You First (2 page)

Gigi nodded. She wasn't sure why she felt quite so deflated. It must've shown on her face, though, because Finn said, “Don't look so mopey. We'll get this party planned. We always do.” Finn waved as she jogged out the door. “It's the weekend. We'll have plenty of time. Thank
god
it's Friday, right, dude?”

Finn headed out the door, and Gigi trudged back upstairs to her room.

It was just shy of five, which meant it was almost eleven in Prague. Her father's company had sent him there earlier in the week, but work had kept him so busy they'd only Skyped once, instead of every day like they usually did on his extended business trips.

At her desk, Gigi fired up her laptop. She launched
Skype and clicked to connect with GeorgePrince71, but he didn't answer. This is exactly why, she thought, her mother simply had to get her an iPhone for her birthday. That way she could just text her father, like any normal girl her age.

Disconnected from her dad. Ditched by her BFF.

TGIF?
Gigi thought.
Yeah, right.

When Gigi woke up the next morning, she thought,
Today is going to be the most excellent of days.

The rain that had been graying up the world for practically a full week was gone, gone, gone. In its place was a butter-yellow sun and a sweet early spring breeze.

Gigi threw open her closet door and surveyed its contents. The weather had been too cold—not to mention too wet—to wear some of her favorite pieces. But today? Today was a day to bring out the wow. She fingered the ruffled hem of a purple-and-teal tie-dyed maxi dress that was so new, it still had the tags on it. She could pair the dress with a cardigan to make it more March friendly. There was also her pink ombré eyelet mini, the color of which made her think of a fluffy cloud of cotton candy. If she layered that over some white leggings, she might make it out of the house without
her mother ordering her to change.

Then Gigi homed in on a navy-and-white-striped boatneck tee that screamed “classic nautical.” She could wear it under the retro-looking denim overalls she had scored on sale at Forever 21. That was definitely more weather appropriate. Plus, they would look so boss with her cherry red Converse high-tops . . . or even her well-loved Sperrys.

And overalls
were
the most practical choice. After all, she and Finley were headed to cooking class, which often got messy.

Gigi wasn't the most careful chef. No matter what she was making, or in whose kitchen she was making it, the end result was always the same: walls spattered and countertops covered with a mix of ingredients. Baking was the worst; when Gigi made anything that included flour, she somehow managed to coat the entire kitchen in white.

So . . . which outfit? And considering the cooking class part of the day, did it really matter?

Time for a second opinion. Gigi looked at the clock. It was just after eight thirty, which meant she couldn't call Finn for another half hour (house rules). She added this to the list of reasons that both of them should be getting cell phones for their twelfth birthdays: being
able to call each other at any time without disturbing the sleep schedules of other family members.

So far, her
top
argument—that everyone else got theirs for their
tenth
birthday—hadn't carried much weight with either set of parents. In fact, her mom was still insisting she wouldn't need a cell phone until she was sixteen! That was her mother, though. Stuck in the nineties.

“Good morning, sunshine!”

Gigi's mom greeted her cheerfully as Gigi entered the kitchen. She'd been hoping for a bowl of cereal and was surprised to find her mother squirting pancake batter over strips of cooked bacon on the griddle. Bacon pancake dippers were Gigi's absolute favorite, but they took a lot of time and effort to make. That's because in the Prince house, pancakes didn't come from a prepackaged mix, and it took forty minutes to roast the bacon alone. Typically, she had to beg her mom to make the dippers, and even then her request was only granted on birthdays and other superspecial occasions.

“What's the deal?” Gigi asked, looking to the stove. “Did I, like, get a really good report card or something?”

“You always get good report cards,” her mother replied. “That's the reason we keep you around.”

Gigi's
eyes narrowed suspiciously. “True. But you never, ever make bacon pancake dippers for no reason.”

“This is also true,” her mom said, focusing hard on the pan. Almost as if she was avoiding looking at Gigi altogether.

“Spill,” Gigi said, sliding onto a stool at the breakfast bar.

Her mother wiggled a thin orange spatula under one dipper and flipped it. Perfectly golden, of course. She made her way down the line, flipping each one with a kind of precision Gigi couldn't help but admire. It sounded cheesy, but her mom really was her culinary idol.

“Come on, Mama,” Gigi said after a long silence. “Tell me what's going on.”

“It's your dad,” she said finally.

And just like that, Gigi knew. “He's not coming home tomorrow, is he?”

Her mom shook her head.

“How long this time?” Gigi asked.

“At least a week. Maybe more.”

Gigi felt like a fallen soufflé. When her dad had taken this new job a year ago, they'd all known there would be more travel involved.
International
travel in particular, which Gigi thought was beyond cool. But
lately it seemed like he was gone more than he was at home. Gigi didn't like that part one bit.

“I know you're disappointed,” her mom said. “But your dad wanted me to let you know that the reason he's being delayed is because he has to go to Italy.”

“Italy,” Gigi repeated. “As in . . .
the
Italy?”

“Yes, my love.
The
Italy.”

Gigi let out a tiny
squee
. Italy was number one on her list of dream destinations. It beat out Disney World by a mile.
Roman Holiday
, one of Gigi's favorite movies, was set there.

“Shoes,” she said firmly. “Daddy definitely needs to get me some Italian shoes. From Italy.”

“As opposed to Italian shoes from Denmark?” her mother teased.

Gigi fought the urge to roll her eyes, if only because it drove her mother crazy and she had that cell-phone campaign to wage.

Thinking of the campaign reminded her of last night's botched attempt to contact her father. “Hey, when did you talk to Dad?” she asked her mom. “I tried to Skype him last night, but he didn't pick up.”

“He called early this morning. You were sound asleep, or I would've handed you the phone.”

Gigi set aside her sadness long enough to say, “You know,
if I had an iPhone, I could just text him like a normal person.”

“Or,” her mom said, “you could just email him like a normal person. You do have that very nice laptop Mom-Mom got you for Christmas.” With that, she slid her spatula under three dippers at once and placed them squarely on a small plate. “Here you go,” she said, handing it over to Gigi. “Why don't you grab the maple syrup from the fridge?”

At exactly 9:01, after Gigi finished washing the last breakfast dish, she grabbed the cordless phone and bounded up the stairs to her room, keying in speed dial 3. Ms. Marian, Finn's mom, answered on the third ring.

“Hi, Ms. Marian,” Gigi said. “May I please talk to Finley?”

“Finley's not here,” Ms. Marian said. “She didn't call you?”

“Uh, no.”

“She's spending the day at the Kirkwood Soccer Club,” she said, “for a one-day boot camp. She was supposed to let you know, seeing as the two of you wouldn't be carpooling to your cooking class.”

“Oh,” Gigi said, caught off guard. “She . . . um . . . thanks for letting me know.”

“Sweetie, I'm sorry,” Ms. Marian said. “This was a last-minute decision. She didn't even know about the camp until last night. She was going to call. It must have slipped her mind.”

“Oh . . . kay.”

“I'll make sure she calls you back,” she said.

“Okay,” Gigi said again. “Thanks.”

She pressed the off button on the phone, unsure of how she felt. She wasn't angry or anything like that. But something gnawed at the pit of her stomach.

Hurt,
she realized.
I feel hurt.
After all, Finley had never skipped cooking class before. And she'd never, ever just blown Gigi off like that—without so much as a call.

Class didn't start until eleven, which meant she had more than an hour before she had to leave. So Gigi did the only thing that made sense to her: she climbed up the rungs to her loft bed, curled up with Glamour Puss, and pulled her comforter over both their heads.

Gigi's mother found her lying in bed, flat on her back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Why aren't you dressed yet?” she asked. “We need to get a move on.”

“I'm not going,” Gigi informed her.

“Why not?”

Gigi shrugged, even though her mom probably couldn't see the movement under the blanket. “Don't feel like it.”

“I repeat: why not?”

“Does it matter?”

“Gillian Gemma Prince!” Her mother let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, it
does
matter. When my first and only child suddenly decides that she doesn't feel like going to the one thing she looks forward to all week long, I want to know why. Is this about your dad?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“It's Finley,” Gigi confessed.

“Finley?” Her mother seemed confused. “Is everything okay? Did you girls get in a fight?”

Gigi paused, unsure how to answer. She and Finn weren't really
fighting
, but—

“Finn ditched me,” Gigi said flatly. “She went to some daylong soccer boot camp. Didn't even bother to tell me.”

“Well, that's . . . unfortunate. But why does that mean that
you
can't go to class?”

“I didn't say I couldn't,” Gigi corrected her. “I said I didn't
feel
like it.”

“I've heard enough,” her mom said. “You're going to get up, you're going to get dressed, and I am going to drive you to your class. End of story.”

“But—”

“No buts,” she said firmly. “I understand that you and Finley like to act as if you're a single unit, but that's not always possible, now is it? I think this is a perfect opportunity for you to branch out on your own. Let's shake a leg.”

Gigi knew that when her mother spoke to her this way, there was no sense in arguing. She was never going to win.

And so a very grumpy Gigi marched over to her dresser, pulled out a random pair of jeans, and threw on a baggy black T-shirt. She coiled her long, curly hair at the base of her neck and secured the makeshift bun with a hair elastic. She stuffed her feet into some moccasins, grabbed a lightweight hoodie from the closet, and stormed downstairs.

The drive to the Open Kitchen—the place where she and Finn had been taking cooking classes for the past eight months—was fairly short, less than fifteen minutes door to door. Gigi's mom chattered on about the errands she had to run, the radishes she was getting ready to plant in the backyard garden, and how she was long overdue for a haircut. Gigi didn't say a word in response.

“If you think you're punishing me with your silence, you're wrong,” her mother said, smiling at her in the rearview mirror. “It's always nice to have someone listen to you, instead of waiting for their turn to talk.”

They pulled into the bustling parking lot of the shopping center where the Open Kitchen was located, and Gigi felt a sharp pang in the pit of her stomach. Was it . . . nerves? That made no sense. She was a veteran of the class; the only person who'd been enrolled longer
than she and Finley was that weird girl who always wore her hair in two high pigtails and carried a metal lunchbox for a purse. Plus, hello? Aside from acting, cooking was her
thing
. How many times had Chef Angela complimented her on her skills? You know, when she wasn't giving her grief for making such a hot mess. Every. Single. Week.

And yet there were definite butterflies thrashing in her belly as she walked through the front door. She scanned the room quickly, sizing up the situation. Even though the place was fairly full, the station where she and Finn almost always worked was empty, as if it had an invisible
RESERVED
sign on it. Feeling relieved, Gigi dropped her things on her usual stool and slipped her apron on over her head.

“Well, hello there, Miss Gigi!” Chef Angela said, beaming a wide, toothy smile in her direction. “Running a little late today, aren't you?”

“Sorry about that,” Gigi said with a sheepish grin.

“Not a problem,” she replied. “Where's your partner in crime? It's time to get started.”

“She couldn't make it today.”

“That's too bad,” Chef Angela said, “because we are about to have some serious fun with fondant.” She knocked her knuckles on the table to get the class's
attention. “Listen up, kiddos! I need y'all to wash your hands and dry 'em real good. You're about to go elbows deep.”

Gigi perked up instantly. She'd totally forgotten that they were moving on to decorating today. Classes at the Open Kitchen were organized in units of four to eight weeks, depending on what was being covered. The first month of this unit had been spent exclusively on baking. They'd only made one frosting so far, and even that was just a basic buttercream.
Bo-ring.

But this? Fondant? This was going to be
awesome
.

At the sink, Gigi scrubbed her hands as diligently as a surgeon and rinsed them in water hot enough to turn her skin pink. Finley was going to be so bummed that she had missed this. It was okay, though. Gigi had already decided that she'd catch Finn up on everything they learned today. That way, when Finn returned to class next week, she wouldn't be behind.

Chef Angela handed Gigi a fresh paper towel to dry off. “Listen, missy,” she said. “I'm counting on you to keep things clean today. Can't have this place lookin' like it got hit by a powdered-sugar blizzard, now can I?”

Gigi grinned. “I'll do my best.”

She was still smiling as she turned to head back to her station. The smile faded when she saw who'd
taken up the seat next to hers—the one that normally belonged to Finn.

It was Weird Girl.

“Hiya,” Weird Girl said, waving at her. “Heard you tell Chef Angie that your BFF couldn't make it today, so I thought,
Hey, maybe I should go hang out with that Gigi Prince.
”

Gigi blinked.

Weird Girl continued. “I mean, you and Blondie always seem like you're having such a great time. I'd be totally jealous, but I try to never
ever
be jealous, because it's kind of a wasted emotion, ya know?”

“Angela,” Gigi blurted.

“Huh?”

“Her name is Chef Angela. Not
Angie
.”

Weird Girl tilted her head to one side, her dark caramel pigtails flouncing along. It made her look a little like a cocker spaniel. “You don't like me, do you?” she asked, not unkindly.

“What? I never said that.”

“You kinda didn't have to,” Weird Girl said, smiling. “Your body language speaks volumes.”

Her directness threw Gigi off guard.

Then it hit her.

Weird Girl,
she thought.
I've been in class with this
person for months, and I never even bothered to learn her name.

“I'm sorry I made you feel like I don't like you,” Gigi said, after a few beats. “Honestly, I don't even
know
you.”

“Fair enough,” Weird Girl said. “How about a do over? I'll go first. Hiya, my name is Miranda, and I'd like to be your friend.”

Weird Gir—
Miranda
stuck out her right hand for Gigi to shake. Gigi hesitated, not out of rudeness, but because shaking Miranda's hand would mean that both of them would have to scrub up again. Instead, Gigi waved at her like Miranda had when she first approached the table.

“I'm Gigi,” she said. “And I promise I would totally shake your hand if I hadn't just scrubbed mine raw.”

An enormous grin spread across Miranda's face. “Excellent. Yes. Right on for germ-free friendship.”

There was something so gleefully goofy about Miranda that Gigi couldn't help but giggle.

“I know,” Miranda said. “I'm weird. But I'm a
good
weird. I promise.”

Working alongside Miranda was different from working alongside Finley. For starters, Miranda almost
never
stopped talking—even when Chef Angela was giving instructions. But it was more than that. Finn often approached a new recipe with the same intensity she brought to wall-pass drills, whereas Miranda seemed way more easygoing. She also seemed to get over-the-top excited about . . . well, everything.

“Ohmigod, love!” she squealed when Chef Angela explained they'd be making fondant from mini-marshmallows. “Marshmallows! I mean, really. Who would've thought? Am I right?”

For flavoring, Miranda suggested anise, which she explained tasted like black jelly beans.

“Those are my favorite!” Gigi confessed. “Everyone else I know
hates
them.”

“I will never understand that.” Miranda shook her head. “Black jelly beans are the
best
.”

The girls worked as a pair, sharing a glass bowl of melted marshmallow and taking turns mixing in a ton of powdered sugar. Gigi put in extra effort to keep the powdered sugar inside the bowl, instead of all over their station. It helped that Miranda shared a cool trick that involved using a flexible cutting board, curved around the inside of the mixing bowl, as a sort of slide to help guide the sugar in. Somehow Gigi still managed to sugar-powder her nose (and cheeks and
forehead), but hey—it was progress.

They'd tried to make their fondant black, to match the beans, but the white of the marshmallows turned the whole sticky lump a moody, murky gray. Miranda declared it “Pretty!” It made Gigi think of angry storm clouds, but she could sort of see where Miranda was going with the whole pretty thing.

“This totally feels like a project we'd do in tactile arts class,” Miranda said. “I think I'm going to talk to my teacher about adding it to the syllabus.”

“Tactile arts?”

“Yeah, it's like art meant to be experienced through touch. Touching it is part of the art itself.”

“You get to take a class on that?” Gigi asked. “Where do you go to school?”

“Fletcher Academy,” she replied. “My mom's into progressive education. We don't even get real report cards with grades, just lots and lots of comments.”

“No grades?” Gigi shook her head. “How do you know how well you're doing without any grades?”

“By reading the comments!”

Gigi shook her head. It was difficult for her to imagine a world without “real” report cards.

“How funny is it that we've seen each other a million Saturdays but never had an actual conversation before
today?” Miranda remarked as they wrapped up their balls of fondant to take home. “You and Blondie kind of have this thing, like the two of you inhabit the same universe but no one else is allowed to visit. Anyway, I'm sort of glad she couldn't make it today.”

“Her name is Finn. And you know what?” Gigi said. “I didn't mind it so much either.”

As she said the words, Gigi realized she meant them. What had started off as a sad-sack Saturday had turned into something really special—and all because Finn had decided to ditch her.

Huh
.
How about that?

“All right, kiddos!” Chef Angela called out. “Before we finish up, I need to tell y'all something.” She waited for the group to quiet down before continuing. “This spring, the Open Kitchen will be hosting its first-ever Kids-Only Ultimate Cupcake Bake-Off. And guess what? First prize is a year of free cooking classes, plus
five hundred dollars'
worth of high-quality tools every budding pastry chef needs. Oh, and did I mention that Chef Dana Herbert, local winner of the TV show
Next Great Baker
, will be our special celebrity judge? Even the Cake Boss loved him!”

The room fell completely quiet for about fifteen seconds. Then everyone started talking and asking
all kinds of questions at once. Gigi scanned the room, trying to figure out who seemed the most excited, but she didn't have to look far. Miranda's face was lit up like Fourth of July fireworks . . . which was exactly how Gigi felt.

“We are going to crush this thing,” Miranda said confidently. “Bet you anything first place comes down to one of us.”

Gigi grinned. “I'll take that bet,” she said. Then immediately she thought,
What about Finley?

Her hand shot up. When Chef Angela called on her, she asked, “Are we allowed to work with a partner?”

“Good question,” Chef Angela replied. “I think it would be okay, as long as the team agrees to split the prizes.”

Problem solved! She and Finn could enter the contest together. The unstoppable Eff and Gee would surely win the grand prize!

“Great idea,” Miranda said. “If you and I pair up, then we won't be each other's direct competition.”

Gigi's stomach sunk to her knees. “Um, I was thinking I might pair up with Finley.”

“Ohh,” Miranda said. “Right. Of course.” She shrugged. “That's cool. Now I can beat you fair and square.”

Even though she was smiling, Gigi couldn't help but wonder if she'd hurt Miranda's feelings. She hadn't meant to. She honestly liked Miranda.

“It's just . . . well, Finn and I tend to do stuff like this together.”

Miranda waved her off. “No worries. Really.”

The girls finished packing up their stuff in silence. Miranda slipped her wrapped fondant ball into her metal lunchbox purse and snapped the latch shut. “Catch you later,” she said.