Secrets and Scones Page 2

  As I turn down my street, my heart jumps to my throat. An ambulance with flashing lights is parked at the end of the block, right in front of our house. Two paramedics are loading a stretcher inside. Mom once told me that “it’s a bad day for somebody” whenever there’s an ambulance or the police come over.

  I start to run, my backpack banging up and down on my back. Is it Mom? Kelsie? As the red and white lights blink on and off, all the mean thoughts I’ve ever had about them flash before my eyes. I wish I could unthink them.

  The paramedic shuts the ambulance door. I realize they’re actually in front of the house next door. An old woman named Mrs. Simpson lives there. I’ve never met her, and I only know her name because a deliveryman who was looking for her house came to ours by mistake. Her house is kind of spooky—the curtains are always closed and I’ve never seen a light on. When we moved here a few months ago, Mom talked about inviting her over for coffee, but surprise, surprise, it never happened.

  I walk up to the paramedic. “Is Mrs. Simpson okay?”

  “She’ll be fine. She had a little fall,” he says. “Got a bump on the head. She managed to dial nine-one-one, otherwise…” He shakes his head. “You a relative?”

  “No. I don’t really know her.”

  He climbs into the passenger seat. “Okay, well, she’s in good hands now; we’ll take it from here.”

  The ambulance pulls away, and the siren begins to wail. I stand alone on the sidewalk, watching until it disappears around the corner. In the other houses down the street, there’s not even a curtain twitching in a downstairs window. No one seems to have noticed anything.

  Inside our house, Kelsie’s watching TV in the living room. I plunk down my bag and go to the kitchen. The door to Mom’s office—the “Mom Cave”—is open.

  “Scarlett? Is that you?” she calls out.

  “Yeah,” I say. Anger simmers in my chest. Mom has so many thousands of online “friends,” but has never paid the slightest bit of attention to the old woman next door. Not that I have either. And now it might be too late.

  “Guess what?” Mom rushes out of her office like a slightly wrinkled tornado. She embraces me in a hug. For a second I almost give in to the comforting feeling and hug her back. But all too quickly, the other stuff comes rushing too. I pull away.

  “What?” I say cautiously.

  “I’m in Superdrug! They signed the contract today. They’re going to stock the survival kit in two hundred stores to start with. Isn’t that fantastic?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Here, let me show you the prototype.” She goes to the counter and picks up a little box printed with purple and pink. “We’ve got some hand lotion and sanitizer, a gel face mask, earplugs, lip balm, jelly beans, and a hollow chocolate egg with a Mom Survival Tip inside.”

  “Oh.”

  “They wouldn’t let me include the caffeine pills, but we’re going to add a coffee sachet. You know, like a tea bag?”

  “Great. Didn’t you hear the ambulance?”

  “What ambulance? Anyway, I’ve still got to choose the jelly bean colors. What do you think about pink?”

  “Pink’s good.” Or scarlet…I don’t add.

  “Terrific. Pink it is. I’ll email them now.” She heads for the door of her office.

  “Mrs. Simpson had a fall,” I say. “They took her to the hospital.”

  “Who?” She barely pauses.

  “The neighbor next door. The old woman.”

  “Oh, is that her name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well…too bad.” She gives a little shrug. “Oh, and Scarlett, would you mind getting Kelsie her juice? I’ve got to prepare for tonight’s online chat. It’s on how to talk to your teenager.”

  “Sure,” I say through my teeth.

  “Thanks. Oh, and one more thing…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for being such a big help.”

  She closes the door, and I stare for a moment at the MOM CAVE sign swinging on its hook. Part of me wants to throw open the door and demand that she “talk to her teenager” for real. I’d tell her exactly how I feel, tell her exactly how bad my day has been thanks to her, and tell her exactly where she, her two hundred Superdrug stores, and her thousands of online followers can go. But to be honest, it’s just not worth it. Much better to simply check off my tasks one by one—dinner, homework, watching TV, shower—and go to bed.

  Which is exactly what I do. By the end of the evening, my anger has dulled, and I start to feel numb. I collapse on my bed more tired from doing nothing than if I’d run a marathon. And then I can’t sleep. I think about Mrs. Simpson. It’s been a bad day for her—much worse than for me. I hope she’s okay. I close my eyes and try to think good thoughts for her, but my mind keeps wandering. And then, just as I’m finally starting to drift off, I’m startled awake by an earsplitting screech.

  Chapter 4

  A Noise in the Night

  I jolt upright in the circle of light from my lamp. That sound: It was like someone—or something—is being tortured. And it came from the other side of the wall that separates our house from Mrs. Simpson’s. Panic floods through me. She must have come home from the hospital and hurt herself again. Maybe this time she won’t be able to get to the phone. Maybe this time she’ll die and it will be my fault. And the headline of OLD WOMAN LEFT TO DIE AS GIRL IGNORES CRY FOR HELP will be in all the newspapers, not just on Mom’s blog.

  I swing out of bed and tiptoe into the hallway. My sister’s room is dark, and I can hear her breathing. There’s a crack of light below Mom’s door and the sound of typing. For a second I think of knocking. But she’ll just tell me it’s nothing and send me back to bed.

  Sneaking downstairs to the kitchen, I grab a flashlight from the drawer by the sink. The door to the backyard squeaks when I open it and, holding my breath, step outside. The moon is a perfect crescent, and there are one or two stars twinkling among wispy clouds. I stand on a bucket and look over the fence. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. The back of Mrs. Simpson’s house is dark.

  I return to our house and tiptoe out the front door. Everything is silent in the street. A thin coat of dew has formed on the windshields of the cars, the tiny droplets glittering in the moonlight. I go around the hedge that separates our house from Mrs. Simpson’s. Her door is black and glossy with a brass mailbox and knocker. As I lift my hand to knock, I hear it again—the bone-chilling wail from inside.

  I forget all about knocking and turn the door handle. But it’s locked. My heart thunders as I switch on the flashlight. There’s an old flowerpot next to the door, and I check underneath it. Nothing. I look under the recycling container and, finally, under the doormat. A gold key shines in the circle of light. I mean, who actually leaves their key under the mat? I fumble with the key in the lock and push open the door.

  The house is pitch-black and silent and smells of dusty curtains and Ivory soap. I flick the flashlight around the room, scared I might see a body lying in a pool of blood. Instead, there’s some dark, clunky furniture, a sagging sofa and chairs, and lots of knickknacks. The room says old lady. I shine the flashlight toward the door at the back of the room that must lead to the kitchen, and then I’m the one who yelps.

  Eyes. Yellow and unfriendly. I’m so jumpy it takes me a second to realize it’s not a monster or a ghost, but a cat—pure black with a white collar around its neck.

  “Oh, you scared me!” I say. And a second later, I realize how stupid I’ve been. “It was you, wasn’t it, doing all that screeching?”

  The cat swishes its long, fluffy tail, still looking as though some kind of demon in animal form. It takes a few steps toward me, holding its head proudly in the air. My skin tickles as it rubs against my bare legs and starts to purr.

  “You’re lonely, is that it?” I reach down and pick up the cat. It nestles into my
arms, staring at me with big eyes that now seem more sad than frightening. “And hungry, maybe?”

  The cat rubs its cheek against mine.

  I’ve never had a cat—or any kind of pet—but I instinctively snuggle it closer in my arms like some kind of lost, kindred spirit.

  “Those paramedics must have locked you out of the kitchen. Let’s see if we can find you some food.”

  The cat squirms in my arms, and I put it down. It hurries over to a door that in our house leads to the dining room, and starts to meow. I open the door and switch on the light.

  What I see makes me gasp.

  Chapter 5

  Rosemary’s Kitchen

  The kitchen is amazing—that’s the only word for it. It’s enormous, with a high, beamed ceiling and a spotless floor. Every surface sparkles: shiny stainless steel, polished wood, mirror-black granite. Copper pots hang from a rack on the ceiling, and there’s an entire wall of cookbooks. In one corner is a giant oven, next to a double-wide fridge, and a glass cupboard filled with just about every kind of kitchen gadget. A wooden table takes up the entire back of the room, and there’s a fireplace big enough to stand up in. The whole thing seems like heaven for a cook—and anyone around to eat the food. I breathe in the smell of spices and fresh lemon and smile. I can’t believe all this is here, just on the other side of the wall from the three rooms that make up our cramped little kitchen, dining/junk room, and the Mom Cave.

  The cat meanders over to an empty bowl next to the oven. It looks at me with its big, yellow eyes and begins to meow. Walking in, I go over to the fridge. A magnetic sign on the door says ROSEMARY’S KITCHEN. Inside, it’s stocked with practically a whole supermarket’s worth of fresh food. I take out a carton of organic milk and an open can of tuna-flavored cat food. “I guess Mrs. Simpson’s name must be Rosemary,” I say, emptying the milk and cat food into bowls. “I didn’t know.”

  The cat swishes its tail and dives into the food. I continue looking around. I’m immediately drawn to the shelves of cookbooks—one whole shelf is dedicated to a series of books called Encyclopedia of Herbs and Spices. The shelf at eye level has three different cookbooks by Mrs. Beeton, plus a few big-name celebrity cookbooks: Ina Garten, Jamie Oliver, Mary Berry. Most of them look almost new. There are some well-used books by authors I don’t recognize, including Elizabeth David, Julia Child, and Auguste Escoffier. But what interests me the most is the top shelf. It has an assortment of very old-looking books in different colors, shapes, and sizes. I grab one that catches my eye: Recipes Passed Down from Mother to Daughter. It’s got a drawing of a pretty 1950s mom on the cover, giving her apple-cheeked daughter some biscuits fresh out of the oven. Somehow I’m pretty sure it won’t have an entry for “frozen fish sticks and tater tots” which is the only recipe my mom’s “passed down” to me.

  I put it back on the shelf. Behind me, the cat is purring and eating at the same time. I turn around and something on the kitchen counter catches my eye. Propped open on a wooden book stand is a notebook bound in tattered red cloth, the front marbled in red, green, and blue. It must be really old. Curious to see what Mrs. Simpson was cooking before her accident, I pick it up. The book feels oddly warm in my hands, like a fresh-baked loaf of bread. I open the cover. On the first page is a note, loopy letters handwritten in black ink:

  To my little cook—May you find the secret ingredient.

  I read the words out loud to the cat, wondering who the “little cook” is, and whether she—or he—found the secret ingredient. The cat swishes its tail, quite content with the food in its bowl.

  I flip through the notebook. There are a bunch of recipes written out in pen, with a few notes and crossings-out, but there are also pictures—some done in pencil and crayon, others cut out of magazines and old newspapers and glued to the page—of cakes, pies, bread, meat, and other foods. There’s also a whole section of recipes based on nursery rhymes with little poems and stories including “Hansel and Gretel” written out in fancy lettering. It must have taken so much time to collect and write out the recipes and all the little rhymes and illustrations—years maybe. How lucky the little cook must have been to have someone care so much. I don’t know anything about cooking, but as I hold the recipe book in my hands, I have a funny feeling the book is special somehow.

  I close the notebook. The cat has finished its tuna and begins lapping up the milk like an after-dinner coffee. Then it carefully licks its whiskers. Swishing its tail, it walks slowly out of the kitchen. I turn the light off and follow it to the living room. It jumps on to one of the threadbare chairs.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, somewhat touchy. “And I guess you’ll be expecting me to come back tomorrow to feed you again?”

  The cat curls up into a ball, snuggling its face into its wispy black tail. Its purrs grow slower, and soon it’s fast asleep.

  I move silently to the front door and shut off the flashlight so no one will see me. I slip out of Mrs. Simpson’s house and put the key under the mat, with the handwritten recipe book still tucked under my arm.

  Chapter 6

  The Little Recipe Book

  I don’t really know why I took the notebook from Mrs. Simpson’s kitchen. It’s not as though I’m actually going to cook anything at home. I can just picture Mom rubbing her hands with glee if I did: “Help, My Daughter Is Trying to Poison Me/Burn Down the House/Make Me Throw Up During My Marketing Meeting.” I stick the recipe book under my pillow. Part of the reason I keep my room—according to one of Mom’s blog posts—“like a toxic waste dump” is so she won’t ever go in there.

  Downstairs the next morning, Mom is pacing around the kitchen, taking two minutes out of her busy day to drink a cup of instant coffee.

  “So, do you have any plans for the weekend, Scarlett?” Mom says.

  “Um…” My brain furiously calculates the probabilities of providing her with blog material, depending on whether I say yes or no. I settle on: “Not really, but I’ve got some homework to do.”

  “Kelsie went to a birthday party this morning, and I’ve got a guest blog post to write. Can you go over to Stacie’s house?”

  “She’s visiting her grandma,” I lie. Stacie was my best friend last year, before the whole Gretchen and Alison thing. Then Mom wrote a post called “Psst…Want to Know a Secret? My Daughter’s Best Friend Is Really Dull.” And then, big surprise, Stacie stopped speaking to me and dropped me as a friend. Luckily, she goes to a private school, so I don’t have to see her every day.

  “That’s nice.” Mom puts down the coffee cup and digs around in the fridge. She takes out a piece of cold pizza and nibbles on it. “And how’s school? You joining any new clubs?”

  “No, Mom.” I take a box of cereal from the top of the fridge and pour some into a bowl. Then I sit and stare at it.

  Mom shakes her head and tsks. “I just don’t know what’s up with you, Scarlett. When I was your age, I had lots of friends. Plus, I did swimming and basketball and…”

  I stop listening. Mom’s already written a sappy blog post called “I Really Was Your Age Once…” where she went on about the days before cell phones, iPads, and Snapchat, when she and her friends passed notes in class and gossiped about boys. That post alone got more than three hundred and fifty sympathetic comments from her followers. She won’t write another one that’s too similar, so I’m off the hook.

  “Yeah, Mom, I know. But I’m sure Harvard can live without me.” I force myself to take a bite of the cereal. It tastes like soggy cardboard.

  Mom frowns. “Well, if you’re not doing anything, maybe you can pick up a few things for me at the store.”

  “Sure, whatever.” I take my bowl to the sink.

  “You didn’t eat any of that cereal.” Mom’s eyes sharpen. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” I pause for a second. “I’m not hungry.”

  She cocks her head. “You’re not anore
xic, are you?”

  “No, Mom. The cereal’s a little stale.”

  “Oh.” She tosses the pizza crust in the garbage and puts the kettle back on to boil. When she’s not looking, I take the crust out of the trash and put it in the compost bucket instead.

  “Okay, Scarlett, whatever you say.” Mom glances at me over her shoulder. “But you’re a teenager now. You need to keep your blood sugar up.” I can almost see the gears in her brain working overtime: “Does My Daughter Have an Eating Disorder, or Is She Just Obstinate?”

  “Whatever, Mom. I’ll have a snack later.”

  • • •

  I go up to my room and take out the little recipe book from under my pillow. I open it and reread the inscription inside the cover: To my little cook— May you find the secret ingredient.

  I wonder what it was like for the little cook—a daughter or son, I assume—to spend time with their mom learning how to bake and cook wonderful dishes. One thing’s for sure, I can’t imagine my mom ever doing something like that with me.

  I flip through the nursery rhyme section of the notebook, smiling at the recipes for pies, bread, and gingerbread, and the little rhymes about “The Cat and the Fiddle” and “Goosey, Goosey Gander.” There are a few recipes for basic things: Humpty Dumpty’s Perfect Eggs and Yankee Doodle’s Four-Cheese Macaroni. There’s also an ABC of Spices, most of which I’ve never heard of. But lots of the ingredients make my mouth water: buttercream, ginger, molasses, cocoa, and powdered sugar. Best of all are the cinnamon scones. There’s a picture done in pen and colored in with crayon of little, fluffy triangles steaming hot in a basket with a red-and-white gingham cloth. My stomach growls just thinking about them. If I could try one recipe, it would be that.

  But I can’t try any of the recipes. Not here at home where Mom would know about it.

  So, I’ll have to find another way.