The Icing on the Cake

by Deborah A. Levine

  And once again, my two best friends are talking about my party like it’s a good thing. Why don’t they understand that it’s destined to be a disaster of epic proportions?

  I slide the container with the remains of the shell in front of me and dig in. If ever I needed comfort food, it’s now.

  CHAPTER 13

  Liza

  Health class is just ending when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I’m hoping it’s Frankie or Lillian so I can tell them how Mr. Lewis—whose breath smells like moldy cheese—gave his famous lecture on halitosis today. The guy teaches a unit on the importance of oral hygiene every year, and he still has the foulest breath in the school!

  Unfortunately, when I get out in the hallway and check my phone, the text isn’t from Frankie or Lillian—it’s from Nana Silver. Nana must have just discovered texting, because until now she’s only called me, and even that she still does from landline to landline. Clearly she’s in need of Texting Etiquette 101, because her message is all in caps and during the school day—though knowing Nana, she probably thinks whatever she has to say is incredibly urgent and important.

  LIZA NANA HERE.

  As if I didn’t know.

  FOUND AN EXCELLENT LETTERPRESS STUDIO. FOR INVITATIONS. HAVE AN APPOINTMENT AT 4 PM. TAXI WILL BE WAITING IN FRONT OF SCHOOL AT 3:15 SHARP. DON’T BE LATE. LOVE

  I’ve never read an actual old-fashioned telegram, but for some reason Nana’s text reminds me of one. I can almost see her dictating it to some guy in a bowtie and cap. “Liza Nana Here STOP Don’t be late STOP.”

  Frankie and I are supposed to go over to Lillian’s house this afternoon to do homework, but I can’t exactly say no to Nana Silver. I mean, I could, of course, but I’d rather just go along with her last-minute “invitation” than try to survive her guilt-laying superpowers. I text Frankie and Lillian (the normal way—with the caps lock off) and tell them not to bother picking me up at my locker because I’m being whisked away to a thrilling afternoon of stationery shopping.

  When the final bell rings, I shove everything I need for homework into my backpack and make a beeline for the exit. As soon as I push through the doors, I see the taxi waiting right out front, just like Nana said it would be. Most kids walk or take the subway to school, so I feel really weird getting picked up by a waiting taxi. I hope no one thinks this is how I normally get around.

  I get in and give Nana a quick hug. She smells like she always does, Chanel No. 5—she’s probably been wearing it since it was invented. “It’s my signature scent,” Nana told me once, when I asked her if she ever thought about trying something new—as if Coco Chanel had created it just for her.

  Nana squeezes my hand. “You’re going to love these invitations, Liza. I think they’re just perfect and I can’t wait for you to see them.”

  Can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing, I think to myself, holding in a sigh and trying to smile.

  * * *

  In case you’re wondering, a letterpress is a machine that presses words and designs into paper so that they stick out a little on the front in 3-D, and when you run your hand over the paper, you can actually feel the letters. I only know this because Joan, the woman who owns the letterpress studio Nana thinks is “divine,” has just explained the entire process to me, step-by-step. To be honest, it’s actually pretty cool, and it’s obvious that Joan and her husband Randy live for this stuff. But I can tell by the look on Nana Silver’s face that I’m not showing quite enough enthusiasm about it.

  “So what do you think, darling,” Nana asks, holding up a pair of identical sample invitations written in very frilly script that I can hardly read, “silver or gold? I prefer the gold, but the silver is more casual, which I know is more your style.”

  I’m not sure I even have a “style,” but if I do, this invitation is definitely not it, regardless of which metallic shade it’s printed in.

  “Does it have to be in cursive, Nana? Kids my age hardly ever write that way, you know.”

  Nana crosses her arms and looks at me like I’ve just delivered the news that her cat has two months to live. “Well, that’s a travesty,” she says. “Add that to the list of the failures of public education. And all the more reason you should choose an invitation that exposes your classmates to proper penmanship.”

  “I think you’ll both find this font to be very attractive,” Joan says, showing us another sample.

  I learned about fonts when I started doing assignments for school on the computer, but I didn’t know people actually talked about them in the real world. I guess if your job is to figure out how to make words look pretty, you have to get more creative than just Times New Roman and Arial.

  Surprisingly, Joan is right. The letters on this sample are in a roundish, friendly-looking print that’s sort of like a professional version of Lillian’s perfect handwriting—a little girly, but not overly cutesy.

  Nana, however, is clearly unimpressed. “For a casual summer picnic or a potluck dinner, maybe,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “But to announce the celebration of a young girl beginning her journey into womanhood? I don’t think so.”

  I practically gag when Nana mentions my “journey into womanhood.” What does that even mean, anyway? I’m only in seventh grade. I’m not even an official teenager yet, much less a woman!

  While Nana is flipping through samples, I raise my eyebrows at Joan to let her know I’m aware that my grandmother isn’t the easiest customer. She smiles and rolls her eyes as if to say, “Don’t worry, I deal with this all the time,” and I decide I like her more than I expected to.

  “You know,” Joan says, digging deep into a drawer I haven’t seen her open before, “you might like this one.” She takes a large square envelope out of the drawer and pulls a thick pale-gray invitation from it. “I designed it for our wedding.”

  Joan and Randy smile at each other as I take the invitation from her hand. They may be super serious about stationary, but they’re still a pretty cute couple.

  The handwriting—I mean font—is miraculously somewhere between print and script, and I actually really like it. Clearly, Joan gets “the look” a girl my age would go for. I wish I could say the same for Nana Silver.

  “Hmm, well,” she says, taking off her reading glasses and holding the invitation out about a foot from her face—as if that’s how anyone reads. “I’m sure your wedding guests found this just lovely, but the lines are so thin, someone of my . . . maturity . . . would need a magnifying glass just to read it.”

  I make eye contact with Joan again, who smiles just a little to let me know it’s okay, she’s used to it. Nana catches us and sighs dramatically. Uh-oh.

  “Of course, if that’s really what Liza wants, well then, who I am to deprive her?” she says. “Who am I to suggest that my friends’ fading vision should trump my granddaughter’s aesthetic preferences?”

  And Nana for the win. I take a deep breath.

  “You know what, Nana? Let’s just go with the one you like—the cursive. It’s pretty. And anyway, it’s just the invitation, right?”

  I notice Randy wrinkle his brow just a bit.

  “I mean, no offense,” I say quickly, looking from Randy to Joan to let them know I wasn’t dissing their entire life’s work. “The invitations are important, of course, it’s just that we have so many things to decide on for the party, I’m okay with Nana picking out this one.”

  Nana Silver smiles at me and then reaches for her wallet. “Such a dear, isn’t she?” she says to Joan as she hands her a credit card. Happy as a clam at last, Nana cups my chin in her hand. “And so gorgeous, too, don’t you think?”

  My cheeks burn beneath Nana’s long, smooth fingers, but Joan catches my eye and smiles one last time. “Beautiful,” she says, handing my grandmother the receipt to sign and giving me a little wink. “She looks just like you.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Liza

  I’m slicing up a banana for Cole when my mom comes into the kitchen to
get some coffee. It’s eleven thirty and we’re still in our pajamas. Mom’s been at the computer doing some work she brought home with her, while Cole and I have been watching our favorite Sesame Street episodes back to back. I say “our favorite” because it’s true—I’m almost thirteen years old and I’m not ashamed to admit that I still like Sesame Street. I mean, I doubt I’d watch it if I didn’t have a little brother, but I’m glad I have that as an excuse. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only Sesame Street fan who’s over five—tons of really big celebrities have done guest spots, and you can tell they’re having loads of fun performing with the Muppets.

  “I’m glad you two have something in common still . . . ,” my mom says as she adds some milk from the cup I just poured for Cole into her mug, “but I think that’s more than enough TV for one morning.”

  I’m about to point out that she’s been working for two straight hours without Cole yelling “Mommy!” once, when her phone rings and our Sesame Street marathon is temporarily saved by the bell.

  After she says, “Hello, this is Jacqueline,” all businesslike, my mom’s voice softens and I can tell whoever’s on the other end is a friend. It doesn’t take long for me to figure out who it is: after about three seconds Mom says, “Oh, that sounds like Nana, all right,” and I know she’s talking to my dad.

  I decide to make myself some toast so I have an excuse to hang around the kitchen while they’re on the phone. It doesn’t matter that I can only hear half of the conversation—the fact that my parents are actually laughing and joking with each other instead of talking about tense things like daycare bills and dividing school vacations is enough to tell me that I wasn’t imagining things the last time I heard them talk about the party. My mom and dad really are getting along—and if putting up with a few more weeks of letterpress studios and party venues is what it takes to keep them that way, then Nana Silver can bring it on.

  * * *

  We have a really nice walk to cooking class—no torrential downpours this week—and Mom’s been in an upbeat mood all morning, despite the fact that she had to do work on a Saturday, which she hates. She’s smiling and actually humming as we walk, so she must still be thinking about my dad’s call. My mom is usually all about jeans and worn-in comfy tops on the weekends, but today she’s wearing one of her casual-Friday skirts and tops. She says it was the rare sunny Saturday that put her in the mood, but I’d bet my brother’s fancy new “big-kid” stroller that talking to my dad is what did it.

  We run into Henry, Errol, and Tristan on the way to the studio. In class, Tristan is usually pretty quiet and, other than barely responding to Frankie, he doesn’t say much to anyone, including his uncle. But walking down the block all three of them look and sound like old pals, laughing about some fly-fishing adventure they apparently went on together. (I don’t know much about fly fishing, but from what I can tell it involves a lot of standing around in a river waiting for the fish to come to you—not exactly my thing.) I guess around just Henry and Errol, Tristan has a lot more personality than I thought. In cooking class, he must think it’s uncool to act buddy-buddy with your uncle. Or maybe he’s just shy? It’s hard to imagine someone that good-looking has anything to be shy about. He and Javier may have more in common than I thought.

  “Ah, mis amigas favoritas,” Chef Antonio greets my mom and me as we file into the studio. His favorite friends, huh?

  “And Ms. Jacqueline is looking especially lovely today,” he continues, taking her coat.

  Mom smiles shyly as I think to myself, That’s right, you noticed. And it’s all thanks to Dad.

  Cole is excited to show off his new stroller, so Angelica skips unbuckling him and wheels him away to their corner like it’s a race car.

  My mom and I take seats at a long table with Frankie, Theresa, Lillian, and Dr. Wong. It feels just like old times, except both Frankie and Lillian keep stealing glances at their crushes. I hope they’ll give it a rest while we’re actually cooking.

  “Bienvenidos my friends, to our first savory class of the session,” Chef announces to get our attention. “Last week we made dessert pies, but this week we’ll be making pastries that are intended as main courses, side dishes, or bocadillos rápidos—quick and tasty snacks.”

  I look at Lillian and Frankie—snacks are our thing. Lillian rubs her hands together eagerly, but Frankie just sort of half smiles. What is her deal lately?

  Since we all “perfected” our crust making last week (though I’m not sure Theresa’s would fit that description), Chef shows us a giant bowl of balls of dough that he and Javier mixed up for us to use today.

  “It was a true bonding experience for papi and hijo,” he says, resting his hand on Javier’s shoulder. “Don’t you agree, mijo?” Javier gives a quick nod and then looks over at Tristan and rolls his eyes. Tristan rolls his in sympathy. Boys.

  Chef Antonio steps away from the table and holds out the bowl of dough. “And the results, mis amigos, mean that we can spend our time filling, baking, and eating today, rather than kneading and rolling. Bueno?”

  Frankie’s mom sighs so loudly that everyone turns to look at her. “Sí, muy bien!” she says. “Thank God.”

  We all laugh, even Tristan and Javier. Even Frankie—despite the fact that she’s probably totally embarrassed. Or maybe she’s just used to her mother’s humor by now.

  Chef strolls to our table and puts his arm around Theresa. “I’m glad you are relieved, señora!” he says. “Nothing gives me more pleasure than to put people at ease en la cocina—the kitchen.”

  “Anyway,” Chef continues, letting go of Theresa and moving to the head of our table, next to my mom. “Our first project of the day will be pot pies.”

  There’s a general rumble of approval throughout the room. Who doesn’t love a pot pie? Even our school cafeteria—which is famous for its limp, lukewarm, utterly flavorless meals—serves up a halfway decent chicken pot pie. On a cold gray day in February, like the ones we’ve been having the past few weeks, I’ve actually looked forward to the moment a shockingly hot and flaky CPP is plunked onto my tray.

  “It just so happens that we have some very tender and juicy pollo asado—roast chicken—leftover from yesterday’s taping. Trust me, it may have spent the night in the fridge, but it’s delicious.”

  Suddenly Margo springs from her chair. “We saw that episode!” she cries, giving Stephen’s shoulder a tug. “It made us so hungry we actually went shopping and cooked a second dinner.”

  “I saw it, too,” says Henry. “Looked divine.”

  “I agree,” says a voice from our table. We all look to see who it was, and I’m pretty sure we’re equally stunned to discover it is Lillian’s mother. Dr. Wong watches Antonio’s Kitchen? When we first started taking the class back in the fall, she could hardly walk into class without giving him a lecture of her own. And now she’s a fan of his TV show? I suppose weirder things have happened, but I’m having a hard time thinking of any.

  Beaming, Chef steps behind Lillian’s mom and puts his hands on her shoulders. She looks a little uncomfortable with the physical contact, but manages a half smile anyway. “Oh, mis amigos,” Chef says, giving Dr. Wong’s shoulders a light squeeze, “you were all watching the show? I’m so touched.”

  “We never miss it,” Margo calls out as Dr. Wong gives Chef’s hand a stiff, awkward pat.

  Still smiling like he’s just won an Oscar, Chef Antonio moves back to the head of our table. “I’m flattered, mis estudiantes, I cannot lie. So yes, anyway, the chicken is very tasty. Let us mix it with the fresh vegetables you see on your tables”—he gestures to the large bowls piled high with carrots, onions, and potatoes—“and believe it or not, even some frozen ones.” He picks up smaller bowls filled with bright green peas and yellow corn. “If it was summer, we would be using fresh, of course, but trust me, our pot pies will be delicioso just the same.”

  Chef Antonio pauses to reach for a small round baking dish—I’m pretty sure its smooth white surface is
called porcelain—from one of the prep tables behind him. Then he puts one hand on my mom’s shoulder and hands her the dish with the other.

  “And now, since she was such a fantástica assistant last week, I’ll ask our amiga Jackie to ayúdame—help me—once again by demonstrating how to make the lovely circles of dough that will serve as protective—and delightful—little blankets over our savory ingredients.”

  My mom raises her eyebrows and gives Chef a look that says, “Who me?” but she doesn’t waste any time getting up. “Well,” she says to the room, as if she does this kind of thing every day, “it’s been a while, but from the time I was even younger than Liza, I can remember a lot of Saturday afternoons spent at Momma’s table cutting out piecrusts.” Then she rolls one of the balls of dough from the giant bowl into a thin slab and uses the upside-down baking dish as a giant cookie cutter to make a perfect circle for the top of a pot pie. Not one tear. Impeccable. I catch Theresa shaking her head in disbelief.

  Everyone claps, as if my mom is a surgeon who’s just successfully sewn back on a patient’s ear, rather than a woman who comes from a long line of bakers and has a talent for cutting out piecrusts. “Aww, stop it,” she says, letting the southern drawl she famously spent all four years of college trying to conquer slip out just a bit. “Y’all are making me blush.”

  And here we go again. It may still be a sunny Saturday outside, but now that today’s class is shaping up to be a replay of last week’s Antonio & Jackie Show, it’s feeling more like a soggy gray Sunday inside every minute.

  My mom floats around the tables helping some people cut out crusts while the rest of us stir up our veggies in big pots on the stove with some broth, butter, and flour. When the carrots and potatoes have just started to get tender, we add some of the shredded leftover chicken (which is exactly as delicious as everyone says—I couldn’t help myself, I had to try it). When the filling is ready, we pour it into little dishes chef calls “crock pots” (weird name or what?) and then drape the delicate piecrust circles over the filling. Frankie won’t let Theresa anywhere near the dough, while at the other side of the table Dr. Wong is literally hovering over Lillian as she very carefully places her crusts over the pots and pinches the sides to seal in the filling.