Secrets and Scones Page 4
A Dollop of Tears
The next morning, the scones are gone (with a plate of crumbs left behind on the table), and the door to the Mom Cave is shut.
The day goes slowly—the usual kind of Sunday: Mom working, me playing with Kelsie until Mom comes out and zaps dinner in the microwave, then falls asleep on the sofa. I creep into Mrs. Simpson’s house just before dinner to feed her cat, but I feel uneasy there by myself. What if her nephew comes by today after Violet’s aunt talks to him? I sneak out again, wondering if I’ll ever have the courage to go back there and use the kitchen. Or will the scones be our first and last attempt?
The next morning, Mom is up and in her office by the time I come downstairs. I can hear her voice, talking animatedly to someone on her phone. When I’m ready to leave for school and have gotten Kelsie ready too, Mom still hasn’t emerged. I feel kind of sad that she hasn’t even bothered to come out to say goodbye to us. But when I pick up my backpack (filled with a dozen scones) and leave the house, I feel better.
Before class is about to begin, Violet comes up to me in the hall. “Do you have them?” she whispers behind her hand. I feel a little flicker of pride when I see that, behind her, Gretchen and Alison are looking in our direction.
“Yeah,” I say. “I gave one—well, two, actually—to Mom. But I’ve got the rest with me. Do you want one?”
“Later.” Violet smiles conspiratorially. “In fact, I have an idea.”
“What?”
“You’ll see. Leave them with me. And come to the cafeteria at lunchtime, okay?”
I ignore a tiny stab of alarm. “Okay.”
• • •
There are worry knots in my chest later as I walk into the cafeteria. On a table at the center is a large pink-and-purple Easter basket. I watch as a few kids go up to it and look inside. There’s a sign taped to the handle of the basket.
FREE SAMPLES!
My stomach clenches. I sit at a table near the door and watch the steady stream of people going up to the basket and helping themselves. A moment later, Violet plunks down beside me.
“Do you like my surprise?” she whispers. “I set it up without the cafeteria workers seeing me.”
I stand up awkwardly. “Um…I’ll see you later, okay? I’ve got to see Ms. Carver about an essay I wrote.”
Violet stops smiling. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.” My voice catches. “You didn’t tell anyone I helped make the scones, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. But what’s the problem? Everybody loves them.”
I look over to the central table. People are hovering around like wasps at a picnic. Some kids are talking to other kids that I know for sure aren’t their friends. The volume of noise in the room rises steadily. There were only twelve scones, but people seem to be sharing them—even the crumbs.
“Yeah, great. It’s just…could you not mention my name? I mean, can you say that you made them?”
Violet puts her hands on her hips. “For your information, no one saw me put them there. I thought it would be fun to have it be a secret. I’m not going to say who made them.”
“Oh.” I feel so stupid. I can’t tell Violet about why I don’t want to be involved. It all just sounds so dorky.
“So, what’s wrong, Scarlett?”
“Nothing.” I turn away and leave the cafeteria.
• • •
I rush down the hallway. Violet could have been my friend and I’ve ruined it. Why can’t I just tell her the truth—that I’m scared to do anything because of Mom and her stupid blog? Why did I go to Mrs. Simpson’s house, and why did Violet have to find me? Why did Violet have to come to our school at all?
In the girls’ bathroom, I practically slam into Gretchen and Alison, who are on their way out. “Hey, watch it.” Gretchen teeters backward.
I lock myself in a stall.
“You okay, Scarlett?” Gretchen almost manages to sound concerned.
“Come on, Gretch,” Alison says.
“I think she’s crying.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Whatever.”
I wait in the stall until I’m sure they’re gone. A part of me knows that I’m acting totally irrational, as if I’m outside my own body watching a crazy person. And then a new coldness washes over me. What if Gretchen tells Mom that she saw me crying like a big baby?
The bathroom door bangs behind me as I head out into the hall. Keeping my head bowed low, I push past the people in the hallway and run out of the school.
Chapter 11
A Spoonful of Secrets
What am I doing? Where am I even going? I hurry past stores, practically knocking down an old man pulling along a battered shopping cart. I almost get hit as a truck grinds to a stop in the middle of the crosswalk. All the time I’m heading toward home—but I don’t want to go home. Future blog posts flash into my head: “Help! My Selfish Daughter Tried to Run Away,” or worse, “Help! My Daughter Ran Away and Then, Unfortunately, Came Back!”
Panting for breath, I finally stop. I’m standing on the doorstep of Mrs. Simpson’s house. I get the key out from under the mat, open the door, and let myself in.
The cat is there just inside the door. I scoop it up and sob into its black fur. It purrs in my arms but flicks its tail, like it’s deciding whether or not to tolerate me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, setting it down. “You’ve got your own problems, haven’t you?”
The cat struts into the kitchen, meowing for food. I follow slowly behind, my heart finally easing in the calm quiet of Mrs. Simpson’s kitchen. The recipe notebook is on the book stand where I left it. But I’m almost positive I left it open on the scones page. Now, it’s flipped open to a page on Pat-a-Cake Oatmeal Bars. There’s a drawing cut from an old book and pasted on the page of a little boy in a puffy white baker’s hat. Around him, there’s a hand-drawn border of steaming pies and frosted cakes.
I flip through the notebook, my mouth watering at the possibilities: Hansel and Gretel’s Gingerbread, Knave of Hearts Strawberry Tarts, The Princess and the Pea Soup, Simple Simon’s Potpie. But in the end, I turn back to the Pat-a-Cake Oatmeal Bars. Whatever they are, I need to make them.
Just like before, nearly every ingredient called for in the recipe is on hand as though some kind of magic baking elf has been at work. Next to the recipe book, there are even two bars of Belgian cooking chocolate on the counter that I swear weren’t there last time. It’s definitely a little weird, but I decide to make the best of it. I put on an apron, wash my hands, and get started. I even remember to preheat the oven this time.
The cat sits and watches as I work. First, I read through the recipe so I know exactly what I’m doing. Then, I measure out the “wet” ingredients—butter, corn syrup, a dollop of honey—into a pan. I add the brown sugar and cinnamon, and place the pan on top of the stove. I swirl the ingredients around with a wooden spoon over a low heat. The colors mix together—warm shades of brown and gold, marbled through with the bright yellow of the butter. The spicy scent goes straight to my head. It’s fun watching all the separate parts of the mixture melt together like they’ve always belonged that way. When everything is uniform and liquid, I take the sticky mixture off the stove and stir in the instant oats. The ingredients clump on the spoon. I scrape some off with my finger and taste it. It melts on my tongue, wholesome and delicious.
I’m so caught up in what I’m doing that when the doorbell rings, I practically jump out of my apron.
I’m not expecting to get lucky a second time. I’m sure it’s Mr. Kruffs, or maybe even the police. My heart starts to thump, but to be honest, what I’m the most worried about is the syrup mixture getting cold before I can finish stirring in the oats.
I open the door. Standing there is the one person I didn’t expect to see after the way I acted at school: Violet.
“Can I come in?” she says.
“Sure.” I stand aside and she comes inside the house. She sets down her backpack, and next to it, the empty Easter basket.
“Everyone loved the scones,” she says. “That cinnamon—it really packed a punch. And it was even better because no one could figure out who made them.”
“That’s good.” I nod uneasily. It’s just so weird that the whole school was talking about the scones I made, which is the last thing I wanted. I turn and she follows me to the kitchen.
I go back to the pan and keep stirring the oats into the sticky mixture.
“What are you making?” Violet looks over my shoulder.
“Oatmeal bars.” I wave a sticky hand at the recipe book. “With Belgian chocolate on top.”
“Yum,” Violet says. She reaches behind the book stand and picks up a can that I hadn’t noticed was there. “Look,” she says, reading the label. “Caramel. I love caramel.” She hesitates. “Maybe you could add some of that too.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Can you grab me that pan?”
“Sure.” She hands me a rectangular cake pan that I’ve already lined with baking paper. I scoop in the clumpy mixture and pat it down with the wooden spoon. When it’s all spread out and flat, I carry the pan over to the oven.
“How long does it need to cook for?”
I glance over at the book. “Twenty-five minutes.” She opens the oven door and sets the timer. I put the pan inside.
“Would you like some hot chocolate?” Violet asks. “I can boil some water.”
“Yeah, hot chocolate sounds good.” I wash my hands at the sink.
Violet fills a kettle and switches it on. I find the cupboard with the mugs. Mrs. Simpson’s mugs are pretty, all different colors of stoneware, some with stripes and polka dots. I give Violet a purple mug and use a blue one for me. She finishes making the hot chocolate and brings it over to the table. We sit facing each other.
“Look, I’m sorry about earlier,” I say. “It’s just…well…” The words stick to the roof of my mouth. “Lots of things.”
“No worries,” she says. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”
Something unspoken seems to pass between us—one of those weird moments where you just know what the other person’s thinking, and you don’t have to bother with talking. But then it’s gone, as Violet asks the question I’ve been expecting.
“So, your mom’s really that blogger?”
“Yeah.” That blogger. Enough said.
“I hadn’t heard of the blog, but Gretchen showed me. She said you guys used to be friends, but then when your mom got famous, you started acting all stuck-up.”
“Stuck-up?” I stare at her dumbfounded. “Me?”
“I said you didn’t seem like that to me. And I read some of the blog.”
“You did?” I lean forward, feeling tense.
“I know your mom doesn’t mention your name. But everyone at school seems to know about it. I couldn’t believe she wrote all that personal stuff about you. You know…the stuff about you washing your white underwear with black socks, giving your whole family head lice, and wetting the bed till you were eight.” Her face is solemn. “I know how I would feel…”
“How?”
“Embarrassed,” she says immediately. “And also kind of sad.”
I smile weakly. And then I find myself telling Violet just how embarrassing and “kind of sad” it is for me for real. I tell her about Stacie, and about how Gretchen and Alison pretended to be my friends, but really they were leaking stuff to Mom. I tell her about the violin, the tap-dancing, and the Mom Survival Kit. Then, I tell her about Dad leaving, and about Mom’s online “victory” over him. I tell her how Mom’s most popular post is the one about “Top Ten Reasons I Wish I’d Never Had Kids,” and where does that leave me? And when I’ve finished telling her all that, a tear falls into the lukewarm hot chocolate in the mug in front of me.
She puts a hand on my arm. “I didn’t tell anyone you made the scones, Scarlett. Honest.” She hesitates. “I wanted to, though. Because you should get the credit.”
“I know I’m being totally paranoid. But it’s just that I don’t want anything—anything—to get back to Mom. I can’t stand her writing about me. I—” A sob escapes. “I just hate it. Every week when her blog post goes up, I want to crawl into a hole and die.”
“Have you told her?”
“Told her?” As soon as the words are out, I realize that, despite trying to be friendly, Violet will never understand. “Yeah, I did try. I told her it made everyone laugh at me. I told her I have no friends anymore, and that I don’t want to do anything if she’s going to write about it.”
“So what happened?”
“We had a ‘discussion’ about it. She told me her side—that she’s working really hard to be successful with the blog, and get advertisers and stuff. She said she wanted to have a job where she could support me and my sister without working long hours away from home. She tried to tell me all about online demographics and unique visitors—most of it, I didn’t really understand. I told her I supported her goals, but the things she said really hurt sometimes. So, I thought we’d come to an understanding. I felt good for a few days. Until the next post came out. Guess what it was about?”
“Your talk?”
“Bingo.” I sigh. “It was called ‘The Ungrateful Teenage Muse’ or something like that. You can guess what it said.”
“Yeah.”
“The only thing that kind of works is doing nothing—and I mean nothing at all. No clubs, no activities, no friends, nothing. She can’t get as much mileage out of boring as she can out of failure.”
“Must be pretty lonely.”
“I guess so.” I shrug.
Her heart-shaped face brightens as she smiles. “It’s good then that you’re doing something about it.”
“Doing? What am I doing?”
“You’re cooking.” She sniffs the air as the smell of baking oatmeal bars gets stronger and stronger.
I lean forward with a stab of real fear. “Violet, please. I’m not really going to do anything. I can’t—I mean, I’m breaking into my neighbor’s house and using all her stuff. If Mom found out and wrote about it, I’d probably be arrested or something.”
“Well, I won’t tell…on one condition.” Her smile grows mischievous.
“What’s that?”
“I want to cook with you. We can teach ourselves—just us. It will be a secret.”
“But—” I open my mouth to protest. There are a thousand things wrong with the idea. Instead, just for a second, I let myself be swept along by Violet’s enthusiasm. “A cooking club?” I glance around me at the amazing kitchen, mulling over the idea.
“Yeah. A secret cooking club.”
“Hmm.” I stand as the oven beeps that it’s done. “Can I think about it?”
Chapter 12
A Dash of Friendship
The oatmeal bars turn honey brown in the oven. I take them out quickly so they don’t get burnt. They smell rich, buttery, and delicious. I put the pan on a wire rack to cool. For the next step, Violet opens the can of caramel and scoops it into a bowl while I melt the chocolate over a pan of hot water.
“I never really thought about trying to cook or bake anything before,” Violet says. She looks at a penciled-in note in the margin of the recipe and then mixes some salt into the caramel. “I mean, my mom used to cook everything, and I guess I always thought there’d be time to learn—”
She stops. I pause in my stirring and look sideways at her. She bites her lip for a second, and then her mouth upturns in its usual amused expression. But her eyes don’t look amused. She stares at the caramel, swirling the wooden spoon through it absently. I want to ask her what’s up, but just then I not
ice the chocolate has completely melted, so I take it off the stove.
“Quick,” I say, “let’s get this on before it starts to harden. You go first.” We both take our bowls over to the table where I’ve put the oatmeal bars to cool. Violet spoons an even layer of caramel over the top. I keep stirring the chocolate, and when she’s done the whole pan, I spoon a thick layer on top. When I’ve finished, Violet uses the handle of the spoon to write something in the cooling chocolate:
The Secret Cooking Club
She hands me the spoon. I underline the words with a squiggle. It all seems very solemn and official. But then my stomach breaks the mood by growling loudly. “It looks good,” I say. “I can’t wait to taste it.”
After we’ve cleaned up the mess and the chocolate has set a little, I cut it into squares and serve up two pieces on Mrs. Simpson’s rose-patterned china. Violet and I clink our mugs together. Then we each take a bite.
“Gosh.” Violet grins. “It’s good.”
“It is good.” I can hear the pride in my own voice. It’s crunchy and gooey, and I can taste both the chocolate and the caramel. It all melts together in my mouth. I’ve had oatmeal bars lots of times—the kind wrapped in plastic from the corner store. But this is completely different. This is homemade. And I made it. We. I take another bite, chewing it slowly. Part of me almost wants to tell Mom. Almost.
I lick a streak of chocolate off my lips. “What are we going to do with them?” I say. “We can’t eat them all.”
“I could give it a try,” Violet jokes. Then her smile wavers. “But I guess it’s up to you.”
“No. It’s up to us.” I savor the word. “We’re a club now.”
Violet takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I know you’ve got issues about it. But I really liked giving out the free samples at school. It was weird, but it made everybody a little bit nicer somehow.”
“Nicer?”
“Yeah. I think so. And if we did it again, we can say they were made by the Secret Cooking Club.” Violet wipes her chin. “It’ll seem as if there are lots of us doing it.”