Confectionately Yours #2: Taking the Cake! Read online

  I’d thought that the dress actually looked kind of cool with high-tops. But I was telling the truth — the only nice pair of shoes I have that fit are sandals. And November in Massachusetts isn’t sandal weather.

  “Hayley needs to sit down,” Chloe announces. “Can we please just go?”

  “What about her shoes?” Dad asks.

  “It’s Thanksgiving, Dad,” Chloe tells him. “Anybody who cares about her shoes is a jerk.”

  Way to go, Chloe, I think as Dad stands there awkwardly. Chloe never argues with anyone.

  Anyway, she’s right. I really, really do need to sit down.

  Dad looks at his watch. “All right, let’s get going. I don’t want to be late.” And we all pile into the Lexus.

  In the backseat, Chloe takes my hand. I lean my head on her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” Chloe whispers.

  I nod.

  All I have to do is sit there, I think. Just sit there.

  That’s all.

  I realize it before we even set foot in the restaurant. We pull up in front of an enormous white building with columns and bushes cut into the shape of swans. Yes, I’m serious. Swans. They’re covered in white lights and glow softly in the foggy darkness.

  I probably would have thought it was really pretty, if I didn’t feel so horrible.

  We pull up in a circular drive, and Dad gives the keys to a valet. Chloe helps me get out of the car, and I cling to her arm for support. And then we walk into this really elegant room with a marble floor and flower arrangements the size of my mom’s car. I take one look at the enormous crystal chandelier and think, Wrong shoes.

  Annie walks up to a man in a tuxedo. “Hello, Wilson,” she says. “Are my parents here?”

  “Good evening, Ms. Montri,” Wilson says. “Yes, your parents are already seated. Will anyone else be joining you?” He nods at her, and she gestures to us.

  Wilson looks us over. His eyes linger just a second on my high-tops, and one of his eyebrows lifts.

  My dad huffs a sigh, and I can tell he wants to say something. Something along the lines of, “I told her not to wear those.” But here is the thing — this place is actually too fancy for anyone to complain about your shoes.

  “Right this way,” Wilson says.

  I spot Annie’s parents right away — she looks just like her mother, who is elegantly dressed in a cream suit. Her father beams as we walk toward him, and his enormous smile makes me feel a bit better.

  Annie introduces Dad to her parents, and I’m aware that my father is giving his heartiest handshake. Annie’s dad smiles and shakes my hand, while her mother says a gentle hello and peers into my face with a slightly worried expression.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Montri asks.

  “Hayley isn’t feeling well,” Dad explains.

  “Sit down, sit down!” Annie’s father says.

  We all take a seat. I place my napkin in my lap, but Chloe hesitates over hers. “Oh, I hate to unfold it,” she says, looking at the swan.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” Mrs. Montri says. “They teach classes here on how to make them.”

  “Really?” Chloe asks, as if she’s always been dying to learn to fold napkins.

  “So, David, I hear you and Annie work together?” Mr. Montri asks, turning to my father.

  “Yes, I’m an attorney.”

  “And what kind of car do you drive?” Mr. Montri asks.

  “Dad!” Annie shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

  My dad laughs and blushes slightly. “A Lexus,” he admits. That car is his pride and joy.

  Mr. Montri frowns slightly, and reaches for the bread basket. “Would anyone like to try some? They make the rolls here, and they’re delicious.”

  “Dad owns a Cadillac dealership,” Annie explains.

  “Best car in the world,” her father says fiercely. “Always buy American.”

  Annie sighs. “Oh, Dad.”

  My father squirms uncomfortably. “Um, Mrs. Montri — you’re a doctor, I understand?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Montri replies. “I’ve been in practice for over fifteen years.”

  “We came to this country almost twenty years ago with nothing,” Mr. Montri says. “Nothing! And now — look at us!” He sends out his arm in a sweeping gesture, including the whole restaurant in his achievement.

  “A real success story,” my father says.

  “People complain about this country.” Mr. Montri leans toward my dad, as if he’s challenging him to say a bad word about the USA. “But I tell you, there is no other place in the world with the opportunities America has.”

  Chloe passes me the bread basket. I can feel that the rolls are warm, and they smell wonderful, even though my guts are tossing. I wonder if a bite of bread might settle my stomach, like saltines are supposed to. I pick a roll out of the basket and put it down on my plate.

  “Well, of course, China is growing rapidly,” my father says.

  “China!” Mr. Montri looks outraged. “China! China? There is no innovation in China. There is no leadership! China? The way they treat their workers — it’s very bad!”

  “Well, I —” My father looks to Annie for help, but she just shrugs.

  “Dad loves to argue,” Annie tells him.

  My dad does not love to argue, and I see him squirming uncomfortably as Mr. Montri blusters on about the need for United States leadership in the world community. “This is what the Founding Fathers were dedicated to — ideals! Equality of man! China? Their idea of equality is that everyone is treated the same — terribly!”

  Finally, a silence falls over the table. I take a bite of my roll. And chew. And chew.

  “Um, Hayley is learning a lot about the Founding Fathers in history class this year, right, Hayley?” Dad looks at me, as if he hopes that I’ll be able to help him somehow.

  And I want to. I really do. But I’m chewing.

  Still chewing.

  “Hayley?” Chloe asks. “Are you okay?”

  I try to swallow. I can’t.

  I open my mouth to reply and throw up into the bread basket.

  “Hayley? Hayley? Are you okay?” Annie is knocking on the door to the bathroom stall, where I’m kneeling over the toilet, heaving.

  I don’t answer her. I can’t answer her. I’m sick.

  The white marble floor is so cool under my knees. So clean. I never want to leave.

  Besides, I can’t come out — I can’t go back into that restaurant. When I threw up, everyone stopped talking. Everyone stared at me. One eight-year-old boy in a navy blazer said, “Eeew!” and it echoed through the restaurant. I’d ruined their fancy Thanksgiving dinners that they’d paid a zillion dollars for.

  But at least I was wearing my sneakers. I ran to the bathroom so fast that nobody at my table even had time to react.

  Annie had come after me. “Would you please excuse us?” she said to the washroom attendant, who left without questioning Annie. Annie’s mom followed a moment later, then Chloe. Now here we are — a cozy group gathered in the ladies’ room. I love having an audience when I puke.

  I heave up some pinkish chunks as Annie and her mother start to argue in Thai. I lie back on the marble, gasping, as the fight goes on.

  “My mom wants to see you,” Annie says at last.

  I don’t reply. I’m not coming out. Ever.

  Mrs. Montri says something in a low voice, and a moment later, Chloe’s face appears below the stall. “Hayley?”

  “Sick,” I mutter. Seriously, I can’t say more.

  My sister Spider-Mans under the door and crawls over to me. It’s a lucky thing we’re in a fancy restaurant. I wouldn’t want my sister crawling all over the floor at a gas station.

  “I thought you could use some company,” Chloe says, taking my hand.

  “I should’ve taken the handicapped stall,” I manage to choke out. “Then everyone could come in.”

  Chloe laughs a little. “You look horrible.”

  “I know,” I
say from my place beside the toilet. “It’s because of my shoes.”

  “Listen, Hayley, do you think you can come out?”

  “No.”

  “You have to come out sometime.”

  “Maybe after they close.”

  Chloe brushes my hair away from my face. Some of it is stuck to the sides of my mouth. Only a sister would do that for you. “Hayley, I’m going to unlock the door, okay?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Montri is a doctor. Besides …” She leans forward to whisper in my ear. “She might be our grandmother someday.”

  I sigh and wave my hand in an I give up gesture, so Chloe opens the door. Mrs. Montri walks in and kneels down beside me. “Thank you, Hayley, for letting me in,” she says as she lifts my wrist. She stares at her watch for a few moments. Then she looks at my arm.

  “It’s all blotchy,” Chloe says.

  “Hives,” Mrs. Montri tells her. “When they’re this big, they’re called plaques. Hayley, did you eat anything unusual earlier today? Get stung by a bee — something like that?”

  “The paella?” Chloe suggests.

  “Didn’t it have lobster in it?” I ask. “I’ve never had that before.”

  Mrs. Montri nods. “Annie, help me get Hayley to her feet.”

  “I don’t think I can sit through dinner,” I say.

  “We’re leaving immediately,” Mrs. Montri tells me. “We’re just informing your father.”

  Annie and her mother work together, and in a moment, I’m standing. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To my office,” Mrs. Montri says.

  Chloe dashes ahead, and I see my father react when she arrives at the table, pointing at us. The other diners in the restaurant are either oblivious or too polite to notice us — nobody looks up as I walk by. Except for the eight-year-old who said, “Eeew!” He watches me with a curled lip.

  My dad stands up as I near the table. “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, just as Mrs. Montri says, “Hardly. Your daughter is having a severe allergic reaction. You see this?” She holds out my arm. “This is anaphylaxis. In severe cases, the throat closes. We’re leaving to get some medication.”

  I want to say something to comfort my dad, but Mrs. Montri is already steering me through the restaurant, with Annie and Chloe trailing behind.

  I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK! I told you! I told you! You don’t LISTEN! You have to have what YOU want! Nobody else matters!

  I hope that Annie’s parents think you’re a jerk.

  It’s all true, though.

  It’s just that there are some things you can’t say.

  “Sweetie?” Mom steps hesitantly into the dark living room. “Your dad is on the phone.”

  “I’m too sick to talk to him.”

  Mom hovers a moment. She glances at Meghan, who is seated on the couch beside me. Blue light plays across Meghan’s face, the glow from the movie we’re watching. Meghan shrugs a little, and my mother sighs. “Okay, Hayley,” Mom says at last. “I’ll tell him.”

  We watch a little more of A Christmas Story. Meghan called this morning to see how Thanksgiving had gone. I told her about the whole scene the night before, and she showed up this afternoon with flowers and the movie, which is one of my all-time favorites. I watch it every year.

  “Kind of mad at your dad, huh?” Meghan says.

  “Yep.” I keep my eyes on the screen.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  Meghan picks up the remote and hits pause. “I kind of think you should talk about it,” she says.

  “Stop being bossy,” I tell her.

  “I try, but I can’t help it!” She leans her head against the arm of the chair. “You have no idea how hard it is.” Meghan gives me a big, weepy-eyed look. “You should feel sorry for me!”

  “Look, I told my dad I was sick, but he didn’t care. He only cared about my shoes, and the fact that I was embarrassing him. Well, good — I hope I did embarrass him when I barfed into the bread basket.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” Meghan says.

  “Right.” I put my face in my hands and take a few deep breaths while Meghan pats me awkwardly on the shoulder. “So — don’t you have any instructions? Or, like, words of wisdom?”

  Meghan shakes her head.

  “Not even an inspirational quote?”

  “Hang in there?”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Okay, then, no. I don’t have anything inspiring to say. I just thought that talking might make you feel better.”

  “It didn’t.”

  “Well, I told you — not all of my ideas are winners.”

  That, at least, makes me laugh.

  “Speaking of — Ben Habib called me. Seems he’s figured out that I’m his secret admirer.”

  I gasp. “I can’t believe you’ve been here for an hour and you’re only mentioning this now! What did he say?”

  “He was really sweet.” Meghan picks up a throw pillow and hugs it to her chest. “I mean, he didn’t quote Shakespeare or say I was the girl of his dreams or anything, but — he sounded kind of … regretful. Or maybe that was all in my mind. Anyway, it was nice to think that maybe he wished things could’ve turned out differently. But he said that his parents don’t approve of dating before you’re really ready to get married.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him we should just get married.”

  “Meg!” I squeal. “You’re so crazy!”

  “No, I didn’t really say that.” Meghan grins at me, showing her dimples. “That really would’ve been insane. What I said was, ‘That’s a bummer.’ He said, ‘Well, I guess I’ll just keep this note in the same place I’ve got the ones from all the other girls,’ and then we both laughed and we said good-bye.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” Meghan tugs at a tassel on the pillow. “I knew it would end this way.”

  “So, why did you do all that stuff? The whole secret-admirer campaign?”

  “I just wanted Ben to know how I felt.”

  “But — aren’t you embarrassed?” I couldn’t imagine being Meghan and having to go to school and see Ben on Monday.

  “Why would I be?” Meghan asks, and I realize something — she’s serious. She does not understand why someone would hide feelings. She doesn’t care if the whole grade thinks she’s a fool.

  “I think you’re amazing, Meg,” I say.

  “Really?” Her face brightens. “You really think I’m amazing? I think you’re amazing, too.”

  I laugh. “Okay.”

  “No, I’m serious! I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” She reaches out and touches my arm.

  I smile. “I know you wouldn’t, Meg.”

  Olive-Oil Cupcakes

  (makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

  Okay, I know this may not sound delicious. But you should trust me on this one. Sometimes it’s good to take a risk.

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 cup milk

  1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar

  1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour

  3/4 teaspoon baking powder

  1/2 teaspoon baking soda

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  3/4 cup granulated sugar

  1/3 cup olive oil (Try to find a fruity olive oil, such as one made from Spanish Arbequina olives, so that the flavor is more pronounced.)

  INSTRUCTIONS:

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

  Whisk the milk and apple cider vinegar in a measuring cup and set aside for a few minutes to curdle.

  Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a bowl, and mix.

  In a separate large bowl, mix the curdled milk with the sugar, and olive oil. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ones a little bit at a time, and combine using a whisk or a handheld mixer, stopping to scrape down the sides of the bowl a few times, until smooth an
d no lumps remain.

  Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way full and bake for 22–24 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting.

  Rosemary Frosting

  INGREDIENTS:

  2 sprigs fresh rosemary

  1/4 cup milk

  1 cup margarine or butter

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  3-1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar

  Remove the rosemary leaves from the branches and chop them roughly. In a small saucepan, gently heat the milk until warm. When very small bubbles appear on the edges, remove the pan from heat. Add the rosemary leaves and set aside for 10 minutes to steep.

  In a large bowl, cream the margarine or butter until lighter in color, then add the vanilla extract.

  Strain the rosemary leaves from the milk. Measure the remaining milk to ensure that you still have 1/4 cup of milk, and add more fresh milk if necessary. Reserve some of the rosemary leaves and chop them finely to make about 1 tablespoon.

  Slowly add the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches and mix until fully incorporated, adding the milk in small amounts in between batches. Add the finely chopped rosemary leaves and beat on high speed until the frosting is light and fluffy, about 3–7 minutes.

  “Hayley?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.”

  “Still itching?”

  “The hives come back every couple hours. Then I just take another Benadryl. They’re supposed to stop after a few days.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, Hayley, I didn’t realize you were so sick. I just thought that — maybe — you didn’t want to come.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So — is that all you have to say? ‘Yeah’?”

  “Look, Dad. It’s okay. I’m not sick anymore. There’s no point in feeling bad about it, okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay. But, Hayley, I just wanted —”

  “Dad? Mom is calling me. Can I talk to you later?”

  “Sure, Hayley. We can talk later.”