Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! (3 page)

“A
rtemis!” a tall guy with blond hair calls as Artie and I are yanking books and binders.

My heart stumbles a bit and I glance at Artie as she smiles and shouts, “Hey, Devon!”

“Do you know Devon McAllister?” I’m whispering, because he’s actually walking toward us. It’s a bit of a surprise, because he’s a year above us, in eighth grade.

“Yeah,” but she doesn’t have time to explain before he props himself against the locker beside hers.

“Hey,” he says warmly, smiling at her, and for a moment, my head is spinning. He has the most beautiful lips. It’s embarrassing to say that, but it’s true. Like, he should be a lip model, if that even exists. He could model ChapStick. And his eyes — they’re blue, but not bright blue, more like slate blue, and serious.

I’ve been crazy about him since the first day of school last year. I was running to class and trying to shove two books into my backpack at the same time, and I ran smack into him in the hall. He reached for my dropped books at the same time I did, and we cracked our heads together.

He winced and rubbed his head while I picked up my books and mumbled that I was sorry. Then I ran off.

Wow, it’s really romantic when I write it down like that.

Anyway, the point is that he is the kind of guy who would totally pick up your books for you. Unless you head-butted him, like I did.

And also, he’s really good-looking. And did I mention he’s an eighth grader?

So, naturally, I tried not to think about him. I had never mentioned my crush to anyone — not even Artie.

And here he is, standing one person away from me, on the other side of my best friend. I just might pass out and drop my books again.

“Callback list goes up on Friday,” he says to Artie.

“I know; I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be! You’ll make it. Your cold reading was great.”

“Really?” she asks.

I’m about to die. He’s so sweet! And I know Artie is really grateful to hear this; she was so nervous about auditioning for the school musical that she nearly refused to try out. I had to drag her there. But she’s got a great voice, and Artie doesn’t seem to realize that she’s totally gorgeous. She belongs onstage.

I’m leaning toward them now, nodding and smiling like I’m part of this conversation, but Devon doesn’t look my way.

“Hey, did you hear about that guy who shoved Ezra at the soccer game?” he says out of the blue.

“Oh, yeah.” Artie blushes. “That’s Marco.”

“You know him? Wasn’t that weird?”

“Not if you know Marco.”

“Really?”

I want to say something here, but nobody’s actually talking to me, so I just lean back and sort through my books, pretending I’m really absorbed in putting them in alphabetical order and not just eavesdropping and thinking about Devon’s lips.

Devon and Artie chat a little while longer, then his friends shout to him from across the hall and he says good-bye.

Once he’s gone, Artie turns to me and smiles but she doesn’t say anything.

“So …” I prompt.

“So.” She pulls out another notebook and slams her locker shut.

“So — I didn’t know you knew Devon.”

“I don’t. I mean, I just met him at the audition the other day.”

“And?” I prompt again.

Artie shrugs. “He thinks I’ll make the callback. I’m not so sure. He will, though. He was great.”

“Well, would you mind introducing me next time he comes over?”

Artie turns to me, her mouth open. “Ohmigosh, Hayley! I’m so rude!”

“No big deal.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Seriously, no big deal,” I say, but I’m glad she feels a little bad. Artie can be a space case, and she’s awful at introducing me to people.

“It’s just — everyone knows Devon. I was wondering why you were being so quiet.” Artie bites her lip.

This irks me.
Everyone knows Devon. She
didn’t even know him until two days ago!

“Next time,” Artie says with a smile.

“Sure,” I say, hoping against hope that there actually will be a next time.

“N
eed some help?” my mom asks as she slips into my room.

“What makes you ask?” A giant poster of Monet’s
Water Lilies
peels off my wall and falls on my head. “Grr! Why doesn’t this stupid sticky stuff ever stick?”

Mom laughs. “It’s not straight, anyway.” She kicks off her shoes and steps onto my twin bed. She holds up the poster, rubs the sticky stuff between her fingers, and replaces it on the back, then smashes it up against the wall. “You’ve got to
make
it stick,” she says. “Straight now?”

I jump off the bed and sit down on Chloe’s. “Looks good.”

Mom smiles and plops down beside me, cross-legged. She looks young in her pink sweatshirt and jeans, even though she’s kind of an older mom. She was thirty-five when she had me, thirty-nine when she had Chloe. Mom doesn’t like me to tell people her age, but anyone who can add could figure it out. “How’s the room working out?”

I shrug. “It’s okay.”

Mom looks around and sighs. The room is pretty disorganized. Chloe and I are still trying to figure out where everything goes. The biggest problem is that Chloe doesn’t really care, but I don’t want to make all the decisions by myself. So we have a pile of boxes in the corner.

I look at Mom sitting on my slightly rumpled, blue-and-white bedspread. We just repainted my room in the old house to match it last year — a beautiful pale blue like the edge of the sky on a hot day. But now some other kid is living in that room. Or maybe it’s an office. And here I am, in a too-narrow room with dingy mauve paint and a falling-down poster.

“It’s hard not having your own space.”

“I don’t mind.” I’m not sure if this is true or not, but I decide to give it the benefit of the doubt.

Mom smiles at me. “It’s just for a little while,” she says.

“I know.”

Silence pulses between us.

“Gran tells me that you’ve been helping at the café.”

“She’s selling my cupcakes. Mr. Malik bought one yesterday, and came in for another today.”

“I heard. That’s great.” Mom smiles again, and this time it’s a real smile that lights up her whole face. She leans forward and says, “Guess what — I have a job interview tomorrow.”

“What? Awesome!”

“Now I just have to figure out what to wear.”

“Black pants, red shirt.”

She laughs. “You have it all figured out?”

“I’ve been planning,” I admit.

Mom looks thoughtful, and I wonder if I’ve made her feel bad. I didn’t mean to. It’s just — Mom got laid off a couple of months ago. She used to be an office manager, and the office decided to downsize. That’s why we moved in with Gran. Of course, Gran makes it sound like we moved in because she’s some decrepit old lady who needs help running her tea shop, but I’m not sure if even Chloe is buying that one. Mom doesn’t want to help run the tea shop. She doesn’t even drink tea, and she can’t bake a scone to save her life. We’re here because we’re out of money.

“Where’s the interview?” I ask.

“At a doctors’ office,” she says. “A practice. Seven doctors.”

“That’ll be good.” I just hope she gets it. She’s only had two interviews so far, and neither one of them panned out. Mom unfolds her legs and steps off the bed.

“Come here, you,” she says, pulling me into a hug. I hug back, trying not to feel desperate. She needs this job, and we both know it. The Tea Room isn’t exactly a huge moneymaker.

Just then, Chloe bursts in through the door, her ponytail half-undone and scraggly. “Why is everyone on my bed?” she demands.

“Join us,” Mom says.

Chloe smiles and hops onto the bed, and we all snuggle together for a minute. For a moment I’m reminded of three-year-old Chloe, who sang constantly and was a fountain of kisses and hugs.

“Can Horatio come over for dinner?” she asks suddenly.

“Horatio?” Mom repeats, obviously delighted. “He hasn’t come to dinner in ages!”

“Is it okay?” Chloe asks.

“Of course,” Mom says, giving my younger sister a squeeze. But I’m not so happy. I’ve never liked Horatio much, and I was pretty glad when he sort of disappeared for a while. But he’s back, I guess.

I just hope he doesn’t sit next to me.

S
eriously. He’s my sister’s imaginary friend. Yes, she is eight and still has an imaginary friend. Is that weird, or am I paranoid?

My mom thinks it’s adorable, and Horatio’s name brings up all sorts of nostalgia for her. He first appeared when Chloe was less than two years old, but we just called him
Boy
then. We would have tea parties with Boy, and celebrate his birthday, and take him sledding with us and stuff.

He wasn’t named Horatio until she turned three. Mom says it was really weird — she has no idea how Chloe came up with the name. It’s not like there was another kid in her day care named Horatio or something.

Anyway, Horatio and Chloe would play tag in the yard, or read together, or have long chats in the living room. It is very peculiar to watch your three-year-old sister play with Duplos while having an intense conversation in a low voice with nobody. Like, it’s the kind of thing that’s always happening in horror movies, and I guess a part of me has been sort of waiting for one of her freaky stuffed animals to come alive, or for the walls to start bleeding, or something.

I guess that’s part of why he gives me the creeps.

But the other part is my fear that Horatio is actually Chloe’s best friend … and that makes me sad. She’s always been shy, and ever since learning how to read, she spends most of her time by herself, sitting under a tree, face hidden behind a book. Shouldn’t she have real friends? I mean — she’s eight, not three. Mom doesn’t seem worried about it, but I am.

I have to admit, I was hoping he was gone for good, but I’m not surprised that he’s back. With everything that’s happened to us in the past few months, I know Chloe needs a friend.

I guess I’ve just been wishing that she would find a real one.

“H
ello?”

“Oh, you’re not screening your calls?”

“Hi, Dad.”

“I’m surprised you picked up the phone. You hardly ever do. Well, how are you?”

“Good.”

“Just good?”

“Everything’s good, Dad. Getting my room set up.”

“So … what should we do this weekend?”

“I don’t know. See a movie, maybe? Chloe wants to see that new one about the princess and the —”

“I don’t want to just sit in the dark and not talk to you guys.”

“Okay.”

“I thought we could go apple picking.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t sound excited about it. I thought you loved apple picking.”

“I do — it’s just … It sounds good.”

“Chloe likes apple picking.”

“Right, Dad. Right. I mean — do you know how to make applesauce?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I just — we usually go apple picking with Mom.”

“Okay, Hayley ….” Dad sighs.

“But there’s no reason we can’t go with you, I guess. It’ll be fun.”

“You bet it will.”

“Can I bring Artie?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is our time together, Hayley. If you bring Artemis, then Chloe will want to bring a friend ….”

“She can bring Horatio.”

“Very funny. Look, I’ll pick you up Saturday morning at nine. Sharp.”

“Fine.”

“You don’t sound excited.”

“I am. I’m … thrilled.”

“Okay, Hayley, look — let me speak to Chloe.”

“I don’t know where she is right now.”

“Well, go find her.”

“Okay. Hold on a minute.”

“See you Saturday.”

“Yeah.”