It's Raining Cupcakes (6 page)

“Wow, that's exciting!” He stood up. “I'll have to stop by. I love cupcakes.”

“That'd be great! We open on August fifteenth.”

“Okay, Isabel, I need to get going. But I'll try to come by for the grand opening. And good luck with that contest. Are you going to make cupcakes?”

I shrugged. “I don't know yet.”

“See ya later,” he said.

“Say hi to the president for me!”

I pulled out my passport book and wrote in it:

Mr. Nelson made me love

reading about other places.

But reading about places

and going places

is just not the same.

—IB

I told Mom and Dad about the pool incident over a dinner of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Mom didn't say a whole lot, just shook her head and pushed the food around on her plate.

“I feel bad, you know,” I told them, wanting them to believe me. “I'd never want anything to happen to those little boys.”

Dad took a drink of milk. “Drowning accidents can happen so fast. It probably just scared Sue something fierce. She's mad now. But she'll get over it. You apologized, right?”

“Yeah. But I don't think she believed me.”

“It's okay,” he said. “Look at it this way. We're getting close to opening day. Your mom could probably use some help with grocery shopping and testing some more recipes. Right, Caroline?”

“I suppose,” she said, staring off into space.

“Mom, aren't you excited?” I asked. “You open in just a few more weeks! I've been telling everyone I see.”

She stood up and took her plate to the counter. “Don't remind me. I'm not ready. I don't know why
I thought we could be ready by the fifteenth. It's too soon.” She turned around. “David, I think we should wait. I think we should postpone the opening.”

Dad stood up. “Honey, we're not going to wait. All the guys have been working so hard to have it ready. You just have cold feet. That's all. But Isabel getting fired is a blessing in disguise. She can help you with whatever you need—running errands, trying new recipes, advertising. Put her to work.”

I sighed. There went the rest of my summer vacation.

While they continued their discussion, I snuck off to my room. I took a seat at my desk, feeling defeated about the entire day and thinking maybe I should just crawl into bed, when I saw two pieces of mail that had come for me.

The first was a postcard from my aunt, with a picture of the St. Louis Gateway Arch on the front.

Dear Isabel, I've been to St. Louis many times and
never took the time to go up to the arch. It was fun!
The view from the top was incredible, and there's a cool museum inside about Lewis and Clark and their
trip. Hope all is well with you. Is the cupcake shop
coming along nicely? Love, Aunt Christy

The second was an envelope with Sophie's hand-writing. I ripped it open and read.

Dear Is,

Camp sucks. I think I'm getting too old or something. Every activity seems lame, lamer, and lamest. I mean, canoeing on the lake isn't fun. It's work! Just ask my biceps. And archery? I used to be happy just getting the thing somewhere on the target. But now? No way. I want to hit the bull's-eye, baby! And of course, it's impossible. So I get frustrated and throw the thing on the ground. And then they yell at me. And then I cry. And then . . . well, you get the idea.

I want to come home. Next year, when my mom tells me I have to go, I'll just stay at your place and eat cupcakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for two weeks. Your parents won't mind, right?

What's going on in Willow? Working on your recipe? How are Thing 1 and Thing 2, otherwise known as Lucas and Logan? I don't know why I'm asking you questions. By the time you get this letter, I'll be on my way to the Grand Canyon, so you can't write me back. Can't wait to catch up when I get home.

Time for campfire. At least there won't be any singing tonight. Rachel's guitar somehow tragically lost all its strings. I wonder how that happened?

Campily yours,

Sophie

Thanks to Sophie, my stinky, stinkier, and stinkiest day ended on a happy note. I folded up the letter, tucked the envelope into a desk drawer, and crawled into bed underneath a blanket of turtles, figuring I'd better quit while I was ahead.

T
he next day, Mom and I were going through all the boxes that had been delivered, trying to figure out if we still needed to buy anything. Mom didn't say a word. She just emptied the boxes, took notes on her clipboard, and mumbled to herself every once in a while.

I wanted to tell her it'd be okay. I wanted her to know I thought it was great that she was trying to make a dream come true. I wanted to say
something
to make her feel better about everything. But I didn't know what to say. How many times had I wished I'd been born with the knowing-just-the-right-words-at-the-right-time gene, like Sophie had? More times than there are red-eyed tree frogs in the forests of Costa Rica, that's how many.

I decided maybe the best thing to do was to talk about something completely different. “Mom, where did you and Dad go on your honeymoon?”

She looked up from her clipboard with her left eyebrow raised. “What? Why?”

I shrugged. “You've never told me. And I'm curious.”

“Well, we went to the Oregon coast. Stayed in a cottage for a week. It was very nice.”

I peeled the packing tape off the top of the box in front of me. “You didn't go to Hawaii? Or Mexico? Or the Caribbean? Don't most people go to places like that?”

“Sometimes. And your father wanted to, I think.
I just couldn't do it. I couldn't envision myself getting on a plane.”

My hands stopped moving, and my eyes looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

She stood up, a pair of wooden spoons in her hand. “I'm afraid, Isabel. I'm afraid to fly.”

“You never told me that. How come you never told me?”

She shrugged. “I guess it never came up.”

I could feel my heart racing. It didn't come up? All those times I'd rambled on about how I'd love to be like Aunt Christy, flying here and there and everywhere? All those times when I'd asked, “How come we never
go
anywhere?” Her response had always been brief and generic. “It's just not in the budget,” or “Maybe someday we'll be able to.”

Once again, it was all about
her.
The anger inside of me grew, like a cupcake expanding in the oven. I gritted my teeth and tried to sound as sweet as a chocolate chip cupcake. “Is that why we've never gone anywhere outside of Oregon?”

She made a checkmark on her clipboard. “Oh I don't know, Isabel. There are a lot of reasons.
Anyway, I know you want to travel. And you can blame me if you want to. But just think, you have the whole world to look forward to when you're older.”

I started to respond to that with something I probably would have been sorry about later, but I didn't get the chance. There was a knock at the door.

I ran to open it before Mom had even taken a step. As the door flew open, Stan's big smile greeted me.

“You're home!”

“We just got in,” he said. “And I wanted to bring you these.” He held up a white box. “I thought you might enjoy one of my favorite treats from England. I bought these on the way to the airport and carried them with me the whole way. Judy thought I'd lost my mind. But jam tarts are delicious. And you were so kind to share your cupcakes with us.”

I took the box from his hand. By now Mom was standing behind me. “Please, Stan, come in. But you'll have to excuse the mess. We're just going through the equipment for the shop. Not long until we open, you know.”

He nodded as he stepped inside. “Yes, I know. August fifteenth, right? Those carrot cake cupcakes were wonderful, Caroline. Very moist and tasty. If your shop had been open, I'm sure Judy would have run downstairs and bought a half dozen more. I predict you are going to have more business than you can handle.” He rubbed his belly. “And I predict my already large waistline will be getting even larger.”

I looked at Mom, and she was all smiles.

“I got your postcard,” I told him. “Thanks for sending it. Did you like the castle?”

“We sure did,” he said. “That was actually one of many we saw. We had a great time. I'll have to show you the pictures one of these days.”

“I'd love that,” I said.

He looked around at the clutter on the floor. “Well, I don't want to keep you. Let me know how you like those tarts, Isabel.”

He opened the door and stepped back into the hall.

“Knock-knock.”

“Who's there?”

“Jam.”

“Jam who?”

“Jamind? I'm trying to get outta here!”

“Bye, Stan,” I said.

I skipped to the kitchen, carrying the box of tarts.

“Mom, come try a jam tart,” I called, the anger I'd felt earlier now set aside on the cooling rack.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I'm not really hungry.” She paused, then called out, “Hey, I just remembered, how is that cupcake recipe coming along for the contest?”

I pulled a slightly squished but sweet-smelling jam tart from the box and took a bite. It was the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted.

“I'm, uh, still working on it.”

“Do you need some help?”

That was pretty much the last thing I needed. “You can't help, Mom. That's one of the rules, remember?”

Besides,
I thought, as I took another bite of the scrumptious tart,
I don't think you'll want to help me once
you find out I'm submitting a jam tart recipe instead of a cupcake recipe.

I pulled out my notebook.

Cupcakes are popular.

So is Disneyland.

Popular is good,

but it doesn't always mean

the best.

—IB

A
t the library, I found hundreds of recipes for jam tarts. The basic recipe was pretty simple. But that didn't mean anything. I needed to make something different. Something all my own.

The tricky part was going to be baking jam tarts without Mom knowing what I was up to. If she found out, I knew her feelings would be hurt.

One afternoon I finally had the apartment to myself while Mom was running some errands and Dad was working downstairs. I'd just finished baking a batch of tarts that I'd made with some fresh lemon juice squeezed into the pastry crust. They were good, but still not something really different or totally fantastic.

I was racking my brain as I drank my second can of root beer, trying to figure out how I could make the world's greatest jam tarts, when I heard voices outside the apartment. As keys jingled, I heard Dad. And then Mom!