Cake and Confessions Read online

  “Is Lover Boy coming over to help?” Violet asks with a mischievous grin.

  “Ha-ha,” I say, reading the text. “No. He’s off to his grandma’s house.”

  “Shame,” Violet says.

  “It’s fine.” I pick up my wooden spoon, and we both start mixing, adding the warmed milk gradually and laughing as our spoons crash together. When the dough forms, we divide it in half and begin to knead on the floured kitchen surface.

  “You’re so lucky, Scarlett,” she says as we work the wet dough.

  “Me?” I look up, frowning. I know she’s right, but lately, I’m getting a little bit sick of people reminding me of it.

  “Yeah. I mean, your boyfriend is the cutest boy in the whole school! And things are good with your mom, right? And then you’ve got the Secret Cooking Club blog—I mean, you’ve already won a junior blogger award!”

  I nod, not quite sure where this is going.

  She gives me a little wink. “Not to mention getting to sample all those cakes at the charity bake-offs!”

  “Hey.” I pause, patting my stomach with a flour-covered hand. “It’s hard work being a judge.”

  “I’m sure!” She laughs.

  I laugh too, even though I don’t really feel like it. On the outside, everyone thinks my life is happy and perfect, full of all-you-can-eat baked goods and delicious, healthy dinners. And if I were them, I’d probably think the same thing.

  But there’s one thing she said that really bothers me. She said “you”—talking about the blog—not “we.” As I tackle the dough, I realize she’s put her finger on another niggle, the little throb of guilt that I feel sometimes. I set up the blog as a cool online hub for kids who like to cook and bake. Plus, we were trying to raise money to help a charity for the elderly. I guess it has taken on a life of its own, but we’re all involved with it. Nick and Alison help posting the photos, and Violet and Gretchen help with the recipes and answering the messages that come in. I’m the one who writes “The Little Cook” posts, but I’ve always thought of it as a group effort.

  We tip the dough back in the bowl and cover it to rest.

  “I mean, sometimes, I’d love to swap places with you,” Violet says wistfully.

  “But why? You’re my best friend, and we’re baking together, and we all pitch in with the Secret Cooking Club blog. And as for Nick, well, he’s a good friend. But if he’s any more than that…” I hesitate, “…you’d have to ask him because I sure don’t know.”

  “Really?” she says. “I thought you two were solid.”

  “I don’t know. It’s…complicated.” I haven’t confided to Violet—or anyone else—my doubts about Nick and me, if there is a Nick and me, that is. “And anyway,” I add, “you know that what things look like on the surface aren’t always the truth.”

  “Yeah, I do.” She sighs. I help her get the ingredients out to make the icing for the crosses. Whenever we bake together, I usually leave the decorating to her because she has a knack for making things look pretty. She measures out the icing sugar and sifts it into a bowl. She adds egg whites, a dash of vanilla, and a teaspoon of boiling water, and whisks the ingredients together.

  But somehow, I’m not feeling quite as good as I was. As I watch Violet whisk the icing, I wait for the feeling of joy that I get watching the separate parts meld into one substance, impossible to separate, like they’ve always belonged that way. It doesn’t come.

  When the dough is rested, Violet and I knead it a second time. We fold and punch, fold and punch. It’s tiring, but fun.

  And then, from the other side of the wall, I hear voices and thunking bags. The wall that separates Rosemary’s kitchen from our kitchen isn’t very thick. I can tell it’s Mom—she’s been out shopping with my sister, Kelsie. “Help me bring in the rest of the stuff,” I hear her say, sounding stressed and irritated.

  “Mom’s home.” I keep my voice low, hoping I won’t be asked to “babysit” my sister before we’ve finished. I punch the dough even harder.

  Violet scans the recipe. “If we put them near the stove, they’ll rise quickly. Then they’ll need to bake for fifteen minutes. I’ll ice them when they’ve cooled.” She scoops the white glaze out of the bowl and into a piping bag. She also sets out two pots of edible glitter—pink and purple. Let’s just say, with Violet doing the decorating, we go through a lot of edible glitter!

  We both put more flour on our hands and start molding little balls, sticking them next to each other on a baking tray so they’re almost touching. Then we cover the tray with a dish towel and leave the buns to rise.

  “How are the two lovebirds?” Violet says. “Any word on when you’ll be getting a new dad?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Emory Kruffs?”

  “He’ll never be my dad,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to.

  “Oops, sorry. I meant stepdad.”

  “It’s okay,” I say after a moment. Part of me wants to tell her all about my dad and why I don’t like to talk about him and am glad he’s out of my life. But I’m not sure I feel like putting it all into words. “It just sounded weird when you said it.”

  “The whole thing is kind of weird, isn’t it?” Violet giggles. “I mean, I just can’t see him…I mean—or your mom…” The giggle turns into a full-on laugh. And I want to laugh too because I know what she means. Mom and Em-K do make an odd couple. I mean, he’s a politician—a totally prim and proper upstanding member of the community. And Mom, well, she’s anything but prim and proper—she’s all over the place. But at the end of the day, they seem so happy together—which is what really matters.

  Violet’s laughter fades when I don’t join in. “Sorry,” she says again. “I guess I’m out of line.”

  Her purplish-blue eyes have a dark, bruised look about them now. For the first time, I realize it’s not just today—actually, she’s had that look a lot lately. I feel like I haven’t been a very good friend. I pick up the baking tray and put it in the oven, slamming the door a little harder than necessary.

  “Hey, come on.” I go over to her and give her a quick hug. Her hair smells of sugar and apple shampoo. “Let’s take a break, and I’ll make some hot chocolate.”

  “Yes, please!” Instantly, she brightens, grabbing the milk from the fridge. I get out the cocoa powder, pausing to check on the hot cross buns, opening the cast-iron door a crack. Through the gap, I can see the dough rise and change shape as it bakes. I shut the oven quickly before the heat can escape. How much easier things would be if I had a recipe for all the changes happening in my life—good and bad.

  But since I don’t, I settle for the next best thing—making a pot of frothy hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows, colored sprinkles, and a dusting of cinnamon on top—something that always seems to make life a little bit better.

  Chapter 3

  The Candidate

  “Scarlett, can I have a word with you?”

  Em-K rakes his black hair off his face, and, for a second, he looks like an overgrown schoolboy. His face and nose are kind of thin and longish, his eyes the same cornflower blue as his aunt Rosemary’s were. When I first met him, I thought he looked somewhat stern—like a really strict old-fashioned schoolmaster who’s just waiting to smack your hand with a ruler. Now I think he looks normal—and I like it when he smiles. But I still don’t see what Mom sees. She and her friends giggle—actually giggle!—that he’s very good-looking.

  “’Course,” I say. “Would you like a hot cross bun? Violet and I made them earlier.”

  Em-K came to check on his aunt’s house just as Violet and I had finished the last batch of hot cross buns and she was getting ready to go home. He found us in the kitchen, cleaning up. I remember the first time he found us there over six months ago. We were using his aunt’s kitchen as the meeting place for the Secret Cooking Club when she was in hospital. He’d been super-angry at first—especially when we
accidentally set the kitchen on fire.

  Luckily, things have moved on since then. We’re allowed to use Rosemary’s kitchen as long as there’s an adult around at my house—which is most of the time since Mom works at home.

  “Do they have raisins?” he whispers behind his hand.

  “We used dark chocolate instead.”

  “Ace!”

  I smile at Em-K’s attempt to sound cool. As he sits at the table, Treacle jumps on his lap and starts to purr. He strokes the cat’s velvety fur, and I get him one of the hot cross buns. For a grown man and a politician, there are quite a lot of things that Em-K doesn’t eat. Raisins being one, and nuts being another. I don’t really mind—there are so many things out there to make, and practically endless ways to combine ingredients and put a new twist on old recipes. Not that I’ve got that much time right now to do that. But that’s another story. And actually, Kelsie doesn’t like raisins either, so it’s no big deal.

  “They’re pretty,” he says, smiling. “Very…uhh…pink.”

  I laugh. Earlier, after we finished our hot chocolate, the oven started beeping. Violet stood on one side of the oven, and I on the other, for what has become sort of a ritual between us. We each put a hand on the door and opened it together. It’s one of my favorite parts of baking—the warm air escaping, hitting my face, bringing, in this case, the scent of cinnamon and warm, dark chocolate into my nose. The buns really looked like little bunnies nestled together, the dough light on the bottom and darker on top.

  After the buns cooled, Violet started decorating. As well as putting a shiny glaze over the bun and piping the icing cross over them, she sprinkled pink and purple edible glitter and added a crystallized violet—a real flower covered with sugar—in the middle. They do look very “pink,” but special too.

  Em-K takes a bite. I watch his face as he tastes the different flavors. “Delicious!” he says. “I’ll have another if there are any more.”

  “Sure,” I say, pleased he likes them. “Would you like a coffee?”

  “Love one!”

  I make him a cup of coffee from the little espresso machine next to the sink. Em-K takes his coffee black with no sugar. I think that says something about him, though I’m not quite sure what. Dad always had his with half milk and three spoonfuls of sugar…

  The coffee sloshes over the rim of the cup, burning my skin.

  Dad? Where the heck did that thought come from? I never think about Dad, and now it’s been twice in one day.

  Wincing, I put the coffee on the table and run my hand under the cold tap. How do I even know how Dad—my father—takes his coffee? It’s been almost five years since he left, and I wasn’t exactly at an age where I thought about how adults took their coffee. I’ve seen him since, of course—he sometimes comes to town on whirlwind visits, and takes Kelsie and me out for dinner—I must have noticed his coffee then. Before I started the blog, the main contact we had with him was a card at Christmas and birthdays with five dollars stuck inside. Kelsie always begs Mom to take her to the dollar store or the supermarket to spend her money, whereas I’ve kept all of mine—shoved into a little ceramic fish piggy bank that came in a paint-your-own kit I got once for a birthday. I do the math—five years of Christmases and birthdays—I must have about fifty dollars. Maybe it’s time I smash the piggy bank with a hammer, and get the money out once and for—

  “You’re not having anything?”

  Em-K is staring at me. What is it with me lately?

  “Um…Violet and I ate a couple that burnt around the edges. So, I’m not hungry.” To make him feel better, I pour myself a glass of water.

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  Something in the way he said that makes me pause. I place my glass of water on the table and sit.

  He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again like his tongue is tied in a knot. Sometimes if he’s trying to make a point, Em-K will choose to be silent. But I’ve never seen him at a loss for words.

  “I know we haven’t known each other long, Scarlett,” he says, his voice halting. “But these last few months have been the best of my life.”

  “Whoa!” I say. “Shouldn’t you be telling this to Mom?”

  He looks at me in surprise, then we both start to laugh. Treacle scrambles off Em-K’s lap.

  “Was it that bad?” he says.

  “Awful!”

  We laugh some more. I decide to have a hot cross bun after all.

  “So?” I say, sitting back down at the table.

  “I think you’ve guessed where I’m going with this, haven’t you?” he says. He reaches across the table and takes my hand. I think about drawing it away, but decide to leave it. “I want to ask your mom if she’ll marry me. But just so you know, I’m not going to do anything until I make sure it’s okay with you.”

  “Like, you’re asking me for my blessing, is that it?”

  He smiles and gives my hand a squeeze, then withdraws it. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  I take a bite of still-warm hot cross bun and let the flavors of chocolate and spices melt on my tongue. “What if I say no?”

  He sits up a tiny bit straighter. “I’m a politician, so I always try to please as many people as I can. But I know that I can’t please everyone.” He stares at the crumbs on his plate. I take pity on him and give him the other half of my bun. “So, if you say no,” he continues, “then I guess I’ll have to start a full-on campaign. Try to win you over. Unless there are any other candidates I should be worried about?”

  “No.” I grin. “I don’t think so.”

  “And after tomorrow night, I’m hopeful I’ll have one supporter at least.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a light blue velvet box. “Look.”

  He opens the box. Nestled inside cream silk is a single diamond set in a silver-colored band. The stone catches the light and glints in a million rainbow colors. I can’t take my eyes off the ring. He closes the box. “Will she like it?”

  “I’d say we’d better start planning your victory party—isn’t that what you call it?”

  His face lights up. “So, I can count on your vote?”

  I cross my arms. “There will be a few conditions to this…what do you call it…coalition? But hopefully we can work that all out.”

  “Wonderful! I’m sure we can!” He jumps up and tries to hug me. I put my hand in front of me.

  “Starting with, no gushy hugs and stuff.” I smile.

  He sits back down. “No gushy hugs. Check.” He draws with his finger in the air. “What else?”

  Chapter 4

  Spaghetti Bolognese

  “Seriously, he actually asked for your blessing?” Violet gushes. “That’s so…I don’t know…weird!” It’s Easter Sunday and Violet has come over to help me hide some eggs for Kelsie.

  “Weird? I thought you were going to say ‘nice.’ Or—what’s the word?—chivalrous.”

  “Sorry.” She giggles. “It’s just so Em-K. Is he going to do the whole down-on-one-knee-with-diamond-ring thing as well?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We talked about where he should take her. I said he should take her to Bernini’s—that new Italian restaurant. She loves Italian food…” I hesitate for a second. “And, it could be their place, you know? Somewhere she’s never been with anyone else.”

  “You mean like your dad—”

  “Yeah,” I cut in. “That’s what I mean.”

  I try to change the subject, talk about the returning to school on Tuesday, and about how I’m hoping we can bake a few more batches of hot cross buns tomorrow, and maybe some miniature strawberry tarts.

  But Violet only wants to talk about the wedding. “You’ll be a bridesmaid!” she says. “I’m so jealous—I’ve always wanted to be a bridesmaid. And Kelsie—I guess she’s too old to be a flower girl. She can be a bridesmaid too. You c
an wear a fab dress and have your hair and nails done—maybe even go to a spa! And we can all help make the wedding cake. I’m sure your mom will have lots of people. We’ll need like, six tiers with different flavors—”

  “Six!” I say, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. “Come on. I mean, it’s Mom’s second time around. Does she really need a huge wedding with all those people? She had that when she married Dad—I’ve seen the photos. Maybe this time, it might be more romantic to keep things small?” It’s like I’m pleading with Violet to agree with me. I’m so not into wearing fancy dresses and having to bother with things like my hair and nails. But it’s more than that. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but for some reason, the idea of Mom having a big wedding kind of scares me. All those people, and everything having to be perfect…

  Violet rolls her eyes. “Small sounds boring,” she says. “And from what I’ve seen, it doesn’t sound much like your mom.”

  “Whatever.” I shrug, not wanting to give Violet the satisfaction of knowing that she’s absolutely right.

  That night, I lie in bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. They were here when we moved into this house a few years ago, when Mom’s blog started taking off. I suppose someone’s dad—or maybe their mom—put them up years ago, maybe because they were into Star Wars or something.

  In our old house, my room was painted pink with a Disney Princess wallpaper border that Dad put up when I was about four and completely obsessed with Ariel, Belle, Snow White, and Cinderella. He also used to come home from work just in time to put on the video, and I watched the princesses over and over again. Back then, I bought into the whole “ride-off-into-the-sunset-on-a-white-horse-get-married-and-live-happily-ever-after” thing. When did I stop believing in it?

  Obviously, by the time Dad left Mom and they got divorced, I was over it. And for ages before that, I remember coming down before bed for a good-night kiss and finding them fighting.