Frosting and Friendship

by Lisa Schroeder

  For my friend Lindsey Leavitt, who pointed me in the right direction by sharing her baking disaster stories. You are the best.

  Chapter 1

  apple-blackberry pie

  BECAUSE BOOK CLUBS DESERVE THE BERRY BEST

  On a scale of one to ten, I am a zero when it comes to baking. I’ve tried, but it seems like every single time, something goes wrong. Here are just a few examples of some of my kitchen disasters.

  In fifth grade, I misread the recipe and added a tablespoon of salt to a batch of sugar-cookie dough instead of a teaspoon. I’d planned on giving a plate of pretty, decorated cookies to my teacher for a holiday gift. It was a good thing we sampled them first. I gave her a coffee mug instead.

  In sixth grade, my school had a bake sale to raise money for new computers in the library. I tried to make a decadent layered chocolate cake, but when I put the layers together, the cake was so uneven, it looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa in Italy.

  And then there was the time I helped Mom make a lemon cake for a meeting at our house. It looked really dark on top, but we figured some powdered sugar would fix that problem. We later discovered the bottom of the cake was even darker than the top. As in, black. The next time Mom had a meeting, we bought cupcakes.

  My mom says she doesn’t have the baking gene either, so I shouldn’t feel bad. But I do. It seems like every girl I know loves to bake and is an expert at whipping up delicious treats.

  My sad skills in the kitchen are the reason I’m secretly freaking out about the discussion going on right now in Sophie’s living room. There are five girls and their moms here for the first meeting of the mother/daughter book club that Sophie decided to start. I was so flattered when she asked if my mom and I would like to be a part of it. Sophie and I have been good friends for a few years, ever since we met in theater camp, but we don’t go to the same middle school, so it would have been easy for her to leave me out.

  Sophie has been explaining to us how the club will work. We’ll meet the first Sunday of every month and take turns hosting the club. In addition to the meeting place, the hostesses will provide a list of discussion questions and delicious snacks.

  Wait. That’s not exactly right. I believe Sophie’s exact words were “amazing, delicious, out-of-this-world homemade snacks.”

  I raise my hand.

  “Lily?” Sophie says.

  “So, we can’t buy snacks?” I ask. “Like at a bakery or grocery store?”

  Sophie’s best friend, Isabel, replies. “Sophie and I have talked about the snacks a lot. I know we’re all busy, but we’ll be taking turns, so each of us will only have to bake for the club two or three times a year. We really think homemade treats will make the meetings extra special. We can even exchange recipes, if everyone’s interested.”

  I glance sideways at my mother to see if she’s freaking out as much as I am, but my mother is the Queen of Calm. If she’s bothered by their homemade requirement, her face doesn’t show it.

  I take a deep breath and try to copy my mom. She’s keeping her eyes focused on the speaker. Her lips are upturned in a slight smile. And her hands are folded in her lap.

  Then I give myself a pep talk. My dad taught me this trick because he says there are times in life you need one and the only person available is yourself. I believe this is one of those times.

  Lily, stop freaking out about the snacks! Geez, it’s not like someone’s in the hospital or something. So many people have bigger things to worry about. Get over it. You’ll make something and it will be fine. It might taste horrible. Or be black around the edges. Or require a steak knife to cut into it. But it’ll be fine.

  Sophie continues. “I told my mom that next to seeing friends once a month and reading good books, sharing yummy snacks was at the top of the list as to why I wanted to start a mother/daughter book club. The book club gives us girls a reason to play around in the kitchen and try new recipes. It’ll be fun, right?”

  I watch as the three other girls nod their heads in agreement with Sophie. I remain calm, all the while thinking how awesome it would be to have a book club with pizza delivered at every meeting.

  Sophie looks at a piece of paper in front of her before she says, “Okay, I think I’ve covered everything. After we discuss A Wrinkle in Time this afternoon, we’ll choose books for the rest of the year while we eat our snack.”

  One of the girls I just met today, Dharsanaa, points to the pie on the coffee table. “What kind of pie did you make? It looks really good.”

  “It’s apple-blackberry, and I hope it’s good,” Sophie replies. “It’s the first time I’ve ever made a pie. Mom helped me with the crust.”

  “And Jack gave you a few pie-baking tips, right?” Isabel asks. Sophie nods while Isabel explains. “Jack is a friend of mine who lives in Seattle. His mom owns Penny’s Pie Place, so he knows a lot about pies.”

  “Yeah,” Sophie says. “He told me to wrap the edge of the pie crust up with aluminum foil the last twenty minutes, to keep it from getting too dark.”

  Isabel rubs her hands together. “I can’t wait to try it, Soph. It looks like something out of a magazine.”

  “But first we have to eat the jam sandwiches,” Katie says. “Like Meg and Charles did in the book, the night of the storm.”

  “We’re going to have hot cocoa too,” Sophie says.

  “Are we ready to start the discussion?” Dharsanaa asks.

  “What about a name for our club?” Isabel asks. “Remember, Sophie? We were going to see if anyone had any suggestions.”

  The fifth girl, Katie, raises her hand. “I have an idea. How about the Baking Bookworms?”

  Sophie and Isabel squeal at the exact same time. “I love it!” Sophie says. “It’s perfect! Is that okay with everyone?”

  I look at my mom again. She looks at me. The Queens of Calm have vanished from the room. We are the Princesses of Panic, because now there’s no denying that this club is going to be as much about baking as it is about reading. But everyone is talking and agreeing that it’s the best name ever, so neither of us says a word. I try to think of something else, a different name they’d love just as much, but my mind is completely blank.

  Sophie’s dog, Daisy, barks, asking to be let in from the backyard. Sophie’s mom is in the kitchen getting the hot cocoa ready. “Is it okay if I let her in?” I ask.

  “Oh, sure. Thanks, Lily.”

  I go to the back door and open it, and Daisy is so happy to see me. It’s started to rain outside. That’s probably why she wanted inside. She follows me back to the living room, where I rejoin everyone. Daisy sits near the coffee table and licks her chops as she eyes the pie.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Sophie says. She picks up the pie and walks toward the kitchen.

  “Let’s go around the room and assign a month for hosting,” Isabel says. “I’ll take April. Lily, you get May, Dharsanaa hosts in June, and in July, it’ll be Katie. Is that okay with everyone?”

  We all nod our heads. I tell myself two months is plenty of time to find a delicious recipe and practice making it a hundred times. Oh my gosh. Does that mean I have to eat it a hundred times? Maybe my sister will help me. She’s athletic and always hungry.

  Or maybe we can read a historical book when it’s my turn to host. Something from back in the days when sugar was expensive and most people couldn’t afford to bake anything really fancy. My great-grandma told me that when she was a little girl she’d get an orange and a few nuts in her stocking at Christmastime and she’d be thrilled. I need a book like that. Then I could serve oranges and nuts and call it good.

  Except Sophie wasn’t satisfied with just serving hot cocoa and jam sandwiches. She had to go above and beyond what was in the
book and bake a beautiful, complicated pie.

  I am so doomed.

  Chapter 2

  chocolate-chip-cookie-dough cupcakes

  DEFINITELY IMPRESSIVE

  The girls seem really nice,” Mom says to me on the drive home. “And their moms too. I think it’s a good group. They seem to enjoy baking more than we do, but that’s all right. We’ll do something simple when it’s our turn. I’ll go to the bookstore this week and buy the next two books.”

  We stop at a light near the cupcake shop, It’s Raining Cupcakes. The shop is dark since it’s closed on Sundays, but I remember how adorable the shop is inside, with the mural on the wall and the large glass cases filled with pretty cupcakes. I wonder if Isabel and her mom know how lucky they are to be able to bake treats that everyone loves. Next month, when it’s Isabel’s turn to host the club, she’ll probably serve the most spectacular cupcakes, like chocolate-chip cookie dough or caramel Oreo. Everyone will ooh and aah over them. A month later, it’ll be my turn. The girls and their moms will go from being dazzled to being disappointed.

  “Lily, are you all right?” Mom asks.

  “I guess so. I was just thinking how I wish I could be a good baker like Isabel. Did you know she won the baking contest in New York City a few months back?”

  “Yes, I did,” she says as the light turns green. “And while it’s impressive, you have to remember, you have other talents. It’s impossible to be good at everything. That reminds me. When are your bandmates coming over to practice again? Have you worked out a regular schedule?”

  “They’re coming over tomorrow night. We don’t have a schedule, but I’ll ask them about it at practice. We really want to try and find a party or event where we could perform, so then we have something to work toward, you know?”

  Mom pats my leg. “Honey, I think it’s great that you girls have taken the initiative and formed this band. I’m proud of you, and I know your father is too. But if I were you, I wouldn’t worry about performances right now. Focus on playing together. Write more songs. Have fun. Make it about the music.”

  I sigh. “You sound like Dad.”

  “Well, he should know. He’s been a musician for a long time, right?”

  “But, Mom, our dream is to perform for other people. What’s the point of practicing if there’s no performance to look forward to?”

  “Lily, I’m not saying it won’t ever happen. But you’ve only been a band for a couple of months. You have a lot of years ahead of you. For now, focus on the music. Practice because it will make you better musicians. Isn’t that what is most important? Becoming the best band you can be?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  I still don’t think there’s anything wrong with looking for a chance to perform for other people. There’s this other band, the New Pirates, made up of a few kids from school, and they’re already performing. Zeke Bernstein’s parents hired them to play at his Bar Mitzvah party. Belinda McGuire is the lead singer of the New Pirates. Every time our choir director, Mr. Weisenheimer, has us compete for a solo performance in choral practice, it comes down to Belinda and me. She’s a really good singer.

  To be honest, I don’t like Belinda McGuire very much. It seems like she thinks she’s better than everyone else. Maybe she is, as far as her talent goes, but it makes her come across as stuck-up.

  Someone else who has a lot of talent is my sister, who jumps out from behind the bushes holding a basketball just as we pull into the driveway. She’s talented in all things athletic—and now, at almost giving us a heart attack. Fortunately, Mom is a slow driver.

  “Good grief, Madison,” Mom mutters under her breath.

  “Sorry,” my sister says as we get out of the car. “The basketball got away from me and I didn’t hear you pull up.”

  “Look before you leap next time,” Mom says, walking toward the front door. “Dinner will be ready in an hour, girls.”

  Mom goes inside while my sister, Miss Show-off, twirls the ball on her pointer finger. Her short brown hair is matted to her face and her cheeks are all red. She’s probably been out here shooting hoops most of the afternoon. “How was the book club?”

  “It was all right.”

  “Do you guys have a name?” she asks me, now doing some fancy dribbling move between her legs.

  “Do you ever get tired of showing off?” I ask.

  She grins. “Not really.”

  Yeah. That’s what I thought.

  “Come on,” she says. “You must have come up with a name, right?”

  I don’t want to tell her. She’ll make fun of it the second I say it. But she’ll find out sooner or later. “The Baking Bookworms.”

  She stops dribbling and laughs. “When they taste something you make, you’ll have to change your name to the Burnt Bookworms.”

  I knock the ball out of her hands before I turn to go inside. She scrambles after the ball rolling toward the bushes again. As I approach the front door, I hear her running on the pavement and, a couple of seconds later, the ball swooshing through the net. No doubt a perfect shot.

  After I hang up my coat, I head to the family room. The television is on and Dad is just getting up out of his chair, holding his guitar with a broken string hanging from it.

  “Hey, Lily Dilly,” he says. “Your mom said the book club was fun.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  He squints his dark brown eyes at me. “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

  “Did she tell you that baking seems to be just as important as reading in this club?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “I really like the girls in the club,” I tell Dad. “And I want them to like me. Sophie and I have been friends for a quite a while, but sometimes it feels like I’m second best to her other friends, especially Isabel. This book club is my chance to show Sophie I fit in, you know?”

  He pats me on the shoulder before I take a seat on the sofa. “It’ll be okay. The most important thing is to have fun. And the more you practice, the better your baking will be. You know, because practice makes . . .”

  He wants me to say “perfect.” I think it’s his favorite saying. I’m sick of the saying myself. “Makes delicious brownies?”

  He laughs. “You betcha.” He walks past me. “I need to fix this thing since I have a gig tonight. See you at dinner.” He flashes me the peace sign, which is his way of saying “see you later.” My dad is cool like that.

  “Okay, Mr. Peace. See ya.”

  I pick up the remote and flip through the channels, trying to find something good to watch. I stop when I see a round man with bright red hair and lots of freckles on his face holding a fork. There’s a piece of cake on a plate in front of him, and after he takes a bite, he exclaims, “Sweet Uncle Pete, that’s good!”

  He sets the plate down and smiles at the camera. “I hope you enjoyed the lesson today on how to make a decadent coconut cake. Please tune in to Secrets of a Pastry Chef next week, when I’ll show you how to bake a white-chocolate-raspberry cheesecake. This is Chef Smiley signing off. Remember: With the right tools and the right attitude, baking is a piece of cake!”

  I immediately program the DVR to record the series.

  Mr. Smiley, where have you been all my life?

  Chapter 3

  salted-caramel-mocha cupcakes

  SWEET YET SOPHISTICATED

  The next day at school, my friend and bandmate Abigail is waiting for me at my locker, her wavy red hair pulled back into a ponytail with a green ribbon around it. Green is her favorite color. She’s wearing a cute T-shirt with a picture of an owl. It says I’M A HOOT.

  “Your hair sure is getting long,” I tell her as I go to work on my locker combination. “I’m surprised your mom hasn’t cut it off yet.”

  “She really wants to, actually. Said she has a new style she wants to try out on me.” She reaches over and pats my straight brown hair. “Hey, maybe I should volunteer you to be her guinea pig. You’d love a new style, wouldn�
�t you?”

  I shake my head hard. Abigail’s mom is going to beauty school. She decided she was tired of working in retail and wanted to become a hairstylist. “You know I haven’t changed my hair in, like, four years. Why should I start now?”

  “Maybe it’s time for a new look. A new Lily! Something that screams rock star.”

  I laugh as I pull out my algebra textbook and notebook. “We’re not really a rock band, are we? More like a pop band.”

  We walk toward math class, which we have together. “We need to come up with a name,” Abigail says. “How can we be a real band without a name?”

  “I know. We should work on that tonight.”

  “Tonight?” she asks, looking at me. “Are we practicing tonight?”

  “Abigail, did you forget? Seven o’clock. My dad’s playing every night this week at the Wallflower, so we can use the studio as much as we want.”

  We stop outside the classroom, waiting for the bell to ring.

  “Hey, girls,” we hear behind us. “How’s it going?”

  We turn and find Belinda flanked by the other Pirates, Bryan and Sydney. Belinda always dresses like she’s about to go on stage. Today she’s wearing a purple miniskirt with a black blouse and black boots. My mom would never let me come to school dressed like that. I look down at my jeans and pink Converse sneakers and realize I wouldn’t want to come to school dressed like that.

  “Have you heard the news?” Belinda asks, twirling one of her blond corkscrew curls around her finger. She’s got more curls than a toy poodle.

  “What news?” Abigail asks.

  “Mr. Weisenheimer convinced Ms. Presley to let some local talent perform at the Spring Fling.”

  Every April, our middle school has a Spring Fling on a Friday night for the seventh and eighth graders. They set up games in the gym, like badminton and Ping-Pong, and some of the classrooms have activities like a cakewalk, bean-bag toss, and bingo. There’s music in the gym, too, usually with a DJ, and kids can dance if they want to, although most of us just stand around with a soda in our hand and talk while we listen to the music. A few kids who are amazing dancers might go on the dance floor to show off what they can do, but that’s about it.