Confectionately Yours #4: Something New Page 2

  And I wonder.

  I just remembered.

  It used to sit on the far left middle shelf in the living room. But it had a dust jacket. The dust jacket was dark red, with gold lettering that matches the lettering on the cloth cover that you can see now.

  Gran used to read from it a lot. Before we moved in with her, sometimes Chloe and I would come over for a weekend visit. In the evenings, Gran would read us a poem or two. I remember part of one:

  Remember that beneath the snow and ice,

  A world awaits, till winter’s fury spent.

  I always thought that was a great poem for the end of winter, when you’re really ready for the ice to break up and unleash the grass below. I know Gran loved it, too.

  It’s so amazing that of all the books in the world Mr. Malik would choose that one. It seems so romantic.

  So — why isn’t Gran happy?

  “Sorry I’m a little late, Mom.” She’s seated on the hard wooden bench in the front hall of my school, and I plop down beside her. Around us, the hallways rattle and crash as students slam lockers and dash for the bus. Usually, I would be dashing, too, but I have a dentist appointment.

  Mom peers toward the sixth-grade hallway. “Why are people shrieking?” she asks.

  “A toilet in the boys’ room overflowed,” I explain. “Half the hallway is freaking out.”

  Mom grimaces. “That’s disgusting!”

  “It happens a lot,” I tell her, and she looks even more horrified. “Really, it’s not a big deal. They always get it cleaned up. The sixthies are just being dramatic.” Just then, a little knot of three sixth-grade girls trots down the hallway, holding their noses and pretending like they’re going to barf.

  Mom watches them. “Did that happen when you were in the sixth grade?”

  “A couple of times,” I admit. “Everyone’s always really thrilled to move on to seventh grade. The restrooms in that hallway are perfect.”

  Mom stands up and we start toward the double doors. Two guys race by me. As they slam outside, I realize it’s Omar and Jamil. Mom watches them streak across the front lawn — Jamil is holding a book over his head, and Omar is chasing him — and she has this worried look on her face, as if she never really realized how crazy my school is. It makes me feel a little defensive. I mean, I love my school, even if it isn’t perfect.

  “Hey, I just remembered.” I dig around in my messenger bag until I fish out a pink paper. “Señor Derby asked me to give this to you.”

  Mom parked across the street, so we pause-and-dash through the slowly creeping traffic — packs of kids and slow-moving vehicles all navigating around the half circle in front of the school. We pause at our car and Mom somehow manages to unlock the door with her key while reading the note from my Spanish teacher. She’s really good at multitasking like that.

  “This says he wants to give you an accelerated curriculum,” Mom says.

  “Yeah. There are five of us who are pretty good at Spanish, so he let us work ahead,” I explain. “Now we’re finished with the textbook.” I yank open the door and duck into the car. Once the doors are closed, it’s quiet in here. Like we’re in our own bubble.

  Mom’s still frowning at the letter. “But the school won’t provide a textbook for you,” she says.

  “I know.” I nibble my thumbnail. “Because I’m already in Advanced Spanish.” This is the catch — the school provides textbooks for free, if you’re in a class. But Señor Derby’s class is as high as my school goes in Spanish. If I want to work ahead, I’ll need my own book, because there technically isn’t a class for ninth-grade Spanish at my school.

  “I’ll be ahead when I get to high school,” I point out. “I could take the Advanced Placement test my junior year.” Señor Derby had explained about the Advanced Placement test — if you do well on it, you can get college credit. Mom is usually really enthusiastic about anything college-related, but this time, she sighs.

  “It’s just … money’s a little tight right now. And this says that the book costs over a hundred dollars.” She doesn’t look at me when she says this. She looks straight through the dashboard. Ever since my parents got divorced and my mom got laid off, money has been an issue. She’s helping Gran by managing the Tea Room now, and it’s going okay, but we aren’t exactly planning a European vacation right now. Or even a trip to Goshen, where we used to go every summer.

  “I know it’s expensive.”

  Mom folds up the letter and puts it in her purse. “I’ll think about it, sweetheart. I’ll talk to your dad and see what we can do.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say.

  The car coughs and starts up, and Mom slowly merges into traffic.

  Here’s the thing about money: People always say that it can’t buy happiness. But I’m not sure that’s exactly true. I don’t think being rich guarantees that you’ll have a perfect life, or that being poor will make you miserable. But I know that not having money means you have to miss out on things sometimes. And not all of those things are shallow. Sometimes, they’re important things. But you have to miss out, anyway.

  The large sugar maple on the seventh-grade corner is already pale green — just starting to leaf out overhead. It’s as if it has just started to wake up and think leafy thoughts, but hasn’t gotten to work making real leaves yet. At the edge of our brick school building, a hedge of yellow forsythia gleams bright against the dull grass, damp and dirty from the retreating snow. It’s still cold, but the light out is springlike, which warms me up somehow. Thirty-four degrees in March doesn’t feel the same as thirty-four degrees in December. I don’t know why. Maybe because everyone’s so busy thinking about the end of winter.

  So it’s cold, but everyone kind of has the idea that it isn’t, so we’re all hanging out on our corner before the first bell, like we did at the beginning of the year.

  Meghan is making notes on her pad. She likes to carry around a clipboard. She thinks people take her more seriously with a clipboard, which is true, though they might take her even more seriously if the clipboard weren’t hot pink and covered with Hello Kitty stickers. I’m just saying.

  “Okay, I think we’ve got food covered for the Spring Fling,” Meghan says, checking something off with a purple pen. “You’ve got dessert. Artie is going to help with decorations and centerpieces. But I still need to get something for the drinks —”

  “I have a big cooler,” Marco offers. “I could bring that.” Marco is one of my best friends and used to be my next-door neighbor.

  “That would be great!” Meghan makes a note of it. “And maybe some ice?”

  “Sure. I can take photos, too, if you want.” Marco is an excellent photographer.

  “That would be great! We could post them —”

  “Hey, Meg!” Omar is loping toward us, his huge backpack bouncing against his back as he runs. “Meg — I need to talk to you.”

  Meghan narrows her eyes as Omar joins us. “Why?” She really manages to pack that single syllable full of suspicion.

  “What’s up, Omar?” I ask.

  “You’re class rep, right?” Omar turns to Meghan. He slings his bag from his shoulder and plops it onto the damp ground. “Look, I have this idea for a tutoring program. A lot of people are having trouble with algebra, and I thought that maybe some of the kids who are really good at it could volunteer to help out. People could sign up, then meet at the library during lunch, or maybe at one of the back tables of the cafeteria.”

  “Hey, great idea,” I say. “We could do other subjects, too.” I’m thinking I could help some people with Spanish.

  “I could use some help in English,” Marco mutters.

  “Right!” Omar grins at me. Omar’s actually a really good-looking guy, I realize, with his huge brown eyes and golden skin. I just never think of him as handsome because he’s such a pain.

  “Hmm,” Meghan says.

  “Would you help me?” Omar asks. “I think we’ll probably need to clear the idea with the adminis
tration and stuff, especially if we want to use the library.”

  Meghan gives Omar a little one-shoulder shrug. “It sounds like a good idea. Let me think about it.”

  Think about it? I’m really surprised. This idea seems so … Meghan-ish to me. I’d expected her to be all over it.

  “Oh.” Omar looks a little disappointed. “Sure. Think about it and let me know, okay?”

  Meghan doesn’t even say, “Okay,” or anything, she just nods. Then she sort of looks at Omar from under her eyelashes until he grabs his backpack and walks away.

  “What’s up?” I ask as soon as Omar is out of earshot. “I thought you’d be into that idea.”

  “I am,” Meghan admits. She starts doodling on her yellow pad. “But you know Omar. I’ll do all the groundwork, and by the time the administration clears the whole thing, Omar will have forgotten all about it.” She draws a star. Then another star. Spike after spike until her margin looks like a bush full of thorny burrs.

  “I’ll bet a lot of other kids would be into the idea, though,” Marco says. “Even if Omar flakes out.”

  Meghan huffs out a sigh, which sends her bangs fluttering. “I’ve already got a million things to do.”

  “Just get another super organizer to handle the sign-ups and everything,” I suggest.

  Meghan barely looks interested. “Like who?”

  I scan the clump of seventh graders on the corner. Not Ellie Fisk, I think. No way would Oscar Chang be interested. Danielle Fitzgerald doesn’t do anything but watch TV. Hmm … My eyes land on a girl wearing an orange jacket and dark skinny jeans. Her hair is up in chopsticks. “What about Sadie Sunrise?”

  Sunrise isn’t Sadie Sunrise’s last name — it’s her middle one. But everyone calls her “Sadie Sunrise” or just “Sunrise.” That’s what happens when you have a super-cool middle name. My middle name is Claire, which is fine, but not exactly nickname material.

  Meghan’s eyebrows fly up. “That could work….” she says slowly.

  “Yeah, how come Sunrise isn’t a class officer, or anything?” Marco asks. “She’s the type. She’s all organized with those perfect binders.”

  “And the excellent handwriting. Plus, everybody likes her,” I add.

  Meghan taps her purple pen against her lips. “Hmm. Maybe I should get her to run for student council with me,” she says. “Maybe she’d like to help with the Spring Fling Barbecue, too!” Then, all of a sudden, she darts off to talk to Sunrise.

  I turn to Marco. I’m smiling — I’m about to congratulate him on his excellent idea — but before I can say anything, Marco says, “Hey, Hayley … about the Spring Fling Barbecue … do you want to go together?”

  Last year, Mr. Forbes, our science teacher, told us about this woolly mammoth that had been found by scientists in the Arctic Circle. It was perfectly preserved in ice. Like, the Ice Age had just come and — zap! The woolly mammoth was frozen solid.

  Well, that’s how I feel. Totally frozen solid, out of the blue.

  Marco is one of my best friends. And he kissed me once. But that never turned into anything. So now he’s asking me to this dance, and I don’t know what it means. Is it as friends? Or is it some kind of date thing?

  But there he is — my good friend, looking at me hopefully with his familiar dark eyes. Behind me, the bell to start school rings, and I feel the students, who had been littered across the front lawn and lining the walkways, all start to move as one toward the building. I have to give him an answer.

  So I say the only thing I can think of.

  “Sure, Marco,” I tell him. “Of course I’ll go.”

  Papaya Chocolate-Chip Cupcakes

  (makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

  I know that when most people think “tropical,” they don’t think about cupcakes. But they should! Here’s a recipe that’s good for an early spring day — when you’re thinking about the warm summer ahead.

  INGREDIENTS:

  1-1/2 cups all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  3/4 teaspoon baking soda

  1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  1 cup papaya puree

  2/3 cup granulated sugar

  1/4 cup coconut milk

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1/3 cup canola oil

  1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with cupcake liners.

  In a large bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, ground cinnamon, and salt.

  In a separate bowl, stir together the papaya puree, sugar, coconut milk, vanilla extract, and oil. With a whisk or handheld mixer, add the wet ingredients to the dry ones a little bit at a time, stopping to scrape the sides of the bowl a few times, and mix until no lumps remain. Then fold in the chocolate chips.

  Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way and bake for 20–22 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center of a cupcake comes out clean. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.

  Banana Frosting

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 cup coconut flakes

  2 tablespoons butter, softened

  2 cups confectioners’ sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1/4 cup super ripe banana, mashed

  1/2 cup mini chocolate chips (optional)

  INSTRUCTIONS:

  Scatter the coconut flakes on top of a baking sheet (preferably with ridges around the edges) and put in the oven to toast until they turn golden brown. Keep a careful eye on them, and occasionally stir them so that the coconut browns evenly. It will happen quickly, so be careful! Set the browned flakes aside to cool.

  In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream the butter until it’s a lighter color, about 2–3 minutes. Then add 1/4 cup of the confectioners’ sugar and combine completely.

  Add the vanilla extract and slowly beat in the rest of the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches. When all the confectioners’ sugar has been added, beat in the mashed banana. Turn the mixer on high speed and beat for about 3–7 minutes, until the frosting is light and fluffy.

  OPTIONAL: Mix in mini chocolate chips with a spoon for extra yumminess.

  Frost each cupcake, add the toasted coconut flakes on top, and serve!

  “Should we guess the flavor?” my father’s girlfriend, Annie, asks as I walk into the dining room with a large platter of cupcakes.

  “You never will,” Chloe says, lifting herself onto her knees in her chair. Chloe is in third grade, and small for her age. She usually sits cross-legged or on her knees, otherwise her legs dangle six inches from the floor.

  “Well, yellow frosting is a clue,” Dad says, scratching his salt-and-pepper hair. “Vanilla?”

  Chloe huffs, as if she’s insulted by the uncreative answer. That makes me laugh a little, because it isn’t as if Chloe made the cupcakes.

  “Oh, that’s too easy,” Annie says. “Something more original. The cake is pink — rosewater, maybe?”

  “Still way off,” Chloe replies.

  “They’re papaya chocolate-chip,” I say, “with banana frosting.”

  Everyone lets out an “Ah!” and I hold out the platter to Chloe first. Of course, she chooses the largest cupcake.

  Annie’s long fingers reach for the prettiest one. It’s funny how — in a batch of twelve cupcakes — there’s always one that comes out looking worse than all the others. And there’s always one that comes out looking better. And of course Annie spotted it. She’s into pretty things — she dresses beautifully, her nails are always perfectly done, and her black hair always gleams. She even helped my dad pick out some stuff for the apartment. When he first moved in, it was pretty … blank. He had a bed and a desk and even a TV with a recliner in front of it, but there wasn’t anything on the walls. After six months of dating Annie, there are ferns and paintings and floor lamps. Even curtains. In fact, the apartment kind of loo
ks like a page in House Beautiful.

  Dad picks a cupcake at random, and then I take one and sit down at my usual spot. The dinner dishes have already been cleared away — Annie and Dad made pad thai — and Chloe put out the dessert plates. But mine is now covered with a large white envelope.

  “What’s this?” I ask. I pick up the envelope and move it off my plate so I can put down my cupcake.

  “Open it and see,” Dad urges. He takes a big bite of his cupcake and lifts his eyebrows at Annie, who smiles.

  I lift the flap and pull out a brochure. Well — it’s bigger than a regular brochure. It’s more like a magazine, with thick, heavy paper. There are several pictures on the front: A girl with glossy blond hair and blinding tennis whites hits a ball. A serious-looking girl with glasses and dark cocoa skin frowns at a Bunsen burner. A muscular boy with a sharp profile shakes hands with a man in a tie. I recognize the man. He’s one of our senators. Islip Academy, reads the headline. Creating Leaders.

  I look up at my dad, unsure what to say. “Um, thanks for the brochure?”

  “What is it?” Chloe asks, peering across the table. “What does it say?”

  I look at my little sister. “‘Islip Academy. Creating Leaders.’”

  “Oooh!” Chloe’s mouth drops open. “Oooo — ooooh!”

  Dad laughs. “Hayley, I thought you might be interested in checking it out.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because it’s one of the best schools in the whole country, Hayley,” Dad says. “Wouldn’t you like to go there?”

  I look down at the brochure. “Isn’t it a boarding school?”

  “They have day students,” Annie explains. “You don’t have to live on campus.” She tosses her long, gleaming black hair over her shoulder. With her elegant rose-colored silk shirt, porcelain skin, and shiny hair, she looks more like one of these perfect, perfect Islip students in the brochure than I do, even if she’s twenty years older.