Alexis Gets Frosted (6 page)

“But you're the one who always says, ‘If you're going to hang out with your best friends, you might as well be making money while you're doing it,' ” Emma pointed out.

I grinned. “I'm glad someone's listening!”

“Oh please,” said Mia, laughing. “We all know your mottoes by heart. ‘Failing to plan is planning to fail!' ” she said in a chipper voice.

“ ‘Business first!' ” cried Katie.

“ ‘Knowledge is power!' ” added Emma, laughing.

“All right, stop! This is embarrassing!” I said. My face was red, but it was funny, and it felt good to have friends who knew me so well. I looked over my shoulder. I just didn't want Matt to hear them!

“We have to make sure we get all those little Alexis quotes into the time capsule,” said Emma.

I rolled my eyes.

“You
are
a character, Alexis,” said Mia, shaking her head and still laughing.

“Thanks. I think,” I said.

Katie deemed the walls sufficiently cool, and we began assembling them. It wasn't easy. The icing was slippery, and the walls were surprisingly heavy, and it took a little getting used to. Katie thickened up the icing with more confectioners' sugar, so it was a little pastier (I wouldn't have thought of that but was glad she did). That did the trick.

We very quickly had the four walls standing, and with the little door and windows cut out, it looked really cute.

“So once it's built, how long do you wait to decorate it?” I asked.

“Overnight,” replied Katie.

I did some calculations. “We'd have to bake Tuesday, build Wednesday, decorate Thursday. Which means I need the plans ready by Tuesday morning.”

“Monday,” corrected Katie. “Because you'd need to print them out, then cut them out so they can be traced, and I bet that takes a while. Don't forget, you'll also need a good shopping trip to get all the supplies. We'll probably need a trip to the baking store at the mall. Maybe this weekend.”

I smiled at her. That place was heaven for Katie, and she didn't get to go too often. Again, I was grateful for her use of the word “we.”

“Okay. I guess we have our work cut out for me,” I joked.

“We sure do!” agreed Katie.

We finished and then packed Mona's cupcakes for delivery the next morning. Then we called Matt down for a taste test of the two kinds of sample cupcakes (my idea). He was happy to oblige.

The cookies and milk was first, and he liked it, but didn't rave.

The second he bit into the apple-cinnamon one, though, it was the clear winner.

“Wow. Oh! This one is off-the-chart good!” he said with his mouth full. “It's insane! You've got to make these.” He crammed the rest of the cake into his mouth. “Can I have another?” he asked with his mouth full, gesturing toward the plate.

“Please?” prompted Emma, exasperated. Her brothers drive her crazy.

I gladly handed him another, “please” or no “please.” It was fun to see someone enjoy our cupcakes this much, and it was extra special that it was Matt, whom I secretly love, but also because he's
helped us out so many times. He's a big supporter of the Cupcake Club, which I appreciate.

“How's the house?” he asked, turning to look at it.

“Pretty good!” I said. “Katie's a whiz!”

Katie blushed modestly.

“The hard part's going to be making the blueprints or templates or whatever,” I said.

Matt nodded, swallowing his last bite. “I can help you with that,” he offered.

“Really?”

“Sure, no prob,” he said. “I have a CAD program we can run. It will be easy.”

“Okay! Thanks! What's CAD?”

“Computer-aided design. It turns your ideas into blueprints.”

“Cool.”

“I'll just need the design,” he said.

“Right,” I agreed.

“You do have the design, right?” he prompted.

“Well . . . not exactly,” I admitted.

“But she will very soon!” Katie said brightly. “Right?”

“Right,” I repeated miserably.

“Uh-oh!” said Matt.

Trudging home from Emma's, I tried to think of how I could get some kind of plans or measurements together for the gingerbread house. I'd looked online for hours but couldn't find anything close to what I was hoping. There had been a few kinds of houses that looked good, but they were so complicated—so professional—I couldn't begin to even
think
about taking them on.

I'd have to ask my parents at dinner, to see if they had any ideas.

When my mom called me to come in for dinner at seven, I was lying on the sofa in the den (which is also my mom's home office), watching my favorite show,
Celebrity Ballroom
, and sorting paper clips by color from a big bin into a small tackle box. It was very relaxing. I almost couldn't pry myself away.

At the table, I must've sighed one too many times, because my mom stopped eating and then looked at me carefully. “What's up, sweetheart?” she asked.

Dylan was out, so my mom and dad and I could speak freely without worrying about Dylan butting in or ragging on me.

I knew my mom was assuming this had to do with Olivia, and I was glad to say it didn't. “It's my
class project,” I said morosely. “We have to do a presentation with a visual component on Victorian times for English class.”

“Well, what are you doing?”

“A Victorian house made out of gingerbread,” I said.

My mom and dad both burst out laughing.

“Sorry, honey,” said my dad. “It's just . . . Of all of a parent's worst nightmares . . . The class project thing . . . And to have it be something so intense like that. It's just funny to us.”

“Like when Dylly had to do that Alaska project!” My mom laughed.

“And she insisted on making an igloo out of sugar cubes!” added my dad, howling.

“A huge igloo!” My mom roared with laughter. “Two thousand sugar cubes!”

“And the glue!” They were gasping with laughter now.

“I'm glad you think this is funny,” I said, without even cracking a smile.

“Wait, is this something the teacher assigned or you picked?” asked my dad, mopping his eyes with his napkin.

“Well, I kind of picked it. It was Katie's idea.”

“Can you change it?” asked my mom hopefully.

I shook my head, picturing Olivia's face when I brought in my fantastic creation. No way would I change now.

“You couldn't do a costume?” she asked.

I made an aggravated sound. I wished they would ban the word “costume” from the English language for a week!

“And how far have you gotten?” asked my dad.

I shrugged. “Nowhere.”

“And when's it due?” asked my mom.

“Next Friday,” I said.

“At least it's not due tomorrow!” remarked my dad, and the two of them got to hysterically laughing again.

I stood up. “Until you two can control yourselves, I will be leaving the table. Thank you for dinner,” I said.

“No, stay, stay. We're sorry, sweetheart. We won't laugh again,” my dad replied.

“We promise,” added my mom.

They could barely suppress their smiles, but I sat back down again, anyway.
How could two individuals be so annoying?
I wondered.

“So what's the first step?” asked my dad.

I sighed heavily. I could barely describe it. “I need to find a Victorian house to use as a model for
the gingerbread house, so we can put the measurements into a CAD program and create templates for the gingerbread.”

“Oookaay . . .,” said my dad, thinking.

My mom bit her lip, staring into space.

“There's a Victorian out on Route 20,” said my dad to my mom. “You know the one?”

She nodded, but she was still distracted.

“Maybe we could go knock on their door, ask if we could measure?” He shrugged.

“No. I've got it!” My mom snapped her fingers, grinning. “I have
got
it!”

“What?” my dad and I asked in surprise.

“My old dollhouse! The one we're going to see at Granny's tomorrow! It's a Victorian!” She folded her arms in triumph. “We'll just measure that!”

“Oh, Mom!” I cried, and I threw my arms around her neck. “Yay!”

“Let the games begin!” said my dad.

T
he trip to my grandmother's only takes about an hour. It's too bad we don't go more often, but with everything we have going on, it's hard to find the time to get out there. Usually she just comes to us, which she says she loves, because she gets to see us “in our own environment.”

But my granny's house is really neat. It's old and it rambles. It's not supertall; the second story has only two of the bedrooms in it, and both are kind of in the eaves, with little dormer windows bumped out, and window seats. But there have been so many additions to the back of the house over the last two hundred years that it twists and turns and teems with hidden nooks and crannies. It's great for hide-and-seek.

As it turned out, Dylan had cheerleading practice and couldn't come. (I think she never really had any interest in coming—she just wanted to be invited.) So it was just my mom and I who went, which was better, anyway. When we got there, my granny and granddad (who isn't really my granddad, but I call him that because he's the only one I've ever known) were eagerly waiting for us. He had already gone to the Milburn Deli and bought sandwiches, coleslaw, and hard-boiled eggs, plus Cokes and chips and peanut butter Kandy Kakes for dessert, which we always have when we visit. It's junk food heaven (kind of my mom's worst nightmare!) and delicious.

First, we ate at the kitchen table, and afterward, while Granddad cleaned up, Granny, Mom, and I headed into the dining room to look at all the photos they'd laid out for us. I was dying to see the dollhouse, but I didn't want to seem pushy, so I kept my mouth shut for the moment.

“Lexi, look at this adorable picture of your mom,” said Granny, holding out a photo. I took it and carefully inspected it, surprised by what I saw. It was my mom in the now-famous pear dress, but what surprised me was how messy she looked. My mom is always as neat as a pin—not a hair out of
place, her clothes perfect, everything under control. But here, in the pear dress, her hair was wild and her knees were dirty, and one sock was falling down, and on the other foot, her shoelace was untied. And she had a big red mustache, like she'd been drinking red juice.

“Mom!” I said. “I can't believe it! Is this really you?” I held the photo toward her. She took it and looked, then she laughed.

“What a mess I was!” she said.

My granny peered over her shoulder. “You were adorable. I still have that dress somewhere. I just couldn't put my hands on it for today. I'll keep looking.”

I took back the photo and then studied it again: my mom's wild looping curls (the same ones she carefully blow-dries straight every day), her dirty face (the one that now has always-perfect makeup on it), her messy outfit (ahem).