Truth Game (5 page)

That night, as I'm flipping through a huge French recipe book that I got out of the library, trying to figure out what dessert will wow Chip Ackerson, my phone beeps to tell me that the results of my Truth Game questionnaire are in. I look at my scores. Five points for the “Dating” one along with the comment: “Whoa, snooping in the underwear drawer? Two bonus points!” I smile for a second before it dawns on me that some complete stranger knows about me rummaging through Briana's underwear. Creepy.

I look at the stats to see how my answers stack up with other people's, expecting them to be pretty average. I'm shocked when I see that my numbers are pretty much opposite from everyone else's. Having a boyfriend but never having been kissed makes me a total anomaly.

Ugh. Just when I think I've left my middle school self behind, something else makes me feel like an outcast.

I start pacing around the kitchen, feeling like I should bake something. That's what I always do when I get stressed. I should probably try one of the French pastries I was looking at, but for some reason all I feel like baking are chocolate-chip cookies. No way. I'm not going to waste time making something I've baked a million times before.

“Mom!” I call into the living room. “What do you want me to bake for you?”

“How about some lemon squares?” she calls back. It figures. They're her favorite.

I sigh and get to work. Maybe I can make a meringue to go on top or do something to make the lemon squares a little fancier. At least the act of baking will calm me down. But the weird thing is, it doesn't. Not even when the squares are in the oven. Not even when I pull them out, all warm and gooey, and the whole house smells like heaven.

“Mmm,” Mom says, her nose practically pulling her into the kitchen. “Can I have a bite?”

I push the entire pan over to her. “They're all yours.”

“So I have some great news,” Mom says. “One of the women on the PTA told me that her brother-in-law's cousin, Bianca, might be doing sound for the Cooking Network special! So, if you want, I can give her a call and set up a lunch meeting for you and Bianca this week!”

I blink at her. “Huh?”

“Don't you see? If you talk to Bianca and make a good impression, maybe she'll get you some face time with Chip.” She gets a thoughtful look on her face. “Now, the first thing we need to do—”

“Mom, do you really think me having lunch with a complete stranger is going to help anything? You know what I'm like with people I don't know.” I'd probably insult the woman's dog by accident or something.

“You'll be fine!” Mom says. Then she frowns. “Except she apparently speaks only Italian.”

I groan. “I know you're trying to help, but can you give me a chance to figure things out on my own for once?”

Her face falls. “It's just…I've watched your shyness hold you back so many times. I didn't want that to happen again with something you really cared about.”

As much as I hate to admit it, she's right. Normally, I wouldn't have the guts to do anything about getting onto the show. “I know, but I won't let that happen. Can you please let me handle things my way?”

She puts her hand on mine. “I guess I'm still getting used to the idea that I don't have to look out for you all the time. It's like the day we got you that unicorn balloon at the fair when you were little. Do you remember? When it flew away, you were so upset that I rushed out and bought you a new one, even though I knew I should use that opportunity to teach you about taking better care of your possessions. I told myself I had plenty of time to teach you about the harsh facts of life when you were older. But I think part of me is still trying to protect you from them.”

The funny thing is, I remember that day with the unicorn balloon, but in my memory, it was my dad who got me a new one when the first one blew away. He's always seemed like the parent who would bend over backward to make me smile. I guess I forget that my mom's always protected me too, just in a different way.

“If you need my help, I'm here. Okay?” she says.

“Thanks,” I say. And even though I appreciate her letting me solve my own problems for once, I also sort of miss the days when my mom could buy me a new balloon and everything would be perfect again.

• • •

When I get to the bakery the next day, I'm shocked to see Briana actually doing some work until I realize it's because Cherie's in the room. The minute she's not around, it's guaranteed Briana will stop wrapping up muffins and go back to playing with her phone.

“Oh, Rachel, you're here,” Cherie says. “Can I talk to you in my office for a second?”

My stomach flips. “Is everything okay?” I ask as I follow her.

She closes the door and motions for me to sit. “Well…I know you really want to work here, but right now I'm not sure your work ethic is as strong as I'd like to see it.”

“My-my work ethic? Did I do something wrong?”

“I was looking back over the candy satchels that you and Briana were working on yesterday, and several of them really weren't up to par. When I asked Briana about it, she said she noticed you were having some trouble with them. If you needed help, I wish you'd asked.”

My mouth sags open. “Briana said
I
was having trouble with them?” I can't believe this. Yesterday, I showed Briana how to tie the satchels three times, and each time she just shrugged and did it her way. I finally gave up and went through and fixed the ones she'd done after she was gone, but I must have missed a few. “No-no.
I
was fine. Briana was the one…” But I can tell Cherie doesn't want to listen to excuses, so I sigh and say, “I'll make sure we both do better.”

“Excellent. Now get out there and give it your all, okay?”

Ugh. Apparently my all isn't good enough with Briana around.

I shoot Briana a dirty look as I get to work wrapping the muffins she abandoned. She, of course, doesn't lift a finger to help, and I don't ask. I rather do the whole list of daily tasks on my own and know it's done right than have Briana mess stuff up and then blame it on me again.

“Excuse me,” I say a few minutes later, trying to push past her to get some Ryan's Bakery labels from under the counter. She stands there staring out the window, totally ignoring me. “Briana, I need to—”

Before I can finish, she suddenly dives behind the counter like she's stepped into an elevator shaft. An instant later, the bakery door opens, and Angela Bareli comes in.

“Hey, Rachel,” Angela says, sounding downright friendly. “I didn't know you work here.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, trying to ignore the fact that Briana is crouched about two feet away from me. It's obvious she doesn't want Angela to see her, but I can't figure out why. I'm tempted to out her—she definitely wouldn't hesitate to do it to me—but I'm not that mean-spirited…or that brave. “I started a few days ago.”

“That's great! I bet you can help me. I want to get a cake for my birthday party, but I have no idea what I want. You're the perfect person to ask since you're amazing with that kind of stuff.”

Wow. Angela was always my biggest competition during the Spring Dance baking competition in middle school. Of course, it turned out she totally cheated and got a bakery to make her entries for her, but I never expected her to actually compliment my baking skills, considering how much time she spent trying to outdo me.

“Sure,” I say. “Do you have a theme for the party?”

“Not really. But it's going to be huge, like the kind we had in elementary school. Remember when we'd invite all the kids in our class? I don't want to leave anyone out, so I'm inviting everybody.”

“The whole grade?” I say in disbelief.

She smiles. “Why not? It'll be fun! And maybe I could get a pony or something.” She gasps. “Oh my gosh! That could be the theme! A little kid birthday party!”

I guess if our entire grade could fit in someone's house, it would be Angela's. It's the biggest one in her neighborhood. But I doubt Marisol would appreciate having a raging party happening next door, especially with a pony tromping through the yard.

I write down how many people Angela is hoping to feed and when she would need the cake, and then I pick her brain about what flavors and textures she likes and doesn't like. I expect to get a rush of ideas like I normally do the minute I start thinking about desserts. When I heard the Montelle-Brennan wedding is going to be by the water, for example, I instantly pictured a cream-colored cake covered in seashells. But nothing happens this time.

“We'll take care of everything,” I tell her.

“You're the best! Thank you!” she says, and then she hugs me over the counter. Angela Bareli, backstabbing social climber,
hugs me
. I nearly die from the shock. But then she pulls away and gives me a little smile before rushing off.

“She's gone,” I say to Briana, who's managed to wedge herself under the counter so her head is almost inside a box of napkins.

She lets out a long breath and then gets to her feet, smoothing her apron. Then she goes back to tapping her phone as if nothing happened.

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” I finally say.

She snorts. “Like you'd want the biggest gossip at school seeing you at some stupid job,” she says. “So embarrassing.”

I don't bother pointing out that Angela did see me at my “stupid job” and that there was nothing embarrassing about it. “Angela seems really different this year. Maybe she doesn't gossip like she used to.”

“Yeah, right. As if people ever really change. She's still the same old Angela.”

“I'd like to think that I've changed,” I say softly. Honestly, last year I wouldn't have been capable of having this conversation with Briana. I would have been way too intimidated around her to even open my mouth.

“Well, I haven't,” Briana declares. “And I don't want to. What's so great about changing anyway?”

Before I can answer, my phone beeps in my pocket. It's a message from Marisol. I expect it to be about the Fashion Club or Andrew's movie, since that's pretty much all she can talk about these days, so I almost drop the phone when I see what she's written.
Are you sitting down? Guess who I saw at the grocery store?? Chet Ackerson!

I stare at the message in shock, holding back a shriek.
Do you mean CHIP Ackerson????
I write back. It can't be true. What would Chip be doing in town so far ahead of the wedding special? But maybe he's one of those hosts who like to go to the place where they're shooting and get a feel for it before the show. For all I know, he's been wandering around town for days, and I didn't even realize it. We could have even been breathing the same air!

Yes! The Pastry Wars guy
, Marisol writes back, and this time I can't stop myself from shrieking.

“Tell me everything,” I say, perching on Marisol's bed. “What was Chip doing? Did he say anything? Does he look the same in person as he does on TV?”

“Whoa!” Marisol says. “I only know who he is thanks to you. I was with my mom at the store, buying some cantaloupe, and there he was picking out a pineapple.”

I suck in a breath. “Pineapple?” This has to be a sign from the gods.

“Yeah, he kept picking up different ones, sniffing them, and then putting them back.”

“He was testing for ripeness,” I say. “If they don't smell sweet, that means they were picked too early and don't have enough sugar to ripen.”

“Thanks, Foodipedia,” Marisol says with a laugh. “Anyway, I looked it up after I got home, and it turns out some of the Cooking Network people are already in town doing stuff for the wedding special. And”—she grins—“this is the best part. I called the hotels in the area until I found out where Chet's staying.”

I don't bother correcting her this time. “No way! Where?”

She describes a little inn in the center of town that I've never really paid attention to. “So what are you going to do?” she asks.

“I just have to show him I can bake,” I tell her. “I'll drop some pastries off at the inn for him tomorrow. He'll take one bite and know he made a huge mistake, right?”

“Totally,” Marisol says.

I grab my cooking notebook out of my bag and start flipping through, but nothing seems right. I need something bigger, something fancier, something that will really wow Chip. I start looking up “super-fancy desserts” on my phone and find a couple things that are really impressive, but they're also covered in edible gold and stuff. No way can I afford to do that! Finally, I find some delicious-looking cream puff things that are dribbled with chocolate.

“How do you pronounce
religieuse
?” I ask Marisol. I'm definitely going to know how to pronounce the name of what I'm making this time.

Marisol keeps typing away for a minute before looking up. “Huh? Oh, sorry. Ms. Emerald wants me to fill out all this stuff about club goals and agendas. She said she doesn't have time to advise a new club unless she's sure I'm totally serious about it. By the time she'll actually let me start the Fashion Club, it'll be June already.” She sighs. “Sorry. You have my undivided attention now.”

I start to tell Marisol about the pastries I've been looking up, but after a minute, her eyes wander back to her laptop again. I give up when my phone beeps. It's another Truth Game questionnaire. This one is about jobs. Since Marisol is busy anyway, I start working on the questions.

1. Do you have an after-school job?

Since there's no “more than one” option, I simply say “yes.”

2. Are you a good employee?

If you asked Cherie and Chef Ryan, I'm not sure what they'd say, but since I know I'm doing my best, I choose “yes” again.

3. Do you like your job?

That's a tricky one. Do I love cleaning houses with Mom? No, but it's not so bad. On the other hand, I thought I'd love working at the bakery, but so far it hasn't been nearly as great as I'd hoped. Still, I'm hoping it'll get better, so I finally settle on “I don't know.”

4. What's something people would be surprised to find out about your job?

This one's easy. “That my grade's former queen bee works at a bakery with me! She wants people to think she's better than they are, but I saw her taking out the trash yesterday, and I swear some rotting fruit dripped on her shoe.”

Briana only took the trash out, of course, because Chef Ryan asked her to and then watched her the whole time. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have gotten stuck with the task. She was scrunching her nose so hard the whole time that I thought it would retract into her face.

5. Dare time! Do something at work that you know you'd get in trouble for if someone found out. Write about it here in the next forty-eight hours for bonus points!

Yeah, right. As if I'm going to risk getting fired just to get bonus points on some game.

“What are you working on?” Marisol asks, making me jump. “You keep making weird sounds, like you're thinking really hard.”

“It's this game Briana signed me up for,” I say. Then I try to explain it to Marisol. I can tell by the frown on her face that she gets it even less than I did when Briana first explained it to me. That's one reason I haven't told her about it until now. I figured she wouldn't really be into it.

“Why would you answer those questions?” she says. “Who knows what kind of evil stuff the company who made that is going to use your answers for? Andrew was telling me that if social media sites are free, that means
you're
the product. The company makes money off selling data about you.”

“Actually,” I say before she can go on a full-on tirade, “it's not a company. It's some high school kid. And it's just for fun.”

Marisol still looks skeptical. “If Briana Riley plays it, how much fun can it be? And what if people find out what you wrote?”

“Briana said it's totally anonymous. And she also said that—”

“Wait.” Marisol holds her hands up. “Are you actually quoting Briana Riley? Since when do you agree with a word she says?”

“I-I don't,” I stammer. “She was explaining how it works, that's all. Anyway, the game's actually pretty fun.”

“If you say so,” Marisol says, and for some reason I can't help feeling annoyed. Just because it's not her thing, does that mean I shouldn't play the Truth Game either?

“Oh!” Marisol says, jumping to her feet. “I forgot to show you!” She hurries to her closet and pulls out a bright-orange dress. “What do you think? It's not done yet, but this is what I'm making for Ms. Emerald.”

“It's pretty,” I say, even though I actually think it's kind of hideous. Marisol and I don't always have the same taste in clothes, but she always manages to make things look good. Hopefully once it's done, I'll understand her “creative vision” a little better.

She asks me about my opinion on the beading she's going to put around the collar, but I'm too distracted by how awkward things suddenly feel between us to give her much of an answer. Who would have thought the day would come when I'd have an easier time talking to my worst enemy than to my best friend?