Alexis Gets Frosted

by Coco Simon

  My dad tapped his foot and looked up at the ceiling while he thought. “Well . . . I know the bacon caramel ones are her favorite . . .,” he said, acting all casual.

  “Dad! Those are your favorite!”

  “Me? No way! I told you, I hate cupcakes!”

  At this point my friends and I were all laughing really hard when my mom walked in. “What’s up?” she asked, smiling as if she wanted in on the joke.

  “Dad’s just teasing us,” I said, then asked slyly, “What are your favorite kinds of cupcakes?”

  “Oh, I’m not a big cupcake person . . .,” she said.

  At this my friends collapsed into helpless fits of giggles because it was so perfect. My dad pretended to be all exasperated, but he was laughing too.

  “She’s just kidding because she’s actually a cupcake monster, but she doesn’t want you to know it,” he said, elbowing her.

  My mom said, “Now I am totally confused.”

  “Really, what kinds of cupcakes do you like?” asked my dad.

  My mom thought for a second. “Maybe like a strawberry shortcake kind of thing? Something light and fruity, that’s for sure.”

  My dad raised his eyebrows and gave me a significant nod, like, Got it?

  I winked at him and gave him a small nod back without her seeing me.

  “Why?” asked my mom.

  “Just taking a poll,” said my dad. “Come on, time to head out.”

  My mom groaned a little. She didn’t want to go either. “See you girls in a bit,” she said reluctantly. “You know what? Let me just run and brush my hair. . . . ” And she dashed off.

  My dad looked down at his shoes and said, really quietly, “And if you felt like making any of those strawberry shortcake cupcakes in caramel, of course . . . ”

  “Of course!” I said. “All our strawberry shortcake cupcakes come with a side of bacon caramel cupcakes. Right, girls?”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Mia, smiling.

  My dad smiled in relief. “Great!”

  “Okay, back to business. This Friday, we have the usual order for Mona, and we’re trying the apple-cinnamon and milk-and-cookies cupcakes to see if we should make them for Mrs. Horton’s shower next weekend. Then that same weekend, for my mom’s birthday, we’ll do strawberry shortcake and bacon caramel. Two dozen of each.” I looked meaningfully at my dad, who nodded, like he had no stake in it whatsoever.

  “Now, who wants to help me sketch out a house design for the gingerbread house? We could go look online for images first, and then I could show you my rocks in my room,” I said.

  Everyone was game, and Mia offered to sketch out the house and figure out the measurements with my help, since I am the math whiz. Katie would figure out how much gingerbread we needed, since she is the baking whiz.

  “Have fun, Mr. Becker!” said Emma as we left the kitchen.

  “I wish I was staying home and eating cupcakes instead,” he said sadly, and we all laughed.

  After my parents left, we found some neat images that we printed out, but it was going to be hard to guess the dimensions. Mia started sketching at my desk, and the rest of us turned back to discussing our cupcake jobs as Emma and Katie turned my new quartz geodes over and over in their hands.

  “What should we do to make your mom’s cupcakes pretty?” asked Katie. “Like, what’s she into?”

  I was embarrassed for a second because I didn’t really know. “Well, she likes things very neat and orderly, so we could make them, like, really perfect looking. . . . ”

  “And healthy!” said Emma.

  I nodded. “Yeah, like low-fat cupcakes with some really light frosting.”

  “Do you want to decorate or style them in some cute way?” asked Katie.

  “Well . . . she’s into Sudoku. . . . ”

  Katie wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Numbers all over our pretty cupcakes?”

  I nodded. “I know . . . not everyone loves numbers as much as I do.” But what else? “She likes murder mysteries . . . and movies, as long as they’re not gross-out comedies.”

  Katie thought for a second. “Well, maybe, what was she into when she was a kid? Since cupcakes are kind of kiddish.”

  “You know, I’m not really sure. We don’t really talk about when she was a kid that much.”

  I could feel Emma looking at me. “You know her favorite color, though, right?” she asked quickly.

  “Oh, yes. Pink!” I said, relieved.

  Emma did a little clap. “Perfect, then. We’ll make the cupcakes pink. They’ll be really cute.”

  Right then I felt grateful to Emma, like she had saved me. But I was still uneasy about my answer. Between not knowing how my mom dressed in the eighties and not being able to come up with what she was into when she was a kid, I felt like I had some homework to do, like I was behind. Everyone else seemed to know all about her mom’s childhood, except me.

  “Ugh!” Mia crumpled up yet another sheet of paper and then chucked it over her shoulder.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “It’s just really hard to draw something and make it look three dimensional when your only reference is a flat photo.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” I agreed since I am not artistic at all.

  “I should go,” said Emma, making absolutely no move to leave.

  “Me too,” Katie piped up. But she did stretch and stand up.

  “Your rocks are really cool, Alexis,” said Emma, handing the geodes back to me.

  “Thanks,” I said, looking inside at the pink crystals that looked like diamonds.

  “I’ll keep trying at home,” said Mia. “I know I can come up with something.”

  I smiled at her gratefully. “You’re the best. Thank you so much.”

  “It’s nothing,” she said modestly.

  “Your dad is so funny,” said Katie as we walked down the stairs. I winced because her dad basically disappeared after her parents got divorced. Katie doesn’t talk about it that much, but I know she sees my dad and Emma’s dad around all the time and involved, and Mia’s dad always makes time to see her, even though he lives in the city and is divorced from Mia’s mom. It’s got to be hard for Katie.

  “He’s such a joker,” I said, kind of dismissing it. I love my dad so much, but I don’t want Katie to feel bad.

  “You’re lucky,” she said.

  “Thanks” was all I could say. We had arrived at the back door. “Thanks for everyone’s help,” I said. And then, because I couldn’t let it go, I added, “I’ll try to find out some more about what my mom was into when she was a girl. I can’t believe I don’t even know.”

  “Pink!” said Emma, and she smiled. “Think pink!”

  “Right,” I agreed, and smiled back. “She was into pink.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Yessss

  That night when my mom came into my room to tuck me in (it sounds so babyish, I hate saying it, but my mom still actually tucks in my covers!), I had to ask.

  “Mom, what were you into when you were my age?”

  “Me?” It was like she was surprised I was asking and wasn’t sure how to answer. “Well . . . ” She stared into space for a minute.

  “Mom?”

  “Oh. Well, I liked ballet. And also my dollhouse.”

  I propped myself up on one arm. “Your dollhouse? Weren’t you a little old for that at my age?”

  She winced a little. “Yes. I probably was. But it was so relaxing to work on it, and it was a great project for my mother and me. After Grandpa died when I was eight, she and I moved into a tiny apartment for a few years, just us two. And we worked on this dollhouse and went all over looking for bits and pieces for it. She even bought a kit to electrify it and figured out how to do it all by herself.” She smiled at the memory. “It gave us a lot of focus, and I think comforted us, since we missed Dad. Plus, moving from our big beautiful house into the little apartment, we were still able to decorate and shop for our ‘house,’ but on a much
smaller scale. I loved it.”

  “So why did you get rid of it?” I asked.

  My mother looked at me in surprise. “I didn’t get rid of it! It’s at my mom and Jim’s house.” My grandmother remarried when my mom was sixteen, and she actually had two more kids, my aunt Margy and my uncle Mike, who are much younger than my mom and lots of fun.

  “It is?” I asked, confused. “How come we’ve never seen it?”

  My mother laughed. “I did show it to you girls one time when Dylan was three and you were one, and you two were just grabbing everything and trying to eat it, so I left it there. I’d always meant to bring it here when you girls got old enough to be interested, but you never really were into dolls or anything. Then I kind of forgot about it.”

  “Can I see it?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said my mom, shrugging. “I didn’t think you were into dollhouses, though.”

  “I’m not.” The one she had bought me when I was eight had sat in a corner of my room untouched for two years before we donated it to the pediatrician’s waiting room. “But I’m into knowing more about you when you were a kid!”

  With a smile, my mom brushed my hair off my forehead. “I can call Granny and see what her schedule is. I’ll find a time to take you over there. Maybe this weekend.”

  “Thanks,” I said, snuggling down into my covers. “Also I want to see pictures of how you dressed in the eighties.”

  “Oh no! You definitely don’t want to see those!” My mom laughed.

  “Why?”

  “They’re awful! Clothes were hideous back then. Except for one little yellow gingham dress I had, with a green pear-shaped patch pocket.” She looked all dreamy. “I loved that dress!”

  “Hmm. Sounds great.” I yawned. “Tell Granny I’d like to see those photos too.”

  “Why this sudden interest in my past?” asked my mother, turning out the light. She stood in my doorway, just a tall, slender figure backlit by the light from the hall.

  “Just interested . . .,” I fibbed. Obviously, I couldn’t tell her about the cupcakes, but it was more than that, anyway. It was about my friends knowing way more than I do about their moms and also about wondering how she handled things when she was my age. Like, I wondered if anyone was ever mean to her, like Olivia Allen was to me today. But it was too late to get into that tonight. My mother is all about fixing problems right away, and she’d have the light back on and my dad in here and we’d all be chatting it through, using strategies she learned in her parenting class. It would be misery. I kept my mouth shut. But I made a mental note to find out a little more about what my friends knew about their moms, so I could make sure I was up to speed.

  In English the next day, Mrs. Carr went around the room and asked each person to say what they’re doing for their project. Lots of kids are doing costumes because, let’s face it, it’s the easiest. The best student in our class, Donovan Shin, is making a diorama of a Victorian slum. That should be amazing. Olivia is doing a costume of a rich lady of the time, of course. When it got to me, I kind of mumbled; I knew my plan was going to be hard to do, and I almost hated committing to it by saying it out loud.

  “A diorama,” I said quietly.

  “A diorama?” asked Mrs. Carr, confirming she’d heard me right.

  I nodded. “Of a house,” I added miserably.

  “I’m sure it will be lovely,” said Mrs. Carr with a smile. “Next?”

  I spaced out, hoping Mia had come up with some kind of blueprint last night. I hadn’t seen her yet today to ask.

  Suddenly, Olivia leaned forward from where she was sitting diagonally behind me and said, “I’m surprised you didn’t figure out a way to bake something fattening and call it a project.”

  I turned around in shock, feeling like I’d been slapped and also mortified because, of course, I am baking something for the project.

  “What?” was all I could think to say. Brilliant, as usual.

  “Olivia, do you have a comment you’d like to share with the class?” asked Mrs. Carr loudly.

  She became my favorite teacher right then, even though I still hate English.

  Olivia blushed a little at being called out, which was awesome!

  “N-no,” she stammered. “I was just saying I’d hoped Alexis would be baking a treat for us since she’s such a good baker and all.” She shifted in her seat uncomfortably, and I turned around to look at Mrs. Carr and shake my head a little, like, No, that is not what she said. Mrs. Carr caught my gist.

  “Let’s keep our comments about other people’s plans to a minimum, shall we?” suggested Mrs. Carr.

  I turned for one last triumphant look at Olivia, and she was glaring at me but now with a full blush on her face. But my moment of victory passed as it suddenly sank in that Olivia would only be meaner to me now, just to get back at me. I shrank down in my chair and stared straight ahead, bracing myself for the worst.

  What had I ever done to Olivia to deserve this abuse? It was so out of the blue! Like she’d come back from the break and decided she hated me. Ugh. The class couldn’t pass fast enough now! I had to get out of there.

  A few minutes later, when Mrs. Carr’s back was to the class, I felt a scratching on the back of my arm. I looked down and it was a note, being passed from Maggie, behind me to my left. Maggie used to hang around with Sydney Whitman in the Popular Girls Club. When Sydney moved away, the club was renamed the Best Friends Club, and Olivia started hanging out with Maggie and Bella. The weird thing about this group of girls, the Best Friends Club, is that on their own, they’re not all that bad—usually. It’s only when they’re together that they’re awful.

  Glancing up at Mrs. Carr to make sure I was safe, I quickly reached back to snatch the note. Then casually, over the course of a few minutes, I slowly opened it up without making any noise, and read what it said:

  You should be careful what you say about people if you don’t want them to get angry at you.

  What? Olivia was angry at me? Because I said something about her? I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be. And how could something I said hurt someone as powerful as Olivia Allen? Lowly old me?

  Now I was stressed.

  I didn’t write a return note, and as soon as the class was over, I flew out the door to gym class without looking back.

  After gym though, I still didn’t even want to go to lunch and potentially face her there, too. I felt like I was on the run, like a character on a TV show. I grabbed a sandwich and then told my friends I had a meeting of the Future Business Leaders of America, and I took off to eat my lunch alone in the math lab. It was depressing, but at least I felt safe. After school I commandoed out of the building and raced home without running into anyone. It was like I was in the witness protection program.

  At home I IM’d my BFFs to say I wasn’t feeling well, and even though I felt bad for lying, I knew it would buy me some time alone. I just had to figure out what I’d said about Olivia, and in the meantime, how to stay the heck away from her.

  To distract myself, I really focused on my homework and did a great job, and I made a little headway on a spreadsheet I’m working on for the CC that details the specific quantities of ingredients needed for each of our standard cupcake designs.

  At six fifteen, my mom dashed by with a quick hello as she changed out of her work clothes and went into the kitchen to make one of her superhealthy dinners for us. I was just glad to be left alone.

  When they called me down for dinner, I went, but I was still distracted by the drama of my day.

  As soon as I sat down, my older sister, Dylan, said, “I thought you were sick.”

  “What?” I could feel my cheeks pinken into a blush.

  “I saw Emma at the library a little while ago, and she said you’d rushed home because you didn’t feel well.”

  My mom put down her fork. “What’s the matter, Lexi? Do you have a fever? Your cheeks are all pink.”

  She stood up and came over to press her lips to my
forehead, which is the annoying and mortifying way she checks to see if we’re feverish. (For some reason my mom is always obsessing that we might have fevers. Always has, always will, for reasons unknown.) I tried to squirm away, but she had me in a tight grip.

  “No, no fever,” she said, returning to her seat, visibly relaxed. She picked her fork back up and began eating again. “What is it? Your allergies?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “‘Yeah’?” my mom repeated, and raised her eyebrows a little at me. She hates when we use that word. “There’s an s on the end of that word, correct?”

  “Yessss,” I corrected myself. “Just itchy eyes and a runny nose and stuff.” I was thrilled for the excuse she’d thrown me, even though it wasn’t nice of me to fib to my parents.

  “It’s going to be a bad year for allergies. All this dryness. No snow this year to fill up the ground-water,” said my dad.

  “I know. It was the worst skiing year on record,” agreed my mom. “Those poor ski-resort owners. You know the Campbells canceled their trip. . . . ”

  I tuned out what she was saying as something in my mind began buzzing. Snow. Skiing. Ski resorts . . . OMG!

  “Oh no!” I moaned out loud without meaning to.

  “Sweetheart!” cried my mother. “What is it?” She looked at me all wide-eyed and scared.

  “Oh, nothing. Sorry.” I felt sheepish. “Just something I forgot to bring home for homework. I have to call Emma.”

  Everyone looked at me suspiciously. Not only am I a bad liar but I’d thought up a bad lie. I’d never forgotten something I needed in all of my life. I am the most organized person I know!

  “Oookay,” my mom said skeptically.

  I started to stand up to call Emma, and my father said, “Not right now, young lady. It’s dinnertime.” And he pointed back to my chair.

  “Sorry,” I said. Then I wolfed down the rest of my dinner, and asked to clear my plate and be excused.

  “Wait!” said my mom. “One thing I forgot to tell you before you go! Granny said we could come out Saturday morning to see the dollhouse and all the photos. She’s thrilled to get things organized and lay them all out for you.” My mom smiled.