If the Shoe Fits (Whatever After #2) (7 page)

O
h my,” Cinderella says. We’re in the stepsisters’ room, examining the dress in one of the mirrors. She looks at herself from all angles. “Oh my, oh my. I am really not a good designer.”

“No,” I say. “You’re really not.”

“You can keep practicing,” Jonah says. “You don’t get good at something overnight.”

“That’s true,” I say. “But it’s already Sunday evening. It’s almost dinnertime. We only have a day and a half left to raise a hundred dollars!”

Cinderella sighs.

“What?” I ask.

“It just seems like an awful lot of work for something that’s not going to be needed in the end. I mean, if this convinces Farrah to help me, I’m going to marry the prince and live in the palace. I won’t need the apartment after all.”

“You could keep the apartment for your office,” Jonah says.

She makes a sad face. “My office for what?”

“Your job,” I remind her. “I want to get married one day, but I still want to be a judge. Even if you do marry the prince, you might discover you like being self-reliant. Even a princess should feel self-reliant. In the meantime, you still need a job. Are you sure you don’t want to be a cleaning person? Or maybe just a clothes washer?”

“I hate washing clothes,” Cinderella says. “My hands are all chapped. And it’s boring. I want to
make
something.”

“You’re making something cleaner,” I say.

Cinderella shrugs. “Is the chicken Caesar salad done?”

“Yup. All set.

“Oh, good. Did you make anything for dessert?”

“No, were we supposed to?”

“I can do it. But we’d better hurry. They’ll be home soon, and they eat at seven.”

My stomach grumbles. “When do
we
eat?”

“After they eat.”

“Oh, man,” Jonah wails. “I’m hungry.”

We help Cinderella back down the stairs and into the kitchen. We hear the front door open, and then Betty butts her head in. “I hope dinner is almost ready,” she says.

“Gezuty!”
Jonah says.

“Hmm?”

“That’s Smithvillian for ‘almost,’” he explains.

She rolls her eyes and steps out.

“So what should we make?” I ask, flipping through the cookbook. “Cake? Lemon meringue pie? Cookies?”

“What about brownies?” Jonah asks.

“Yum, I love brownies,” I say. “Let’s make them.”

Cinderella’s face scrunches up. “What are brownies?”

Both my brother’s and my jaws fall open. “What are brownies?” I yell. “Are you joking?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“You’ve never tried a chocolate brownie?” Jonah repeats, dumbfounded.

“I’ve never tried any kind of brownie,” she says with a shrug.

“You really need to get out more,” I say. “I’m sure they’re in the book.” I flip through the pages. Cinnamon cupcakes, pineapple tarts, chocolate chip cookies, apple muffins … but no brownies. NO BROWNIES?

“I can’t find a single brownie recipe. This should be illegal.”

“What is a brownie, exactly?” she asks.

“It’s a small square of deliciousness,” I say.

“So let’s make some,” Cinderella says. “Do you know how?”

“It’s easy,” Jonah says. “You take the brownie mix off the shelf and give it to your mom and dad and they mix it with some stuff.” His face falls. Either he just realized that Cinderella doesn’t have any brownie mix or he remembered that our parents don’t have much time for brownie making right now.

“Oh,” he says. “I guess that won’t work. You probably have to make it from scratch.”

“So what’s the recipe?” Cinderella asks.

I look at Jonah. He looks at me. “I don’t know,” I say. “Our parents never made them from scratch.”

“Okay, why don’t you tell me what it tastes like?” Cinderella asks. “Maybe I can figure it out.”

“They’re chocolaty. They’re like a cross between a cookie and a cake,” I say.

Cinderella ties an apron around her waist and pulls out a mixing bowl. “I do a lot of baking, so we’ll have some trial and error. Do you mind being my tasters?”

“That is something I wouldn’t mind at all,” Jonah says. “Bring on the brownies!”

Hmm. I’m getting an idea here. “You do a lot of baking?”

“Yup,” she says, turning on the oven. “Lots.”

“Do you like baking? Is it something you could do even more of?”

“Sure,” she says. “I find it relaxing.”

Here’s the big one: “Are you any good at it?”

“I’m not bad,” she says with a shrug.

“Are you a better baker than you are a sewer?” I ask.

She laughs. “Much better. Are you guys thinking what I’m thinking?”

My mind is racing. “I’m thinking that this could be your job! You can bake brownies and sell them! All of Floom would come and buy them because you’re the only person who makes them.”

“Where would I sell them?” Cinderella asks.

“Your apartment!” I say. “It’ll be an apartment
and
bakery. It’s on the ground floor — it’s perfect.”

“You want me to start my own shop?”

“Yes! Wouldn’t that be cool? You could call it Cinderella’s Brownies! Wait. No. That doesn’t have alliteration. Hmm. It’s really too bad you’re not making cookies. Cinderella’s Cookies has alliteration.” Maybe not alliteration. But close enough.

“Floom already has cookies,” Cinderella says.

I drum my fingers against the counter. “Right. And you have cakes and cupcakes, too, huh?”

She nods. “We do.”

“Oh, well. Brownies it is. I’ll keep thinking about the name.”

“But I need to sell these brownies before I have the money to get the apartment,” Cinderella says. “I guess we could sell them at the market. We could set up a booth.”

“Perfect!” I say. “We’ll go tomorrow!”

“Hurray!” Jonah cheers.

“Our problems aren’t solved yet,” Cinderella says, her forehead wrinkling. “I still don’t know how to make the brownies.”

Oh. Right. “You will. I have complete faith in your baking skills.”

I hope I don’t have to eat those words.

W
hile Cinderella bakes in the kitchen, Jonah puts the chicken Caesar salad on plates and I serve it in the dining room.

“You didn’t give me enough chicken,” Beatrice complains.

Excuuuuuuuse me.

“Do you want me to get you more?” I ask.

“Surely I do. Why else would I have complained?”

Um, because you complain about everything? So far she’s told me that there’s:

1. A speck of dirt on her fork.
   
2. A draft in the room.
   
3. No pepper on the table.
   

“Anything else?” I ask. I look at Kayla, but she’s too busy staring at her plate. What’s up with her?

“You need to refill our water, too,” Betty snaps. “I’m thirsty.”

“No problem,” I say with fake cheer. As long as they’re not coming in the kitchen, I’m happy.

I keep a fake smile on my face until I’m back in the kitchen and then groan. “Betty and Beatrice are so annoying. More water! More chicken! Clean forks! Blah, blah, blah!”

“Don’t forget about Kayla,” Cinderella says, pulling her first batch of brownies from the oven. “Hasn’t she complained about the food needing more salt yet? She always complains about the food needing more salt.”

“She hasn’t actually.” Kayla’s barely said two words. She’s barely eating, either. She’s just moping into her food.

“Maybe she’s getting sick or something,” Cinderella says. She cuts out two chunks of brownie and hands one to Jonah and one to me. “Here, try this.”

“Blah,” Jonah says, spitting it out in the garbage.

“Jonah, that’s so rude,” I say.

“But it tasted gross!”

“Can you try to be constructive, please?” I ask.

He looks thoughtful. “It needs to be less bad.”

I take a small bite. I second the blah, but keep it to myself.

“Very constructive, Jonah, thank you. I actually think it needs more sugar. And maybe more chocolate chunks.”

“Will do,” Cinderella says, dancing around the kitchen. I think she’s having fun. Now all we need is for her to make a decent brownie and we’ll be all set.

The next batch is disgusting, too. And way too gooey. I didn’t know it was possible to have brownies that were too gooey, but it is.

“Should I feed it to the evil ones for dessert?” I ask.

“Yes,” Jonah says. “Maybe it will make them barf.”

I shudder. “But then we’d have to clean up the barf.”

“I actually don’t know what to give them for dessert,” Cinderella says. “We have nothing ready.”

“Do you have any fruit?” I ask.

“Fruit isn’t dessert,” Jonah says, looking horrified.

“It is, too,” I say. “I saw some clementines. They can have those.”

“Make sure to peel them,” Cinderella says.

“Seriously?” I groan. “Jonah, help me.”

“I’m kinda busy,” he says. By busy he means, he’s dipping his finger in the brownie bowl and licking it. “After you make chocolate brownies, can you make caramel brownies? And chocolate chip brownies? And blondies?”

“And some with nuts,” I add.

“Yuck,” Jonah says. “No one really likes nuts in their brownies. They just eat them because they have to.”

“Why would you have to eat brownies with nuts?” I ask.

“Parents think they’re healthier. Like carrot cake. People think it’s healthy just because it has carrots in the name. Blah. Please do not put nuts in your brownies.”

“Got it,” Cinderella says. “No nuts.”

“And no carrots,” Jonah adds.

The clementines do not go over well.

“Fruit is not dessert!” Beatrice cries.

“I expect you to make something more dessert-y tomorrow,” Betty says. “There are three of you in there. You have no excuse.”

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Kayla just stares at her clementines.

Back in the kitchen I discover that batch three of the brownies is burnt.

I’m beginning to get nervous.

“What about ketchup brownies?” Jonah suggests.

“That’s disgusting,” I say. “And stop eating the brownie mix!”

“I think these need vanilla,” Cinderella says, sampling batch four. I’ve just cleared the plates off the dining room table.

I have no idea what vanilla does to brownies, so I am happy to take her word for it.

“Cinderella?” Kayla says, poking her head into the kitchen. “I’d like another glass of water.”

Seriously? Can she not pour the water herself?

“Of course,” Cinderella says.

Kayla eyes the many plates of brownies. “What are you doing in here?”

“Preparing dessert for tomorrow,” Cinderella answers, which is not a lie.

“Oh,” she says. She looks like she’s about to say something more, but she doesn’t. When Cinderella hands her a glass of water, though, she whispers a tiny “Thank you.” Then she hurries out of the kitchen.

Cinderella looks stunned. “What was
that
?” she says. “Kayla never says thank you. None of them do.”

“That’s so rude,” I say.

“That’s the least of it,” Cinderella says. “Last week Kayla dripped tomato sauce on the chair and then blamed me. Betty made me scrub it with my toothbrush. She and Kayla just laughed. Then Beatrice spilled more on purpose. The two of them are the worst. Sure, Beatrice’s usually the instigator but Kayla’s no angel.”

I put my arm around her thin shoulders. “You’ll be out of here soon. I know it.”

“You will,” Jonah says, helping himself to another spoonful of batter. “This stuff isn’t bad. It’s not as awesome as dogs-in-a-blanket but —” His eyes light up. “Can you make dogs-in-a-blanket brownies? That would be awesome.”

“Please don’t,” I say.

“We could dip them in ketchup!”

Sometimes I’m not sure how we’re even related.

Cinderella finishes batch five at around eleven.

I chew carefully. It is chocolaty. It is the perfect amount of gooey. It is melt-in-my-mouth delicious. Hurray!

“Cinderella,” I say slowly. “This is the best chocolate brownie I have ever had in my entire life.”

The next morning, we wait for Betty and her daughters to leave to visit more friends before we start baking. (I know — more friends?)

We use up all the chocolate and all the flour and all the eggs and make ten trays of brownies — one dozen brownies per tray. We wait for them to cool down, pack them up, and get ready to go to the market.

If we sell them for a dollar each, we’ll even have extra money. Cinderella is going to need extra cash for supplies and stuff.

Except …

“Um, guys?” I ask. We’re all ready and standing in front of Cinderella’s house. We have the brownies, some signs, and even the ironing board. That was my great idea. We need some sort of table for the booth, right? “Where is the market? And how are we supposed to get there?”

“Cinderella,” Jonah says. “Don’t you have a car or something you can drive?”

She shakes her head. “My coach turned into a squashed pumpkin, remember?”

“How do you normally get there?” I ask.

“I normally walk. It’s not that far. Maybe twenty minutes. No problem.”

“Um, yes, problem. We’re carrying ten trays of brownies.” I look down at her still swollen foot. “Even if Jonah and I carry your share, I don’t think we’re walking anywhere.”

“Maybe she can stay behind and bake more brownies?” Jonah asks. “And we can do the selling?”

“I don’t know if that’s gonna cut it with Farrah,” I say. “How is she walking on her own two feet if we’re leaving her behind?”

We stand there, not sure what to do.

One coach goes by us. And then another one.

“Can we call a taxi?” Jonah asks.

“A what?” Cinderella asks.

Hmm. If this brownie thing doesn’t work out, she can start a taxi service.

“We can always take the parriage,” Cinderella says.

“I hate porridge,” Jonah says. “Stick to brownies, please.”

“The what?” I ask.

“The parriage! Don’t you have parriages in Smithville?”

“I don’t know what that is,” I say.

She looks at me with disbelief. “This Smithville place sure sounds backward.”

Humph. At least we have brownies.

“Oh, look,” she says, pointing down the street. “Here comes a parriage now!”

Up ahead is a green carriage being pulled by two horses. On the front of the carriage it says 5:
CROSSTOWN
.

“Oh!” Jonah exclaims. “It’s a bus!”

“It’s a parriage,” Cinderella says. “You know. Public carriage.”

“Cool,” I say. “But how much does it cost? We don’t have any money.”

“Fifty cents a person,” she says. “Each way.”

“Maybe we can pay in brownies.” I wave at the driver as the parriage approaches, but he doesn’t stop.

“Don’t be silly,” Cinderella says. “You have to be picked up at the parriage stop.”

“Where is it?” I ask, annoyed. We’re never going to make it!

“At the end of the street,” Cinderella says.

I see a sign in the shape of a diamond at the corner. “Jonah, you run, and I’ll help Cinderella. Go, go, go!”

Jonah runs up ahead, carrying his share of the brownies. I don’t know if he’s going to make it.

Cinderella and I follow behind as fast as we can.

“Ouch,” she says with every step. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

“We’re almost there!” I encourage. Poor Cinderella.

He runs … he runs … and he makes it!

Jonah steps onto the carriage. He steps back out a second later. “He’ll take us,” he shouts. “For a half dozen brownies!”

“Six brownies? That’s highway robbery! That’s six dollars’ worth!”

“It’s worse than that. I had to give him a whole brownie to taste first. He liked it — a lot — but that’s his final offer. He says take it or leave it.”

“It’s not like we have a choice,” Cinderella says.

Grumble. Sounds like brownie blackmail to me. “All right. Six more brownies it is,” I say. I wish we had saved some of our gross ones from last night.

We reach the bus, hand over the brownies, and squish into a seat.

“These are really good,” the driver says. Crumbs are caught in his beard. “What are they called again? Crownies?”

“Brownies,” Jonah says.

Hmm, I kind of like
crownies
. And since no one here knows what brownies are we can call them
crownies
if we want. Why not? We invented them! And then we could call the store Cinderella’s Crownies!

“Cinderella’s Crownies,” I announce. “We’ll be at the market. Tell your friends.”

Cinderella puts her foot up on the seat. Her toes are still the size of marshmallows.

Hmmm. Marshmallow crownies?

I look back at her toes. Yuck. Never mind.