Frosted Kisses

by Heather Hepler

  “Bye, Penny Lame,” Charity says, walking past.

  “Leave me alone,” I say.

  Charity pauses and looks around. “Looks like you already are.” The clones all think this is hilarious. Charlotte frowns and looks at the floor.

  Esmeralda shakes her head and looks at me. “Don’t listen to her, Penny. She’s just jealous.” Esmeralda pushes past Charity and her clones and out into the hall, leaving all of us stunned. Charity gives me one more withering look before heading out into the hall. The clones are close behind. Charlotte hangs back for a moment, but then she’s gone, too. I might have imagined it, but it definitely looked like Charlotte smiled just a little bit when Esmeralda told Charity off.

  * * *

  Tally is still a no-show on Thursday. And Blake’s still avoiding me. I’m actually looking forward to going to the bakery after school. In between the forty dozen cupcakes for Winter Fest and a handful of regular orders, it’s more than my mom and Gram can handle alone. I’m grateful to be busy.

  Unfortunately, my mom is driving me completely mental. She’s double- and triple-checking everything I send out the door at the bakery, and all because I made one teeny, tiny mistake. Okay, it wasn’t that tiny, but I did catch it in time, so no harm done. Right? Wrong.

  “Penny?” Mom calls from the front. “Don’t forget that the Schumacher order is for blackberry with lemon, not raspberry with lemon.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I know.” I try to keep the impatience out of my voice, but I must not be successful because when Mom comes back into the kitchen to check that I’m actually following her instructions, one of her eyebrows is raised. We work in silence together. The only sounds are the mixer running constantly, trying to keep up with our frosting needs, and the oven doors opening and shutting.

  “A big storm is supposed to hit right in the middle of Winter Fest,” Gram says from where she’s stirring a batch of lemon curd on the stove. She looks at me and I wonder if she figured out that Tally and I had no idea what we were talking about when we mentioned the upcoming sketchy weather. She narrows her eyes at me. Yep, she did. “Should make for a brisk Pudding Plunge,” she says.

  “How’s that going?” I ask. After Tally and I convinced Gram and Dutch to take over the Pudding Plunge, we pretty much just left it up to them.

  “Good,” Gram says. “The pool is arriving tomorrow. Hanson’s Construction is bringing their cement truck over around three. It’ll take most of the night, but we’ll have a pool full of chocolate pudding by morning.”

  “Gram,” I say. “You are amazing. Thank you.”

  Gram shakes her head. “All I did was find the pudding mix. Dutch did all the rest.” She keeps stirring the lemon curd. “Well, I did have to make a trip over to the Town Office. That Leonard Vernon wasn’t going to approve the permit, but I convinced him.”

  “I’ll bet,” my mother says. She makes a face at me. Gram can be crazy intimidating when she wants to be.

  “So how is it working with Dutch?” I ask.

  “He seems really enthusiastic,” she says.

  “I’ll bet,” I say softly. Mom has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. I smile back at my mom and for the first time since the near cupcake catastrophe, she is finally treating me normally. Then she ruins it.

  “Aren’t those supposed to be pink?” she asks, nodding toward my snowflakes.

  “No,” I say. Because who ever heard of pink snowflakes? But also because the order clearly says blue icing with white snowflakes. Mom comes over and checks the order. Then she frowns. Because I guess when you’re being hypercontrolling, you are actually hoping something will be wrong so that you can feel validated.

  The front gets busy for a while, which means I can finally work in peace. I’m just tucking the last of the Schumachers’ order (blackberry with lemon, not raspberry) into boxes when Gram pokes her head into the kitchen and tells me someone is there to see me. I slide the box of cupcakes into the refrigerator and wipe my hands on my apron. In my mind it’s a toss-up between whether it’s Tally or Marcus. At this point I’m not sure who I’d rather see. I push the swinging door and head out to the front. The person standing there makes me pause. Esmeralda.

  “Hi,” I say. Gram says she’ll be in the kitchen and to call if I need anything. The door whooshes shut behind her. I look back at Esmeralda, who looks on the verge of tears. “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Penny—” she says. A single tear slips down her cheek. “I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “I just need to talk to someone and you’ve been so nice to me.” Then she glances around. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You’re working.” She backs toward the door.

  “Wait,” I say. “Let me just ask my grandmother if she can watch the front.” I push the door open. Gram is standing just inside the kitchen. “Well, I guess you heard,” I say.

  “Go ahead,” Gram says. I go to the back and deposit my apron in the bin. I grab my coat and pull it on. I leave my hat in my pocket and head out to the front.

  “Okay,” I say to Esmeralda. “Where to?”

  “Can we walk downtown?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say.

  We walk toward the park, where they are setting up tents and roping off event areas. Right in the middle of the park is the Ice House. They already have the first two layers in place. It’s bigger than I thought it would be, almost as big as some Manhattan apartments I’ve seen. There are several men off-loading big blocks of ice out of the back of a truck. Several more are drilling into the blocks so they can run rebar through them to keep them in place. Mr. Fish is one of the men. He waves at us and we wave back. We watch them work for a few minutes and then head down the street.

  I look over at Esmeralda. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

  “It’s just Charity,” she says. “I know I shouldn’t let her get to me—”

  “She can be awful,” I say.

  “She’s just so mean,” Esmeralda says.

  I nod. Oh yeah. Charity is the Queen of Mean. We walk past stalls for the food vendors and a big tent where they will have the pancake breakfast in the morning and the ukulele contest in the afternoon. Along the way Esmeralda tells me all kinds of things about Charity. About how she’s constantly making fun of her accent. And how she won’t let Esmeralda touch any of her things even though they are sharing a room. “She got so angry when she thought I’d used her hair spray. I told her I don’t use hair spray.” She shakes her head, making her hair swing as if to prove her statement. “But she wouldn’t believe me. And,” she says, “she’s constantly talking about—” Esmeralda’s hand flies to her mouth.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says. But clearly it isn’t nothing. We walk past where they are setting up the area for Santa. A sign states that photos are 9:00 a.m.–12:00 p.m. and 1:00–4:00 p.m. I glance over at Esmeralda, who has gone silent.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I say. Most of the time I couldn’t care less what Charity talks about, but Esmeralda is acting so strange that I’m curious. We walk down the street toward the bank.

  “She’s always talking about Marcus,” Esmeralda blurts out.

  “What?” I ask. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing Esmeralda to stop with me.

  “She told me she has a plan to get him back.”

  “Back?” I ask. “But they were never—”

  Esmeralda shrugs. “I’m just telling you what she said.”

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry,” Esmeralda says. “I’ve upset you. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She starts to walk again, forcing me to follow.

  “I’m not upset,” I say, although it’s obvious I am. “Just tell me.” The bank is in front of us. Chad Stinson’s truck is parked right out front. Lights blaze in the lobby of the bank.

  “Oh,” Esmeralda says. “They must be setting up for the art auction.” She crosses th
e street with me still following. I catch the sleeve of her coat just as she is starting up the steps. “Please,” I say. “Just tell me.”

  “Well, last summer when Charity got back from staying with me in Paris—”

  “Yes?” I ask. I feel like throwing up, but I want to know.

  “They hung out a lot.”

  “As friends?” I ask. I know the answer, but it’s all I have. Esmeralda looks at me with pity in her eyes. “But it’s over now,” I say firmly.

  Esmeralda shrugs. “I think so. I mean, I’ve heard them talking on the phone,” she says.

  “What?” I ask. “When?”

  “Just a couple of times,” Esmeralda says. She starts up the steps toward where the front doors of the bank are propped open.

  “A couple of times,” I repeat.

  Esmeralda stops at the top of the steps and waits for me. “Penny,” she says, putting her hand on my arm. “I’ve seen him with you. I think he really likes you. Charity’s just—”

  I wait. Charity’s just what? A sneak? A liar? A bully?

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “Charity said they only kissed a few times last summer.”

  Her words slice through me. And suddenly all I can think of is him kissing her. And I know it was before I knew him and it shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I guess I wanted my first kiss to be his first kiss, too. I wanted that one perfect moment.

  Esmeralda pats my arm like that’s going to make it okay. Then she turns toward the bank, where they are setting up the sculptures for the auction. “Let’s go see,” she says. She walks into the bank and I follow. Mostly because I’m not sure what else to do.

  “Bonjour,” Esmeralda says. Miss Beans looks up and smiles at her. But then Miss Beans spots me and her face falls.

  “Oh!” she says. Rather than seeming pleased to see me or even simply surprised, she seems freaked out.

  “Hi,” I say. They’ve obviously been working all afternoon. Tables run down both sides of the lobby. Sculptures are set up every few feet with clipboards set in front of them. I spot Tally’s dog right away. Beyond that are Arthur’s Ode to Minecraft and Charity’s vase of flowers made from twisted aluminum cans.

  “Do you need any help?” Esmeralda asks.

  “No, no,” Miss Beans says. “I think we’re all set.” She’s acting really squirrelly. Then I realize she’s standing in front of something. She is clasping her hands together so tightly, her fingers are turning white.

  “It looks really good,” I say. I’m trying hard to act normal, but I’m not sure I’m doing a very good job. The weird thing is that Miss Beans is trying hard, too. I just can’t figure out why. Esmeralda has started back toward me down the other side of the lobby. I stand there, waiting. Esmeralda finally finishes looking and joins me at the door.

  “See you tomorrow,” Esmeralda says.

  “Okay,” Miss Beans says. “Night, Esmeralda. Night, Penny.” I lift my hand to say goodbye. I turn toward the door and almost run smack into Chad Stinson.

  “Oh! Hey, Penny,” he says. He nods at Esmeralda. He’s carrying a hot glue gun in one hand and a bunch of glue sticks in the other. “What brings you two here?” he asks.

  “We just wanted to peek,” Esmeralda says.

  “Good, good,” he says. He walks past us and over to where Miss Beans is standing.

  I turn toward the door again, but Esmeralda stops me. “Where is your balloon?” she asks. I scan the tables. It’s not there. I look back at Miss Beans, who sighs.

  “Penny,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I thought we’d be able to …”

  I walk toward her and she turns to one side so I can see what’s behind her. There’s a long box. But it’s what’s inside the box that makes me feel like throwing up. My dirigible is lying on its side. The banners are torn. The netting is tangled. The propeller is lying in pieces. But the balloon is the worst. It’s broken completely in half.

  Esmeralda comes up next to me and gasps. One hand flies to her mouth. The other grabs my arm as if she needs to steady herself from the shock.

  “We were going to try to fix it,” Chad Stinson says. He holds up the hot glue gun.

  “No,” I say. Because even if we can piece the balloon back together and untangle the net and rehang the banners and rebuild the propeller, it won’t fix this.

  I glance over at Miss Beans, who looks as devastated as I feel. “Maybe it just fell,” she says.

  “There’s no way,” I say. “It was way back against the wall. I made sure.” I shake my head. “It was Charity,” I say.

  “Penny,” Miss Beans says.

  “It was,” I insist. “It had to have been.”

  “Penny,” Miss Beans repeats. “It couldn’t have been Charity. She left school during lunch for a dental appointment in Lancaster.”

  “Then she snuck back,” I say.

  Miss Beans just shakes her head. “She didn’t.” She reaches out and touches my arm. “I am so sorry.”

  “We can still try to fix it,” Chad Stinson says. He doesn’t sound that optimistic. And I don’t blame him. The balloon looks like it was stepped on. For all I know, it was.

  “No,” I say. I walk around them and pick up the box with my broken sculpture in it. “It’s okay,” I say. Not because it is, but because he and Miss Beans look as miserable as I feel and, well, there’s no sense in making them more so.

  “Let us drive you home,” Miss Beans says.

  I shake my head. “I’ll walk.”

  “I’ll walk with her,” Esmeralda says. We head toward the door, which is still propped open. Then we walk down the steps to the sidewalk. When we get to Main Street, Esmeralda stops. “I’m so sorry, Penny. For everything. But I must go,” she says. “Mr. Wharton said I should meet him—” She nods toward the office building on the opposite side from where we’re standing. She’s already started back across the street. “See you,” she calls when she reaches the other side.

  I stand and stare after her, confused. I thought she was going to walk me home, not ditch me as soon as we got outside? I sigh and head back to the bakery, feeling as broken as my sculpture.

  On Friday, Tally is waiting for me on the bridge where we usually meet.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” she says back.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Are you?” she asks. That makes both of us smile slightly. Obviously neither of us is okay.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. “About you, I mean.”

  Tally shakes her head. Then she pushes the sleeve of her coat up so that she can see her watch. “I’ll tell you in eleven hours and seventeen minutes.”

  “Okay,” I say. “That’s very specific.”

  “Yep,” she says. When she nods, her hair falls forward across her cheek.

  “You dyed your hair,” I say. She nods again, making her totally brown hair swing. It’s been a while since Tally’s hair has been one (normal) color. I wonder if it has anything to do with what she can’t tell me for another eleven hours and seventeen minutes.

  “I did,” she says. “But you’re changing the subject. I want to hear about you.”

  “Can I just tell you later?” I ask. I spent most of the night going over everything Esmeralda told me about Marcus. I don’t really want to go into it all on the way to school.

  “When?”

  I pretend to check my watch. “Eleven hours and thirty-eight minutes from now.”

  She smiles and links her arm through mine. While we walk I decide to tell her about my sculpture. I finish just as we are walking up to the front doors. Tally is furious. “She’s not going to get away with it,” she says.

  “Miss Beans said it wasn’t Charity,” I say.

  “Of course it’s Charity,” Tally says. “Unless—” She narrows her eyes.

  “No,” I say. “I know what you’re thinking. But if it was Esmeralda, why would she walk with me over to the bank?”

  “Um, to see your reaction?” Tally
says. I shake my head. “Then it’s Charity.”

  “There’s no proof,” I say. “There’s nothing we can do.” At the bank I was angry. Today I just feel defeated.

  “There’s always something we can do,” Tally says.

  I pull open the front door to the school. I hold it for Tally and follow her inside. The smell hits us as soon as we walk in the lobby. Maple syrup. At first I think they must be having pancakes for lunch in the cafeteria. Okay, I know that sounds completely dumb, but what else would smell of maple syrup?

  But as Tally and I make our way toward my locker, it’s obvious where the smell is coming from. My locker. Syrup is oozing out of the vents and down the front of the locker below mine and making a puddle on the floor. Everyone who walks by looks horrified. A prank is one thing. I mean, you can pull toilet paper out of trees and clean shoe polish off windows and even get the stink of fish out of hair. Even the nacho cheese. It was gross and smelly, but at least it wasn’t sticky. But maple syrup? I don’t think you come back from maple syrup.

  “Oh no she didn’t,” Tally says. She looks around. “Where is she?”

  I wonder which she Tally means, but I don’t see either of them.

  I stop with my back against the locker directly opposite to mine. I feel heat welling up in me. Only it’s not the heat of embarrassment or tears, but of anger. I say that in my head. I am angry. Then I say it again louder. I AM ANGRY. And it’s not just about the ruined books and work in my locker. Although that’s huge. And it’s not even about my art sculpture. Or Marcus. It’s just about me. I’m not going to ignore it or try to make the best of it. I’m going to—the voice in my head gets a little softer. What? it asks. What are you going to do?

  “I’m going to say something,” I say aloud. “In fact,” I say, not caring that several people are looking at me like I’ve lost it. “I’m going to say a lot of things.” I hear Charity before I see her. It’s the disdainful I’m better than you could ever hope to be laugh that is the giveaway. She’s walking with her minions. Charlotte is trailing a few steps behind them. They pause in front of the restroom. Charity heads inside and the minions keep walking toward us.