by Coco Simon
I was nervous about running into him at lunch, so I took to my old habit of heading to the library during my lunch break. Mrs. K. was happy to see me and always had a stack of things for me to do—books to shelve, themed displays to set up, the usual. I sometimes thought she kind of made up jobs for me, but I didn’t mind. I loved being there with all the books and readers and chatting with her. It seemed like she’d read everything in the library.
After my chores were finished, I kept finding myself pulled to the food magazines in the periodical section. I’d sit and read descriptions of techniques and fancy foods, and even though I’d already eaten my sandwich, my mouth would water. I couldn’t help but wonder, as I read the articles, had the reporter really gotten the information right? Were there errors that I didn’t notice? And how had they gotten the food to look so good? With a critical eye, I tried to discern the use of lard or glue or paint, but I couldn’t.
By the fourth day, Mrs. K. commented on my “fascination with food writing.”
“I’d like to direct you to some good food writing, mm-hmm,” she said. “I can see how much you love it.”
“Oh!” I said in surprise. “It’s not that I love it. . . .” How could I phrase it without sounding nuts? “I’m just . . . My mom has a reporter coming to her ice cream store this weekend to write an article, and I’m . . . nervous about how it’s going to go. I’m just trying to see what could go wrong so that maybe we can avoid it. I want to be prepared.”
Mrs. K.’s eyebrows knit together in concern. “What could go wrong?”
I sighed heavily. “Lots of things! They could misquote us, get the facts wrong, dislike the ice cream, make my mom out to be inexperienced, laugh at us—”
“But why would they do that?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because the business is new and we don’t really know what we’re doing?”
“I see. Hmm. Honestly, though, that’s difficult to imagine. I don’t think people would do that.”
“Well, we might drop an ice cream or make a mess or something.”
“Umm, hmm. I don’t think people would be that mean-spirited in ice cream reporting.” Mrs. K. nodded and busied herself restacking some books on her cart. “Are you well prepared for the interview?” she asked.
I took a deep breath. “I am. And I think my friends are. But I’m not so sure about my mom. She seems to think everything’s going to be just fine!”
Mrs. K. looked at me. “I’m sure she’s right. Here. I found what I was looking for. M.F.K. Fisher. Food writing. A classic. Give this book a try, okay, hmmm?” She put a book into my hands. It was kind of old and beat-up and did not have an interesting cover at all. It looked like it belonged in a thrift shop.
“Thanks,” I said. I stowed it in my book bag and headed out.
As I trudged up the stairs to class, I thought of a couple more things I needed to remind my friends about for Sunday. I group-texted them:
Guys: we should all do face masks Saturday night so our skin looks amazing, in case we’re in the photos, ok?
Tamiko replied, OK.
Sierra didn’t reply.
When school was over, I went straight to Molly’s to see my mom. I hadn’t seen her in four days, and I missed her, but I also wanted to make sure everything was on track for the Yay Gourmet interview and photo shoot.
At Molly’s my mom was behind the counter, and it was quiet.
“Hi, sweetheart!” she said, excited to see me. I went behind the counter for a hug, and we caught up. “Dad told me about your summer planning chat,” she said.
I was surprised. I always forgot that my parents might be interacting without me and Tanner around—like on the phone or something.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Brilliant. I agree totally. I’ve already contacted Holly Oaks, and if you give me the green light, I’ll send in the deposit.”
“Can we afford it?” I asked my mom.
“Absolutely,” she said. “The full summer tuition might have been a little much for us this year, but I love the three-week idea.”
“Thanks,” I said with a sigh of relief.
“Can you research some ideas for the rest of your summer?”
“Okay, but how?”
My mom squinted as she thought. “Maybe your school library or the guidance counselor would keep a file of local stuff?”
I smiled as I thought of Mrs. K. “Great. I know who to ask.” I looked around the store. “Are you all set for the interview?” I asked.
My mom nodded. “The window washers and the cleaners are coming early Sunday before we open. I have all our prettiest flavors in the Deepfreeze, ready to go. I have my outfit that you girls picked out, all ironed and ready. I think we should be fine!”
“Okay.” I breathed in deeply. “Okay.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. It will be all right. Yay Gourmet isn’t out to ruin us, you know!” She laughed.
I raised my eyebrows. “I hope not.”
“Listen, can you stay for a few minutes? I just want to pop out to the grocery store and pick up something for dinner.”
“Sure, no problem,” I agreed. I put my hair into a ponytail, washed my hands, and donned an apron.
It was quiet, but I couldn’t really get into spreading out my homework on a café table, in case someone came in. I opened my backpack and spotted the book Mrs. K. had lent me. Sighing, I decided to flip through it.
Within minutes, I was totally engrossed.
This writer, M.F.K. Fisher, was old-fashioned, and I didn’t understand a lot of it, but I liked the way she described food.
The door jingled as someone came in, and I had to wrench my attention away from the book and refocus on the store. It was a group of kids my age, which I normally didn’t mind if my friends were with me working. But today I was alone, so I felt exposed and awkward.
The kids were nice, though. I didn’t recognize any of them except the final kid—Daniel from the school paper staff. He’d been in the meeting the other day, when I’d blurted my dumb idea about reprinting the Yay Gourmet article.
“Hi!” I said brightly, with a smile.
“Hi. Could I please have a peanut butter milkshake?” he asked.
“Sure!” I smiled again, waiting for him to say something about school or the paper, but he just looked at me blankly. Suddenly I realized that he didn’t recognize me.
My face turned red as I began to scoop the ice cream. How mortifying to be so unmemorable, I thought. Maybe if I were cooler, like Tessa, people would remember me. I set the milkshake on the stand to mix and rang up the other kids who were waiting. Then I returned to Daniel’s shake, poured it out, and told him the price. I didn’t add a sprinkle of happy. It was my own private rebellion.
Daniel handed me the money and said thanks—totally polite but still having no idea who I was—and then they all sat down at one of the tables, scraping the chairs over to make one big group.
I washed the scoopers, wiped up stray sprinkles and spilled sauce, and half listened to them chat. Then I heard the name “Colin,” and my ears perked up.
“He’s the assistant editor of our paper,” said Daniel.
I strained to hear what the other kid was saying, and I could have sworn I heard the name “Tessa.” My heart dropped. I hoped people weren’t mentioning them together!
But then Daniel distinctly said, “No. Not her. They’re not a couple.”
And where only minutes before, I had been unhappy with Daniel, now I was totally grateful to him! I wanted to run out from behind the counter with his sprinkle of happy after all! But what else was he saying?
“. . . someone else.”
Darn it! I couldn’t hear. Something about someone else?
The subject changed, and the kids began talking about sports, and the moment was gone, but I was dying to know what the deal was with Colin and Tessa. Were they not a couple? Was Colin interested in someone else? Ugh. I needed to know! The kids al
l finished their ice creams and left without my ever hearing more about Colin.
Shortly thereafter my mom returned and sent me home to do my homework, handing me twenty dollars for covering her shift. I tried to refuse it, but she insisted.
“If you don’t take it, I won’t feel like I can ask you for help again!” she said with a smile.
“Thanks, Mom.”
As I bent to put it into my wallet inside my backpack, she spotted the book Mrs. K. had given me. “Ooh! M.F.K. Fisher! We read her writing in college! Do you like it?”
I nodded. “The librarian at school gave it to me because I’ve been reading all the food magazines. She said it’s a classic. It’s hard, but I do like it.”
My mom nodded. “A little out-of-date, too. But if you like food writing, I’d love to go to the library in town with you and take out some books. There are so many great ones!”
“Okay. Thanks!” I agreed. “Next week.”
“It’s a date!” she agreed.
As I walked home, Tamiko and Allie called me from Tamiko’s mom’s car on speakerphone.
“Hey, Ali-li!” said Tamiko.
“Hi, Miko!”
“I’m here too!” said Sierra.
“What’s up, girls?” I asked.
“Want to go to dinner at the crêpe place tomorrow?” asked Sierra. “Tamiko’s mom just offered to take us because she has to run an errand over there.”
“Yes! Definitely! I’m in.”
“Perfect. We’ll pick you up at five thirty.”
“Thanks! Bye!” I felt warm and happy. I loved having weekend plans with my besties to look forward to, even if I did have to get though a bus ride with Colin in between.
Later I remembered a few more details for the interview and shoot on Sunday, and I group-texted my besties.
Flowers for Sunday? What do u think? Also, shld I pick up paper straws? Plastic straws very bad for environment, even tho we have a lot of stock to get thru.
No one replied.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A NIGHT IN FRANCE
The next morning I had butterflies in my stomach, dreading seeing Colin on the bus. I half wanted him to be there and I half didn’t. I missed him, friend or crush, whichever it was. I wasn’t sure. But the Tessa thing was still swirling in my mind, whether Daniel was right or not. Better if Colin’s not on the bus, I decided.
And then, sure enough, he was on the bus, sitting in our usual spot. He started waving as soon as I climbed aboard. I looked all around, hoping for some sort of diversion, someone calling me to sit with them instead, but there wasn’t anyone. It was undeniable: Colin was my best friend at school, and there was no way to avoid him. I’d have to go back there and sit with him.
“Hey, mystery lady!” he said as I drew close. “Where have you been the past week? I thought you’d suddenly gotten four years older, gotten your license, and given up the bus!”
At least he’s noticed, I thought as I swung into the seat. I shrugged, trying to maintain the air of mystery. “I’ve been around,” I said. “At my dad’s, actually.”
He looked at me carefully. Then he said, “Well, I’ve missed you.”
Suddenly I was grinning at him like a fool, and I had to turn and look out the window because my cheeks hurt.
“What’s new?” he asked.
I shrugged and turned back, my smile under control now. “Oh, the usual . . .” And then we were off and chatting, back to normal. There was always so much for us to talk about! We talked about the school paper (I did not mention the Yay Gourmet article again, thank you very much), and he talked about our English test. Then I told him about M.F.K. Fisher and my camp plans for the summer.
Suddenly there was a commotion ahead of us, and an overpowering sweet smell filled the bus. Then the Mean Team started.
“Palmerrrrrr!” Maria wailed. “You broke my brand-new perfume bottle!”
Colin and I looked at each other. We both grinned.
“SORRY!” Palmer cried. “I didn’t know it would be so fragile!”
“Ugh, now I’m going to smell like your perfume instead of my perfume!” complained Blair.
Colin and I grimaced at the Mean Team’s drama, and Colin turned to open the bus window to let the smell out.
“I really don’t like the smell of flowers. It makes my allergies go haywire,” he said quietly. “Last year I had to sit next to Palmer in math class. Her perfume was so strong that I finally couldn’t stand it and asked the teacher to switch my seat.”
“Wow,” I said, making a mental note to never wear perfume around Colin (not that I wore perfume in the first place).
Then he grinned. “I’ve never told anyone about that besides you. Don’t go spreading it around!”
I mimed zipping my mouth and throwing away the key, but inside I felt warm and fuzzy. Never told anyone? Not even Tessa? I knew I shouldn’t have been comparing myself to Tessa, but it did feel good to have Colin sharing secrets with me. Suddenly I pictured him and Tessa high-fiving over Cereal Milk ice cream, and I cringed a little inside. Don’t get too possessive, Allie, I cautioned myself.
I took a deep breath as the bus came to a stop outside school.
“What’s up for the weekend?” Colin asked me as we inched our way down the bus aisle.
“Out tonight with friends, homework tomorrow and babysitting my brother, then work on Sunday. The reporter from the food website I mentioned is coming for the interview on Sunday.” I couldn’t help myself. I had to tell him!
“No way! That’s awesome. Are you open to the public while they’re there?”
“Yeah, I think so. For most of it anyway.”
“Then I’d better come by with some friends and make sure the reporter knows that Molly’s is super popular!”
I laughed. “Thanks!” I said. Then I realized that “friends” might mean Tessa, and my smile faded.
“See you then!” he said as we parted.
“See you,” I managed to respond.
At lunch I popped into the library. Mrs. K. was wearing a hot-pink dress and platform shoes, her hair wild and curly in a big mass that bounced as she walked.
“Hi, Mrs. K. I loved the book you lent me!” I said.
“Oh, yes. Mm-hmm. A classic. Yes, indeedy. Good, good. She pioneered the genre of modern food writing.”
“I can see that. My mom read her in college.”
“Ah, yes. As did I.”
She had such a quirky way of talking, but you got used to it after a while.
“I have a question. Do you have any info on summer programs in this area? Like camps or classes?” I asked.
“Oh yes, absolutely. Right over here. Come along.” She clomped across the floor to a filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. “All here. Here you go. Righty-ho.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
Inside the neat files I found camp counselor jobs I could apply for, local certification classes for things like CPR and junior lifeguard, classes at museums and the public library, and more. I glanced at my watch and realized I needed to wrap things up and get to class.
I could hear Mrs. K. coming back, clomp, clomp, clomp.
“One more thing, right here. Look at this,” she said, pulling a brochure out of a rubber-banded stack. “You can take it. Bring it back if you don’t need it, alrighty? Mm-hmm. Okay, then.” And she clomped away.
“Thanks!” I whisper-called after her. I didn’t have time to look at the brochure, but I slid it into my book bag and dashed to class.
At five thirty on the nose, Mrs. Sato pulled up in front of my mom’s house. I was sitting on the front porch, ready to go. My mom was at work, and Tanner was at a friend’s for a sleepover (where he’d certainly stay up way too late, as usual, and then he’d come home super cranky the next day, just in time for me to babysit him while my mom worked at the store and avoided his guaranteed tantrum).
“Ali-li!” cried Tamiko out the window of their white Escalade. She was wearing a navy blue beret
and a striped sailor shirt, like Mrs. K. had worn the other day. Tamiko was apparently working a French theme.
“Hiiiii!” I hopped off the porch, jogged to the SUV, and climbed in.
“Bonjour!” said Tamiko by way of greeting.
“Sweet outfit,” I said, taking in her jeans and ballet flats.
“Merci,” said Tamiko. “That means ‘thank you’ in French.”
“Hello, Allie!” said Mrs. Sato.
“Hi, Mrs. Sato! Thanks for picking me up. Thanks for taking us too!”
“My pleasure. It worked out perfectly. Now tell me how things are at that fabulous school of yours!”
Mrs. Sato was really interested in Vista Green because it was all new, and she thought the teaching was more innovative than at MLK, my old school, where Tamiko and Sierra still went. Unfortunately, where the Satos lived was zoned for MLK.
I filled her in on the new 3-D printer we’d gotten, and the robotics club (not that Tamiko was even interested in that stuff, but Mrs. Sato liked to hear it all), and soon we were at the crêpe restaurant in the next town.
“Okay, girls. I’m heading to the fabric store to look at fabrics for the living room, so I’ll be about an hour. Call me if you need me in the meantime, or I’ll see you back here then, okay?”
“Thanks!” we all agreed.
Tamiko led the way into La Crêperie, the never-changing, been-there-forever crêpe place. Inside, it was decorated like an old-fashioned French bakery. There were wire baker’s racks with curlicues on top, all painted white and filled with jars of jam and jelly for sale; white marble countertops; a tiled floor; retro bakery scales; and wire bins with round loaves of bread for sale. Tamiko thought it was all chic, which meant “stylish.” I just liked the crêpes.
The hostess seated us at a marble-topped table surrounded by wire café chairs, and she handed us enormous menus. The waiter came, and we ordered citron pressé, which was kind of like lemonade. He left a little basket of sliced French bread with cold, bright-yellow butter that was salty and delicious.