressed out of me and I feel defeated.

  Tally wasn’t at school the next day. At first I thought she’d just need some space, but when she didn’t show up on Wednesday, I decide to find Blake. He’d been sitting with the soccer players at lunch this week and it’s obvious he’s avoiding me when I see him in the hallway, which means he knows something that I don’t. In between classes I spot Blake talking with some of the soccer players and head toward him. But before I can reach him, he starts walking away. I think about hurrying after him, but I know he’s unlikely to tell me much of anything with his bros in tow anyway.

  Art class is miserable. I feel like I’m in quarantine. With Tally gone and Charlotte back on Team Charity and Esmeralda in her old seat, I’m alone at the table. Thankfully I still have my propeller to finish, so at least I have something to keep me busy. But it still feels horrible sitting all by myself. Feeling lonely when you are alone is one thing. Feeling lonely when you’re in the middle of a bunch of talking, laughing people? That’s something else entirely.

  “This is your last call,” Miss Beans announces from the front of the room. “Tonight I’ll be taking everything over to the bank where they’re setting up the auction. You are welcome to work through lunch if you want, but after that, what’s done is done. And what’s not done? Well, it’s still done.” She looks around at everyone to make sure we’re listening. The bell rings and everyone springs out of their seats. Everyone except me and Arthur, a guy who sits at the back with his serious gamer friends. He’s building what he calls Ode to Minecraft.