Secrets and Scones Read online

  “Hah,” the tall girl says. “You’re going to get so fat.”

  The last word seems to echo around the room. For what seems like an eternity, no one speaks, or even breathes.

  If there’s a word in the English language for the color of Gretchen’s face, then I’m sure I don’t know it. At first, it turns kind of pink and spotty like she’s been scratching a rash or something, but then it immediately turns a shade of greenish gray like pea soup left in the fridge too long. The spoon in her hand drops to the floor. Everybody turns to stare as her cheeks get all full and puffy, and her eyes bulge out from her face. “Watch out,” Violet cries. But before anyone can even react, Gretchen’s mouth opens and a volcano of vomit erupts, flying across the table and landing in a slick, brown mess all over the floor.

  There’s a collective gasp of horror. And then the tall goth girl shrieks, “Oh, gross—it’s Retchin’ Gretchen!”

  “Retchin’ Gretchen.” The words move through the cafeteria like a river. There’s the odd groan and trickles of laughter, and a growing sense of mayhem. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Violet sneak out of the room. I get up and run after her.

  Outside the cafeteria, I slump against the wall. “What have we done?” I sigh at the same time she blurts out, “Our lovely pie!”

  “That was so awful,” I say, not sure whether I feel like laughing or crying. “We never should have given out free samples. I mean…do you think Gretchen’s okay?”

  Violet shrugs. “I think so. And it wasn’t our pie that made her sick—she had a stomachache earlier.” Her eyes grow wide. “Retchin’ Gretchen.” Laughter sputters from her mouth.

  The cafeteria begins to empty in a mass exodus.

  “I’ll see you after school, okay?” Violet says.

  “I don’t know…” I begin walking down the hallway so no one will see us talking. Now that our pie has humiliated Gretchen, she’ll want to know who’s responsible. How could I ever have allowed myself to get into this situation?

  “Come on, Scarlett!” Violet says.

  “Look,” I say, “I can’t do this anymore. If my mom finds out—”

  “So that’s it then?” Violet interrupts. “You’re just going to let her win? Like you’ve been doing all along?”

  I whirl around to face her, my anger boiling. “You just don’t get it, do you? And luckily for you, you never will.”

  Chapter 20

  The Betrayal

  The only thing worse than not having anything good in my life is having something and then losing it. Thanks to Gretchen and my fight with Violet, the Secret Cooking Club dies a quick but painful death.

  After school, instead of going to Mrs. Simpson’s house, I go to the library. I’ve always been good at school stuff, so I’m able to finish my homework quickly. I read through a couple of science magazines, trying to get interested in something. But all I can think about is how much I miss Violet, and which recipes we might have tried if things had been different. I even forget to worry too much about Mom’s upcoming blog post. Even if she’s somehow heard about Gretchen, there’s nothing to link me to what happened.

  Gretchen isn’t at school the next day. Violet hangs out with Alison. The school is still buzzing about “the incident,” and phones get passed around with a video posted on YouTube. I even feel kind of sorry for Gretchen. Kind of.

  On Friday morning, Mom’s weekly blog post goes live. The title this week is “The Single Mom’s Guide to Dating.” It’s horrible and cringeworthy, but at least it isn’t about me. Gretchen is back at school, her hair newly cut and her nails done in a perfect French manicure, acting for all the world like nothing happened.

  At lunchtime, I watch from a distance as Violet talks and laughs with Gretchen, Alison, and Nick as if they’ve been friends forever. Violet has chosen them. Now, the most I can hope for is that she forgets that I, and the Secret Cooking Club, ever existed.

  After school I go to the library again—this time I’ve got an essay to write that I actually need to do some research for. I stay until it closes. I wander home slowly, dreading the evening ahead, the weekend and, pretty much, the rest of my life.

  It’s almost dark by the time I get to my street. I stop outside Mrs. Simpson’s house. The curtains are pulled, but I can just make out a sliver of light coming from inside. I creep up to the door and peek through the mailbox. The light is coming from the partly open kitchen door. And then I hear laughter—girls’ laughter.

  My heart jumps to my throat. Violet is inside. And she’s with someone else—not one person, but two. “Yummy!” a high voice squeals. I know that voice.

  Gretchen.

  I stand there frozen, unable to breathe. I’m not sure how much time goes by, but pretty soon I see the silhouettes of Gretchen and Alison against the cozy rectangle of light from the kitchen. I hear a chorus of voices saying “bye,” “thanks,” and “see you later.” I rush away from the door and hide behind a smelly trash can in the alleyway at the side of the house. The door opens and closes. Footsteps.

  “That was actually fun.” A voice—Alison’s.

  “Yeah, I told you Violet was cool.”

  My heart is thumping so loud I barely hear them walking off down the street. Whatever they were doing, Violet’s stayed behind to clean up the mess. I storm up to the door and ring the bell. I hope it scares the pants off her.

  There’s no answer, so I kick away the mat, pick up the key, and turn it roughly in the lock. I slam the door behind me as I go inside.

  There’s a sound in the kitchen of running footsteps. Violet must be trying to hide. I stomp in—let her think it’s Mr. Kruffs.

  “Violet?” Instead of sounding menacing, my voice breaks.

  There’s no answer.

  “How could you do it? We had a secret—together. How could you tell Gretchen, of all people?” My voice catches again, and an instant later, I’m sobbing. “I trusted you!”

  Violet comes out from around the side of the bookcase. Her face seems thinner, and her eyes have dark circles underneath, like she hasn’t slept.

  “You said you didn’t want to do this anymore,” she says quietly. “I came here yesterday after school and the day before and waited for you. But you didn’t come.”

  “So instead you brought Gretchen! You know how I feel about her. You brought her here!” The words gurgle from my mouth like poison. “You betrayed me, Violet. You betrayed us.”

  “No, I didn’t.” She tries to put her hand on my arm, but I jerk away. It’s then that I notice the tray of undecorated cupcakes in frilly pink wrappings sitting on a wire rack to cool. I clench my fists to keep from throwing them in the trash.

  “Gretchen figured out it was me,” Violet blurts. “That I was involved in the Secret Cooking Club. I mean, it was kind of obvious, wasn’t it? The free samples started just about the time I joined the school.”

  “So? You could have denied it.”

  “No, I couldn’t! Nick saw you in the hallway acting weird. Gretchen put two and two together, and figured out that you put the pies in the cafeteria.”

  “No!” I put my hands over my face. “That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”

  “Listen, okay? She thought the Secret Cooking Club was a really cool idea. She tried the oatmeal bars and loved them. And she didn’t get sick from the banoffee pie—she had a stomach virus.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I didn’t know what to do. The secret was out. I knew you wouldn’t want her to tell your mom.”

  “My mom?” My whole body goes rigid.

  “Yeah,” Violet says. “So to make her keep the secret, I invited her and Alison to join.” Her shoulders slump. “I saw where the key was kept so I knew I could get in… I realize now it was a huge mistake, but I didn’t know what else to do. I figured you probably hated me for making you put the pies in the cafeter
ia. But even if you never came back, I wanted to keep the secret. I told Gretchen she could never tell anyone that you were involved. That you hated what she did to you before. I…” Her voice quavers. “I thought I was doing you a favor…”

  “A favor!” I cry. “Is that what you call it? I poured out my heart to you—told you all about my stupid mom and how she makes me feel. And what do you do? Tell Gretchen, of all people!”

  “I’m sorry, Scarlett.”

  “I mean, how would you like it if your mom splashed your whole life over the internet? How would you like it if your mom were like mine—?”

  I stop abruptly. Violet turns away, her shoulders shaking as she begins to cry. All of a sudden, it hits me. I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  Chapter 21

  Buttercream

  My anger dissolves in my throat. Now it makes a kind of sad, tragic sense. For all my whining about my mom, Violet has never mentioned hers. And I’ve never asked. Aunt Hilda—why is Violet living with Aunt Hilda?

  “My mom’s dead,” Violet says. “So’s my dad. So, you’re right—I don’t know exactly how you feel.”

  “Oh, Violet.” I take a step backward, stunned by the force of her revelation and, unwittingly, my own selfishness. She lifts her head, and I come up and put my arm over her shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  Nodding, she wipes her eyes. I sit her down in one of the chairs. The cupcakes are in front of us. I lean forward and examine them. Even without icing, they look fluffy and delicious.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I say quietly.

  She doesn’t answer. Next to the cupcakes is a big bowl with a wooden spoon sticking out of it. She pulls the bowl in front of her and starts stirring—it’s the icing for the cupcakes. A piping bag and a box of cake-decorating nozzles are sitting on the table.

  “We made these cupcakes for my birthday,” Violet explains. “It’s tomorrow.” Her lip quivers. “I felt bad coming here without you, but I really thought you’d quit. I didn’t want to lose this.” She gestures with the spoon. “The Secret Cooking Club was important to me too.”

  “I’ve been totally selfish,” I say. “And I hope you can forgive me.”

  She smiles faintly. “Of course.”

  “Can I help with the cupcakes?”

  “Yeah.”

  We split the icing into two separate bowls. I color my half pink, and she adds clear white glitter to hers. I hand her the icing package. The picture on the box shows that you can make little whirls and swirls with the icing bag. It looks kind of complicated, but I’m sure Violet can do it. She spoons some glitter icing into the bag and tries out some of the nozzles on a paper towel. I smooth on a base layer of pink to each cupcake.

  She takes one of the cupcakes I iced and begins making a little border of icing swirls around the edge. Then she puts a crystallized violet in the middle and surrounds it with crystallized rose petals. Finally, she tops it all off by sprinkling on pink edible glitter.

  “It’s so pretty,” I say.

  “I love doing the piping.”

  I hand her another cupcake. She changes nozzles and this time she makes a border like a ribbon. We work in silence for a few minutes.

  “My parents were in a car accident,” she says finally. “They were driving home from a church fund-raiser and a drunk driver hit them head-on. Dad was killed immediately. But Mom…” She sniffs. A tear trickles down her cheek. She stops piping the cupcakes and wipes her sleeve across her face. “They thought she would be okay. She was in a coma. I moved in with Aunt Hilda and visited Mom every day in the hospital and sat with her for hours. I talked to her, sang songs—stuff like that. I just wanted to do something to make her wake up.” She swallows hard. “And then she did wake up. She didn’t know who I was. They said she had trauma to her brain and internal organs, but that in time she might recover. But as I was sitting there, the machine started beeping. She went into cardiac arrest. They did what they could, but nothing worked.”

  “I’m so sorry.” As I say it again, I realize that sorry has to be the most useless word in the whole world. “It must have been…I mean, so awful.”

  She picks up the icing bag again. “It was,” she says. “I try not to think about it. But sometimes, I dream about that sound—when she flatlined.” Another tear dribbles down her face. She wipes it away quickly. “I don’t usually cry.”

  “It’s okay—really.” I give her another quick hug. “And I’m so sorry I’ve been whining about my mom, when at least she’s—” I stop, worried that I’ve put my foot in my mouth again.

  “…alive,” Violet finishes for me. “Don’t worry about it.” She starts on the next cupcake. “Your mom sounds pretty awful. I guess I’m lucky—Aunt Hilda’s been really nice to me.” Her hand trembles, and she blurs the border she’s making. I smooth it over with a knife so she can start again. “But she’ll never be Mom.”

  “Yeah,” I say stupidly. I remember the pang—the very brief pang—I felt when I saw the ambulance in our street and worried that maybe something had happened to Mom. When Dad left, I felt sad, and for a while I wondered if there was something I could have done to be a better daughter so he would have stayed. But Dad had nearly always been at work or out with his friends; he’d never had much time for Kelsie and me, so it wasn’t such a big change when he suddenly wasn’t there. Kelsie was only a toddler, so she barely even remembers him. But if something happened to Mom…

  I shiver inwardly. She may not be perfect—far from it—but she’s still my mom.

  “Aunt Hilda had to take me because there was no one else. I don’t think she really wanted to—I mean, she has her own life. She likes to go out with her friends after work, but she doesn’t want to leave me alone. Plus, she got divorced a year or so ago, and she joined an internet dating site. I’m…you know…kind of in the way.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  She shrugs. “Whatever. At least I’ve got this.” She points to the cupcakes that look so beautifully white, pink, and sparkly.

  “Yeah.”

  She looks up at me, her eyes the color of a day-old bruise. “So now you know. My life in a nutshell.”

  I nod.

  “Well, what do we do now?” she says. “About the Secret Cooking Club? I need to know… Are you still in?”

  “Yeah,” I say immediately. “I’m still in.”

  • • •

  I’m still in.

  Of course I am. Violet needs a friend as much as I do, and besides, the Secret Cooking Club is half me. Or…a quarter, now.

  I lie awake in bed that night, unable to sleep. I still feel worried that Violet let Gretchen in on our secret—even if she meant well. When we’d finished the cupcakes and were cleaning up the kitchen, Violet assured me Gretchen was totally on board and would keep things a secret. Alison wasn’t a problem—she would do whatever Gretchen told her. She said she’d talk to Gretchen and Alison tomorrow, and we could all meet up on Sunday.

  “Okay,” I said, still skeptical. “But if Gretchen tells anyone, then that’s it, I’m out,” I warned. “Do you understand?”

  Violet said she understood. She said she would take care of everything.

  I have to believe her.

  Chapter 22

  The New Secret Cooking Club

  “Welcome to the Secret Cooking Club.” My voice comes out less steady than when I practiced it. I force a smile as Violet comes into Mrs. Simpson’s kitchen followed by Gretchen and Alison.

  Gretchen eyes me carefully. “Hello, Scarlett.”

  “This is such a killer kitchen,” Alison says. “It must be nice to have a superblogger for a mom.”

  I glance over at Violet. She’s obviously not told them whose kitchen this really is. She shrugs awkwardly.

  “We need to get a few ground rules straight.” I gesture to the table wh
ere I’ve set out some mugs and glasses. The kettle has boiled, and I’ve also set out a carton of juice. Alison and Violet sit, but Gretchen leans against the shelves of cookbooks, her arms crossed.

  I’m not quite sure what to do next: sit or stand; pour drinks or not. There’s a strong current of tension in the room. I continue standing at the head of the table and just keep talking.

  “First of all,” I say, “secret means secret.” I look squarely at Gretchen.

  She lifts her chin as though I’ve insulted her, staring right back. “We won’t tell anyone at school,” she says. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Or my mom?” I realize I’ve given away my entire hand in three words, but what else can I do?

  She pauses long enough to make me sweat. “Or your mom.”

  Our eyes lock for a long second. I decide enough is enough. I sit down at the table. I’m not sure which one of us has won, but the tension begins to ebb away. Gretchen makes herself a cup of hot chocolate, and I pour juice into glasses for the rest of us.

  “Okay,” I say. “That’s the main thing. But there are still some other things you should know.” I look at Alison. “Like…this isn’t my house.”

  Violet gets the cupcakes we left here out of the fridge while I explain about Mrs. Simpson. Gretchen tries not to act surprised, but I’m sure I see a new respect dawning in her eyes. I tell them about my breaking and entering to feed the cat, and how Violet and I visited Mrs. Simpson in the hospital.

  When I’m finished, I expect some kind of reaction—questions or something. But by then, we’re all biting into the delicious, pink cakes with buttercream swirls, and no one says much of anything at all. Finally, Alison wipes her mouth. “You can trust us, Scarlett. I mean, the whole thing is cool because it’s a secret.”

  “And since we’re a club,” Gretchen says, “we should have some kind of secret handshake or password.”

  “Okay,” I acknowledge.