The Icing on the Cake

by Deborah A. Levine

  CHAPTER 17

  Liza

  It’s rainy and freezing today, but according to the Clinton Middle School calendar, spring is right around the corner. The Spring Clubs and Teams Fair is going on this afternoon right after school. Lillian and I are waiting at my locker for Frankie, who’s the main reason we’re even going to the fair. For the past few weeks she’s been talking about joining the track team—even though when we played soccer in fourth and fifth grade she was always making up excuses to get out of running sprints at practice. Don’t get me wrong, Frankie’s a decent athlete, but it’s been a while since she’s shown any interest in getting sweaty on a regular basis.

  We decide that Frankie has either been abducted by aliens or ditched us and gone straight to the fair. Part of me is hoping it’s the aliens, because the thought of three entire months of Frankie-less afternoons is seriously depressing. When I text Frankie asking where she is, though, her reply is definitely coming from the first floor gym and not from outer space.

  Sorry L! I wanted to beat the crowds.

  The Clubs and Teams fairs aren’t exactly sold-out stadium shows, so I’m not sure what crowds Frankie is hoping to beat, but Lillian and I grab our stuff and head down to see what’s going on.

  With Nana expecting me to drop everything to check out “venues” and approve (sort of) invitations every other day, I don’t really have time for any extracurriculars other than the Green Club, which Frankie and I have been doing since sixth grade. I’ve been trying to convince Lillian to join the Green Club too, but she says clubs and teams are Katie’s thing. Plus, since she doesn’t get perfect grades, her parents think cooking class is enough of a distraction from homework. On the way down to the gym I explain to her that the best thing about Green Club—other than protecting the planet, obviously—is that we can work on our projects during the actual school day, like watering the garden beds during study hall, or helping with the recycling at lunch.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve sold Lillian on saving the Earth, when Mr. Mac swoops over to us as soon as we enter the gym.

  “Lillian Wong!” he says, as if they’re long lost friends. “I was hoping you’d show up.”

  Lillian looks at me, totally confused.

  “And good afternoon to you, too, Liza,” Mr. Mac says. “I don’t mean to imply that I wasn’t hoping you’d show up. It’s just that there are some students I really think Lillian should meet.”

  I’m as confused as Lillian, but I’ve had enough classes with him to know that this kind of thing is classic Mr. Mac. I scan the room for Frankie, who would normally have rushed right over to join us the second she saw us talking to her teacher crush. The Green Club booth is just a few tables down from the door, and she’s not there. I look over toward the bleachers where all the sports teams are set up and spot Frankie’s purple leopard-print backpack surrounded by a sea of Clinton Cougars track jackets. She was right—there does seem to be a crowd around all the team tables. I had no idea. I try to catch Frankie’s eye, but she’s talking to the gym teacher, Tanya, who is also the track-team coach. If I were Frankie, I’d be pretty terrified about a coach who’s been known to give her entire class a pop quiz because she caught one kid chewing gum, but Frankie doesn’t even look nervous—and she hasn’t noticed that Mr. Mac is standing here chatting with Lillian and me.

  Mr. Mac leans back against the edge of the Drama Club table and crosses his arms. “Ever heard of the Poster Club?” he asks Lillian.

  Lillian looks at me, but I just shrug—I skimmed the handout listing all the clubs, but I don’t remember that one. “I don’t think so,” Lillian says.

  Mr. Mac smiles. “That’s because this is the Poster Club’s inaugural semester.” When other teachers use words like “inaugural” instead of just saying “first” it’s annoying, but for some reason Mr. Mac can get away with it.

  “Oh,” says Lillian. “So what does the club do?”

  “I’m glad you asked!” Mr. Mac extends his arm like a restaurant host offering to lead you to your table. “Allow me to show you.”

  Lillian gives me a “What am I getting into?” look, and Mr. Mac catches it.

  “You’re welcome to join us, of course, Liza,” he says, doing the maître-d’ thing again. “There’s certainly room for more members.” Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr. Mac.

  “That’s okay, I’m kind of busy after school these days,” I say. Lillian looks a little nervous, so I add, “But I might as well check it out anyway, since you’ve made it sound so mysterious.”

  “I like your spirit of curiosity and adventure. Right this way, girls!”

  It turns out the Poster Club is exactly what it sounds like—a club for designing and making posters for school events like dances, games, bake sales, and that kind of thing. Mr. Mac says he was tired of seeing “uninspired” posters around the halls that looked like no one put any time or effort into making them. He actually got the idea for the Poster Club when he handed out the flyers for the Clubs and Teams Fair to his homeroom. He says he thought of all of the great social studies projects his students have made and said to himself, “We can do better!” So, he started the Poster Club today, and he’s been walking around the fair trying to convince all of the good artists, like Lillian, to join. Needless to say, he did not make a beeline for me.

  While Lillian is being introduced to some eighth graders in the Poster Club, I look over at the track team table for Frankie. I can’t believe she’s missing all of this quality time with Mr. Mac. The Frankie I know would have been over here signing up the minute she found out he’s the club’s faculty advisor, even though she’s probably never given the posters in the hallway a second thought. Finally, Frankie catches my eye. I wave and point to the Green Club table. Even though we’ve been in the club since the fall, we’re supposed to put our names on the list again so they know how many spots are open for new members.

  Frankie does that universal hand gesture for writing your name. “Just sign me up,” she mouths from across the room. This should be good news—at least she’s not totally dropping Green Club for track. But somehow I have the feeling I’ll be weeding the planters and sorting the bottles and cans solo this spring.

  CHAPTER 18

  Liza

  If I did not love my friends with all my heart, I might just want to kill them right now.

  Cooking class is supposed to be all for one and one for all. But lately when we’re at the studio, Frankie and Lillian spend the entire time obsessing over how to get Tristan and Javier to talk to them, instead of hanging out with me. And if that weren’t bad enough, the whole thing with Chef complimenting my mom and asking her to help out during class all the time still gets me a little worried. Even Cole has Angelica to play with every week. What’s left for me?

  Chef Antonio waves his arms and summons us to the work area. And when I say he waves, I mean he really waves. He makes big swooping motions with his arms and calls out, “Vamanos, vamanos! Come, mis amigos, the clock is ticking. Let’s get our party started!”

  Most of us make our way to the tables, following directions, but Frankie and Lillian hang back by the door waiting to see where the boys will sit. I catch Lillian’s eye, and she seems to notice for the first time that I’m standing all by myself. She whispers something to Frankie, and they head toward me. Finally, some loyalty.

  Chef rubs his hands together. “Ah, we have so many treats in store today. So many, mi gente, that I will need to call upon my favorite consultant to help us so we can explore as many sabrosos, sweets, from different parts of this country. Bueno, bueno.”

  Surprise, surprise. I think we can all guess who his favorite consultant might be. Dr. Wong looks slightly irritated, because I’m guessing she considers herself consultant-worthy too, even if today’s class is about American snacks.

  Chef gestures to the tables. “Everyone will get to do everything, but we will have to split up into groups and work at different tables again and then switch around when the ti
me comes. On the menu today, we have unique cookies that all are greedy for space and need to be made with care. Sí? So, we will have whoopie pies over here”—he points to the table at his left—“black-and-white cookies over there”—and then to the one on the right—“and half-moon pies in the middle.” He gives my mother a big grin. “Señora Jackie is the guide for the half-moon pies, since they are a Southern specialty, just like she is!”

  Oh boy. I don’t even have to look at Frankie and Lillian to know that they’re exchanging significant glances. I steer them toward the whoopie pies. I don’t think I really know what they are (any relation to whoopie cushion? If you sit down at Frankie’s house, there’s at least a 50 percent chance you’ll land on one of those), but I’m in no mood to face my mother, at least not yet.

  As it shakes out, we’re at the whoopee-pie table with Henry, who smiles at us in his usual calm, sweet way even though he’s still in midconversation with Dr. Wong. They’re debating the qualities of baking powder and baking soda, as she takes her place at the black-and-white cookie station with Javier, Tristan, and Errol. Frankie’s mom and the Newlyweds are with my mom at her table. Theresa announces to anyone listening that Mom manages to turn all of her messes into something magical. Sad, but true.

  According to the clipboard holding our recipe, whoopie pies are two round discs of cake with frosting sandwiched between them. No connection to rubber prank toys that make farting noises at all. Things are looking up.

  Chef chuckles as he tells us that the whoopie pie is also called a devil dog, a BFO (for Big Fat Oreo), a bob (huh?), or a gob—but only in Pittsburgh. Bizarre.

  “In Maine,” Chef continues, “the whoopie pie is so famous, it was made the official state treat! We will never really know, of course, who invented the whoopie pie, but food historians—yes, they actually exist!—believe they first appeared when nineteenth-century Amish farm women decided to use leftover batter to make small cakes for sus maridos—their husbands—to eat in the fields for lunch. Wherever they came from, I’m very glad they did, because they are muy delicioso as you will soon see! So let’s make some whoopies!”

  Lillian steals a glance at Javier every time Chef makes a lame joke. Sometimes he catches her looking and rolls his eyes in that my-dad-is-so-embarrassing way. I’m glad they’re getting to be friends, and even more glad that Lillian isn’t as over-the-top as Frankie. I love Franks, but sometimes it’s hard to watch her act the way she acts when she has a massive crush.

  As we work on our batter—Henry is making gingerbread whoopie pies, but Frankie, Lillian, and I chose chocolate—I whisper to them that the plan for Operation Reconciliation is underway. I tell them how Dad is coming out early for some QT, and now I just need to figure out what sorts of things we should do that will remind him and my mom how much better we are as a family of four, rather than three plus one.

  “What about the Bronx Zoo or a carriage ride in Central Park?” Lillian says while she carefully measures out our ingredients. “Or the Statue of Liberty? I want to take my cousins there when they come out for spring break.”

  I shake my head. “Nothing too ambitious or overwhelming for Cole. All thoughts of romance will fly out the window if he spends all day having tantrums.” Our batter is almost done, and yet I keep pressing the beat button on the super-duper mixer. I need the sound to mask our conversation. “And besides,” I add, “even though Dad’s out in LA now, my parents lived here for years—they’ve already done all of that touristy stuff.” Actually, I’ve lived in New York City my entire life and I’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty or taken a carriage ride in the park. But they must have, right?

  Frankie scrapes down the sides of the bowl so all the batter gets mixed in. “Okay, how about painting pottery on Smith Street? Or ice-skating in Prospect Park? That’s like the perfect wholesome family activity.”

  Henry peers at us over the top of his glasses. “Did I hear you say you girls are going ice-skating in Prospect Park? Beautiful new rink. Love that place!” I give him a nervous smile and glance over at my mom. If she hears us plotting, Operation Reconciliation will be over before my dad even gets here.

  “Yeah, we already went with school,” I say, not really wanting to keep the conversation going. “Really really long lines, but it was super nice.” I kick her under the table. Hasn’t she ever heard of whispering?

  “Oops! Sorry.” She shrugs, and she actually looks like she means it. But still, we’re supposed to be talking about a secret plan.

  We drop big round tablespoons of dough onto baking trays covered in parchment paper to prevent sticking. While our whoopie pies are baking, we make the frosting by beating powdered sugar and butter until it’s fluffy, sweet, and creamy. Henry adds some cinnamon to his, to go with the gingerbread, but we stick with the basics. Frankie and I have always been frosting freaks, but while Lillian has been sampling from our bowl as much as I have, Frankie hasn’t had a single lick. She keeps coming up with reasons to borrow things from Tristan’s table, like measuring spoons, or extra butter (even though we have loads). Tristan doesn’t react all that much when Frankie stops by—I guess by now her behavior seems normal—but that doesn’t stop Frankie from trying.

  While we wait for the whoopie pies to cool so we can ice them (with whatever we haven’t eaten), we move to the black-and-white cookie table.

  “Hey, girls, nice to see you!” Theresa says—she’s checking out the black-and-whites while her pies cool too. “I could eat my weight in these things, couldn’t you?” I love Frankie’s mom, but if she sticks around, when will we finish plotting my perfect week of family togetherness?

  Chef Antonio pops up like a Jack-in-the-Box to get us started on the black-and-whites. “Señoritas, these are famous New York cookies—remember Jerry Seinfeld?”

  Frankie’s mom laughs, but I have no idea what Chef is talking about. Frankie and Lillian look as confused as I am, so I decide it’s a generation gap thing. “Bueno,” Chef continues, “these are cookies, not cakes, so the dough will be stiffer and less runny. We use buttermilk, so they will be ricos y sabrosos—rich and tasty. Also, these bambinos must be big and round, with plenty of room to split them down the middle and fill in one side blanco and one side negro. And for that, we will use fondant, not regular icing. Fondant, mis amigos, comprenden? Here we go!”

  We all start pouring in ingredients, because by now we’re old hands at this baking thing. Well, maybe not all of us. Theresa misses the bowl as she’s sifting the flour and winds up leaving little mounds of powder all over the table. She tries to scoop it all back into her bowl, but accidentally dumps her reading glasses in there too. While she’s off washing them in the sink, I try to ask Frankie and Lillian for more family fun ideas, but they’re only half paying attention. Tristan and Javier are having a mixing contest over at their table, and watching that is apparently way more interesting. By the time Theresa gets back, our cookies are in the oven and we’re starting on the icing—I mean fondant.

  Frankie stirs our confectioners’ sugar, corn syrup, lemon juice, vanilla, and very hot water in a small bowl until it’s smooth. She’s really focused on smooshing out any little sugar lumps. Lately, everything Frankie does needs to be absolutely perfect. “Franks,” I murmur, trying again. “Seriously, what else can I plan for my mom and dad?”

  “Well, hmm,” she pushes her hair behind her ear and wrinkles her brow like she does when she’s really thinking. I feel better already. “What makes my parents happy is when we’re all together. My mom says it all the time, she just loves it when we’re all in the same place. It doesn’t really matter what we’re doing, just that we’re all doing it. You know?” She looks over at her mom and Lillian as they struggle to smooth the lumps in Theresa’s fondant. I’m guessing her water wasn’t actually hot—Chef says that’s the trick—but who knows.

  Frankie sighs and leans forward. “What if you did all the normal things that your dad is probably missing? Go wherever you always went, show him the everyday t
hings that make you guys you? You could even make a slideshow of photos on your computer and act like you’re just catching him up, but then really try to show him everything he’s missing out on.” She gives the fondant another stir and then shrugs. “Or you could just lock all four of you in the apartment for the week and tell your mom and dad they can’t leave until they’re engaged again.”

  “Ha-ha,” I say, giving Frankie a shove.

  We divide the fondant into two bowls, adding cocoa powder to one to make it black while leaving the other one just vanilla. When the cookies come out of the oven, we flip them over to ice the flatter side. Lillian manages to make her fondant halves perfectly even, a razor-sharp straight line separating the black from the white. Frankie’s and mine are more wobbly-looking, but still pretty good. Poor Theresa’s look like one of Cole’s finger paintings, with the colors blurring together—more gray than anything else. First she seems irritated and frustrated, kind of hissing at them under her breath. Then, despite the mess, she just laughs and calls them melting pot cookies (because, as we all learned in Mr. Mac’s class last semester, when it comes to cultures and flavors, New York is like a melting pot).

  Now that I’m in a better mood, I think I can handle Mom’s half-moon pies. I know I’ve seen her make them before, but not in a long time. They’re different from today’s other treats because they are actually made with pie crust and filling, so they truly are mini pies.

  “Last but not least, huh?” my mom says as Frankie, Lillian, and I gather around her table. It looks like everyone else has made theirs.

  She tells us about growing up smelling these little pies baking all the time, like after school, or on Saturday mornings. When there was overripe fruit, her mother or grandmother would whip some up so she’d have a surprise in her lunchbox. I’ve always loved Mom’s stories, and now that Operation Reconciliation is getting underway, I can relax a little and enjoy them again.