Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake! (8 page)

I
t’s always a little eerie to be in the school building after classes are over. I can hear the echoes of my footsteps as I click down the hall. A clump of three sixthies hangs by the lockers, laughing about who knows what. Students have covered the glass trophy cases with taped-up posters. S
CREAMING
M
ACHOS
! reads one. G
O
, E
LECTROLYTES
! reads another. F
IGHTING
E
AGLES
has come undone, and is half-lying on the floor. Above it is a plain white poster with a large, cartoonish gray squid cut from construction paper. No words, but everyone knows what it means.

It’s Friday, and the elections for school mascot were held during lunch. There was a small contingent to keep the Purple Pintos, but most of the school seemed excited by the idea of having a new mascot. I voted for the Squids, of course.

Now I’m making my way down the hall, past classroom 108, aka Auditionville. I catch up to Artie just before she goes in.

“Good luck,” I say to her.

“Break a leg,” she corrects me.

I can’t make myself say that, so I just smile. “You’ll do great.”

She flashes me a sour face, then gives me a quick hug before turning to join the other auditionees. A group of five guys — including Devon — is singing a cappella in the corner. Others are poring over scripts, or just sitting and chatting. Everyone looks happy … and artsy. Artie’s wearing a jean miniskirt and a brown top that brings out the deep tones of her auburn hair. She’s also rocking a new pair of silver flats that I’ve never seen. She looks cool.

She looks like one of them.

I decide to go watch Marco practice for a little while. I have a surprise for him, anyway.

The afternoon light is dim as I swing open one of the double doors. It’s a cloudy day, strangely damp, and the cool air clings to me. It’s colder than I expected, and I dig one hand into a pocket of my Windbreaker. The other is wrapped around the handles of a paper shopping bag. I catch a whiff of woodsmoke in the air; someone is burning firewood. It is the first time I’ve smelled it this fall.

I cross the wide sidewalks and cut through the grass to the practice fields. Marco’s dark hair streaks toward the far goal. He’s running a drill, along with the rest of the team. There’s a clump of dirt on the back of his calf, and it flashes against his olive skin as his legs pump. One leg goes out, makes contact with the black-and-white ball — it sails just over the goalie’s gloved hands and into the net.

I let out a whoop, and half the team turns to look in my direction, making me feel like a Grade-A weirdo. But Marco trots toward me, a smile on his face. “What’s up?” he asks, slightly out of breath.

“Just waiting for Artie to finish up her audition.”

“Staying for practice? It’s going to be pretty boring.”

“I brought a book. And I have something for you.” I pull a small, round plastic container from my little shopping bag.

“Just what I needed!” Marco takes the cupcake like it’s a treasure. “Don’t tell the other guys — I’ll get mugged. What flavor?”

“Odd Romance,” I tell him. “Chocolate and ginger.”

Marco and I just stand there a moment, smiling at each other from across the bench. A crack opens up in the clouds, brilliant yellow behind the gray, and a curtain of light falls onto the practice fields. I feel the breeze lift my hair slightly, and I tuck it back into place. A moment later, the cloud passes over the sun again, casting everything back into pale shadow.

Ezra hustles over and punches Marco in the arm. “Hey, are you practicing, or what?”

Marco’s face blushes deep red, and he looks from Ezra to me with an odd look on his face. I feel a tickle of fear, wondering what the look means.

Ezra has been running, and his face is so pink that his freckles have disappeared. His hair is white as straw, and he looks almost like a flaming torch sending up a plume of smoke.

“I’m coming,” Marco says, and bends over to shove the cupcake into his practice bag.

“What’s that? Oh, a cupcake?” He smirks. “Sweets from the girlfriend, eh?”

Girlfriend?
For a moment, I wonder what Ezra is talking about — and then I realize that he means me. I bust out with a honk of a laugh, which doubles back on itself into a snort. I cover my mouth and laugh even harder, out of embarrassment. “I’m not his girlfriend!” My voice is shrieky. “That’s insane!”

Marco just looks at me, and I’m aware that I’m probably humiliating him at this moment by snorting and giggling like an idiot. He probably wants to deny even knowing me at this point.

I keep expecting him to join in my giggles, but he doesn’t, and my laughter slowly dies away. Marco’s lips are pressed together, like they’ve been sewn shut, and his dark eyes are serious.

A wave of guilt breaks over me and I feel as if I’ve done something awful but don’t know what. I’m about to ask, but Marco shoves past Ezra and walks away, right off the practice field, toward the lockers.

Ezra smiles at me, a mean little smile. “Poor little Marco,” he says. Then he jogs off to join the drill.

I feel sick, because I know I’ve broken something that might never get repaired, and all it took was a laugh.

I
t didn’t seem that weird at the time. Only later. And still, sometimes I think,
Maybe that never happened and I just dreamed it.

It was the day my parents announced that Dad was moving out. Mom and Dad called us into the family room, where our family meetings were always held. They sat me and Chloe down on the couch, and my mom proceeded to explain that while both of our parents loved us very much, they weren’t going to be able to live together anymore. “Dad is moving out next week,” Mom explained. “You girls will still live here, with me. And you’ll see Dad on the weekends.”

“You mean you’re getting divorced?” Chloe asked. Her voice broke on the last word, making her sound small and helpless.

Mom’s eyes welled up, and I guess she couldn’t speak because Dad chimed in and said, “Yes, Chloe. We’re getting divorced.”

Chloe started sobbing then, wailing and crying, and Mom hurried over to comfort her. I guess I’m a bad sister, because I remember just feeling annoyed about it. I guess I wasn’t as surprised as Chloe was. I hadn’t told her, but I’d caught Dad pulling sheets off the couch the week before. He’d folded them up and put them away in the closet. He didn’t want us to know he’d been sleeping there, I guess.

So Chloe went on making a big, sloppy scene, and Mom finally just picked Chloe up and carried her to her room, and Dad and I were left there together.

“Do you want to talk?” Dad asked.

“What about?” Seriously, I had no idea. Like, did he want to hear about what I was studying in school?

“About … your feelings.”

“My feelings.” I wasn’t feeling anything. I felt the way I felt during math. a + b = c. Mom + Chloe + Me - Dad = Our Family. That’s the result. Okay. Next problem.

Dad came and sat down next to me. “It’s important for you to understand that this isn’t your fault.”

“Why would it be my fault?” I snapped. Fury surged through me suddenly.
My fault?
Even though he’d just said that it
wasn’t
my fault, I felt like he was suggesting that it really
was
my fault. I didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I got up and left him there.

Of course, I didn’t really have to go to the bathroom.

I just closed the lid to the toilet seat and sat down. Then I picked up a magazine.
The New Yorker
. Usually, I just skim through the cartoons, but this time I started reading a long article about a small fishing village. I finished it, then read a short story about two kids in Iowa that I liked even though I didn’t really get it. Then I read a few poems.

Dad knocked on the door. “Hayley? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said.

He paused. “Well, maybe we can talk later.”

“Fine.”

There was no sound for a moment. Then I heard his footsteps, walking away. I read another article, then flushed the toilet and opened the door. I guessed that Mom was still trying to get Chloe to stop crying, so I stepped outside onto our back deck.

It was a warm day in early spring — all the snow had melted except a small patch in the shadow between my house and Marco’s. Three brave purple crocuses and a bunch of snowdrops were the only things blooming in our brown garden bed. Marco was in his backyard, kicking around a ball. Our yards weren’t separated by a fence or anything, so when he saw me, he just said, “Hey, Hayley,” and walked on over, kicking the ball the whole way.

I was perched on the top step, and he sat down beside me. “Are you okay?” he asked, looking into my face.

“My parents are getting divorced,” I told him.

“Oh.” He looked down at the ball in his hands, then put it on the step.

“Dad’s moving out next week; Chloe’s still inside, freaking out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.” I shrugged, but I felt my throat choking. A tear rolled from the corner of my eye, trailing down the side of my nose, and I remember thinking,
Why am I crying? I don’t even feel sad
.

Marco wiped the tear away with his thumb. He placed his palms on either side of my face and tipped my forehead forward to meet his. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered, and I smelled his peppermint toothpaste.

I looked into his dark eyes. “How?”

He didn’t answer, but we stayed like that for a long moment, with our foreheads touching. And then his head tilted and he kissed me, a sweet, soft kiss that lingered on my lips like warm cocoa.

I felt my throat choke back a sob, and even though my eyes were closed, I could feel hot tears leaking out of them and suddenly I was crying, not as loudly as Chloe had been, but just as violently, as if the veins in my face might burst.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Marco said, and I wanted to tell him that it was okay, but I couldn’t get the words out. Then I heard a rumble and when I looked up, I saw my mom bustling out of the sliding door and heading over to me.

Marco stood up quickly. “I’ve got to go.”

“Oh, Marco, you don’t have to —” Mom said.

“It’s okay.” And he darted off so quickly that he left his ball behind.

Mom watched him for a moment, then looked down at me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I didn’t answer, just wiped the tears from my face and into my hair.

“Oh, Hayley.” She sat down beside me and wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so sorry that Daddy and I won’t be together anymore.”

The tears started again, and I said, “That’s not why I’m crying.”

But I didn’t know why I
was
crying.

All I knew was that I couldn’t stop. I put my head on Mom’s soft shoulder and let her hold me for a long time. I cried, letting my nose run, letting drool spill from my mouth. Mom didn’t complain or say anything; she just hugged me and let me cry. I noticed that her sleeve was already damp, and supposed that my tears were mixing with my sister’s on the fabric of my mother’s shirt.

I took a few shaky breaths, and eventually managed to stop the endless flow of water. Mom took my hand and squeezed it gently, and after a while, Chloe came outside and asked what was for dinner.

I looked up and realized that the sunlight was fading.

“I don’t know,” Mom said.

“Can we have French toast?” Chloe’s green eyes were clear, and she was smiling. I guess her despair just passed through her like a summer storm, leaving her fresher, cleaner.

Mine had rolled over me like a freight train. I was wrecked.

“Sure, Chloe,” Mom said. “French toast.”

So we went inside and helped her make it. It seemed dead quiet in the house until Chloe put on some awful teenybopper music that I actually found myself humming along to. I don’t know where Dad was, but it was just the three of us, and I was glad.

That night, I watched the light in Marco’s room until he turned it out. Then I rolled over and went to sleep and didn’t dream of anything at all.

French-Toast Cupcakes

(makes approximately 12 cupcakes)

For those times you really want breakfast for dessert.

INGREDIENTS:

1/2 cup raisins

1/3 cup dark brown sugar

1 teaspoon cinnamon

2–3 tablespoons maple syrup, plus more

1/2 cup margarine

1/2 cup sugar

2/3 cup milk

1/2 cup yogurt

1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1-1/4 cups flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a cupcake pan with cupcake liners.
   
2. In a small bowl, mix together the raisins, dark brown sugar, cinnamon, and maple syrup, and set aside.
   
3. In a large mixing bowl, cream the margarine and sugar with an electric mixer until light and fluffy. Add the milk, yogurt, and vanilla extract, and mix until smooth.
   
4. In a separate large bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and mix. Slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet, and mix until smooth.
   
5. Fill the cupcake liners one-half to two-thirds of the way full. Then drop a spoonful of the raisin mixture into the center of each, swirling it into the batter with a toothpick to create a cinnamon-raisin-bread effect.
   
6. Bake for 20–22 minutes, until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove from the oven and allow to slightly cool. Then, while still warm, poke multiple holes into each cupcake. Drizzle around 1 teaspoon of maple syrup on each cupcake to soak through. When cooled, frost each cupcake with vanilla frosting (see
   recipe
   ).