Confectionately Yours #2: Taking the Cake! (6 page)

“H
e’s reading it!” Meghan says as she comes up for a sit-up. I glance over at the bleachers, and she pops up again. “Don’t look over there!” Back down.

We’re in the gym, taking the state-mandated fitness test. Well, Meghan is taking it. I’m holding her legs. She does another sit-up. Another fifty seconds of this, and we’ll change places. The boys have already finished their sit-ups and are sitting on the bleachers, watching.

“Ten,” she says as she comes up again.

“That was eight,” I correct her.

“He’s still reading it!” She pops up again. “Twelve. Ugh! I despise sit-ups! Can you tell if he’s smiling?”

I nonchalantly look over at the bleachers, where Ben Habib is reading a note. “I can’t believe you actually gave
him that letter,” I tell Meghan. “And I can’t believe he’s reading it
here
.”

Meghan’s bangs aren’t green anymore. She dyed them bright pink, and right now they are plastered across her sweaty face. “It’s so romantic!” she coos, then grunts. “Urgh.”

Right. Romantic. We are wearing the required gym uniform — blue-and-white-striped shirts and navy shorts. Polyester. Our gym smells like gladiator sweat and a bucket of dirty disinfectant water. Isn’t that a romantic place to read a love note?

Oh, right:
No
.

The coach calls time, and now it’s my turn to do sit-ups. We change places, which gives Meghan plenty of time to narrate the rest of Ben’s reactions to her secret-admirer note.

“He’s folding it up,” she says as I crunch my abdominal muscles. “He’s putting it back in his backpack. Hayley, he’s
saving
it!”

“How many sit-ups is that?” I ask the next time I’m upright.

“Oh, jeez, I have no idea,” Meghan admits. “Five?”

It’s eight. I roll my eyes. For someone who’s a genius nerd, Meghan isn’t too good at counting sit-ups.

“I’m going to write him another one,” Meghan gushes as I crunch away.

“Bad idea,” I grunt.

“Bad?” Meghan smiles, like I’m teasing her. “Are you kidding? The first one worked out; now it’s time to go bigger!”

I’m not so sure this is a good idea. Ben is shy. He may get overwhelmed by too much romance.

“Maybe I’ll write some poetry,” Meghan is saying. “Or make him something. A painting …”

The whistle blows, and I roll over onto my side, my stomach muscles aching. “Why don’t you wait awhile?” I suggest as everyone gets to their feet.

“‘You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.’” Meghan’s round pink face is positively glowing.

“Did you get that off a bumper sticker?”

“It’s William Blake!” Meghan grabs my arm and we start toward the locker room. “The English poet. And yes — it’s on my neighbor’s Corolla. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true!”

“Why don’t you send your letter to William Blake?” I suggest.

I’m joking, but Meghan rolls her eyes. “He’s been dead for about two hundred years.”

Well, then, you won’t have to worry about embarrassing yourself,
I think, but before I can say anything, Marco comes up to us.

“Hey, Hayley, I was just wondering —” He casts a sideways glance at Meghan, then angles his body so that she’s behind him. “Um — could I look at your math homework again?”

“Sure, Marco,” I tell him. “I’ll give it to you after I change.”

“Thanks.”
He’s more than just grateful,
I realize when I see his smile,
he’s relieved.
For a moment, I have a flash of what it feels like to deal with Mr. Carter every day. It feels horrible.

Meghan doesn’t say anything as we make our way to the locker room. But I feel like I need to offer some kind of explanation, anyway. “He has a lot of trouble with math,” I say.

Meghan shrugs. “Then he should do the homework.” She pulls open the door to the locker room.

“He tries; he just needs help.” I keep my voice down, since the locker room is so echoey.

“Okay,” she says, but the way she says it makes it sound like it isn’t okay, not really, and suddenly I’m annoyed. Who is Meghan to judge? Marco and I have been friends for years. “You don’t know what his life is like,” I snap.

“What’s it like?” Meghan asks as she sits down on the bench and kicks off her shoes.

The question hits me like a slap. What’s Marco’s life like? “His parents are …” I’m not sure what to call it. “… strange. And his sister is autistic. Like,
very
autistic.” I don’t want to say more. I nibble my pinkie nail as our classmates mill around us, everyone trying to get changed while never letting anyone see their bodies. Half of them probably have an ear out for stray gossip. It stinks worse in here than it does in the gym. It’s not a place you can really talk. “It’s not a big deal, Meg,” I say at last. “What’s one homework assignment? It’ll help him.”

Slowly, Meghan pulls her fresh clothes out of her locker. “Are you sure that you’re really helping him?”

I picture Mr. Carter’s sneer. “Yes.”

She looks right at me with her straightforward blue eyes. “Okay, Hayley,” she says.

Okay
, I tell myself.
Okay
.

But my hands are shaking as I pull off my socks, and I don’t even know why.

C
hloe and I are downstairs in the café, ready, when Dad pulls up on Saturday morning. I’m wearing jeans and my hiking boots, and I have a backpack with water, a few granola bars, and — naturally — three cupcakes. We’re going for a hike, so of course I had to bring a few snacks. You can’t hike without snacks.

Chloe jumps out of her chair the moment she sees Dad’s car. “Bye, Gran!” she shouts, heading for the door.

“Tell your father that I said hello,” Gran says to me.

“Okay,” I say. Right.
Um, hey, Dad, your ex-mother-in-law says hi!
I’ll skip it.

I head out to the sidewalk, where Chloe is giving Dad a huge hug. “Where’s Annie?” Chloe asks, peering in the front seat.

“She’s going to meet us at the mall,” Dad says.

“Mall?” I echo. I look up at the perfect blue sky. “I thought we were going hiking.”

Dad cocks his head, as if this is the first he’s hearing of it. “Annie wanted to help you girls pick out something to wear for Thanksgiving.”

“But … last week we talked about what we wanted to do and —” I have to fight to keep the tears from rising to my eyes. I wanted to go hiking with my dad and Chloe, not shopping with Annie.

“I’m sorry, Hayley. I didn’t realize you thought that was a definite plan. But now I’ve told Annie to meet us.”

“I don’t mind,” Chloe chirps. “This’ll be fun!”

I sigh and feel like a jerk for complaining. If Chloe doesn’t mind going to the mall, then I am definitely not going to make a big stink about it. Even if it is probably the last nice weekend before winter hits us with a frigid slap.

Annie meets us in the cosmetics section of a big department store. She’s spraying something from a purple glass bottle onto a strip of heavy white paper when Chloe rushes up behind her and gives her a huge hug. Annie startles in surprise, then hugs back.

“Chloe, I’m so glad you’re here! What do you think of this?” She waves the paper under Chloe’s nose.

“Mmmm,” Chloe says. “Beautiful!”

“What do you think, Bill?” Annie asks, handing it to my father.

Dad shrugs. “Nice.”

Annie sighs. “Men never take fragrance seriously.” She smiles at me with perfectly even white teeth. My father’s girlfriend is really pretty in an ultrafeminine way — long, glossy black hair, high heels, short skirt, full makeup. “What do you think, Hayley?”

I sniff the card. “Smells like room deodorizer.”

“Hayley!” Chloe grabs Annie’s arm. “Don’t listen to her.”

“She’s just being honest,” Annie says, but she places the card on the counter and leaves it there. “So — should we go look at a few dresses?”

“I think I’ll —” Dad gestures vaguely over his shoulder and pulls out his iPhone.

Annie nods, and in a moment, the three of us are heading up the escalator. “I made an appointment with a personal shopper,” Annie tells Chloe.

“Oooh,” Chloe says.

I shake my head at her. Chloe doesn’t care about shopping — but she gets excited about new experiences. I watch her gaze down at the shoppers below as we ride the escalator to the second floor. She’s soaking up the beauty of
the place — the floral arrangements and elegant displays. I bite my poor thumbnail, wishing that I felt the same way.

A petite blond woman in all black meets us in one of the boutique sections. Her name tag says sheila. “I’ve set up a dressing room for you,” Sheila says, smiling at us. “I’ve selected a few things.”

“You’ve already chosen our clothes for us?” Chloe is excited by this, not alarmed, as I am.

“Just some things to get you started, so you won’t have to spend time hunting through the racks,” Sheila tells her.

We head into the back of the formal gown boutique and go through a gray door. It takes me a moment to realize we’re in some kind of secret dressing room — the kind you can only get into if you’re prepared to spend serious money. There are four large well-lit and mirrored dressing rooms opening onto a common area. A table has water bottles and a little basket of packaged cookies and snacks.

Sheila points us to our dressing rooms. “Oh, I love this!” Chloe squeals as she holds a yellow dress against her body.

I look at everything in my dressing room. It’s all hideous. And stupid. I pick out a hanger holding a teal dress with a fluted skirt.
Who wears a dress to Thanksgiving dinner?

In my house, Thanksgiving has always been a dress-down meal. I wear jeans. Chloe wears jeans. Mom wears jeans. Dad used to wear jeans. Gran wears a skirt, but she’s Gran. She doesn’t wear a
new
skirt.

But that’s the past. I know that for sure now.

My heart is heavy as I look at the dresses around me. I sit down on the bench in my dressing room and massage my temples. On the other side of my closed door, I can hear Annie and Chloe complimenting each other on their dresses.

“Come show us something, Hayley!” Annie calls.

“Yeah, let’s see!” Chloe chimes in.

I sigh, looking down at my hiking boots.
I guess I can’t wear these when I meet Annie’s parents.
I look up at the dresses. One of them — a red one — has a rose on the sash. It’s made of some kind of gauzy fabric. I decide to try it on, since it’s the one that will look the most ridiculous with my boots. Maybe it will make me smile.

I get undressed, step into the delicate red dress, then step back into my untied hiking boots. I don’t even look in the mirror before walking through the door.

Chloe gasps when she sees me. “You look amazing!” She’s standing there in the yellow dress, which looks adorable on her. She’s barefoot, and gives a playful twirl to show how the skirt swirls around her legs.

“That looks nice,” I tell her.

Annie is looking at me, finger on her chin. She’s wearing a fitted silver dress that I would consider perfect attire for the Academy Awards. With her long black hair and light brown skin, she looks like a movie star. I feel like I’m on one of those makeover shows — and I’m the one being made over. “Would you spin, too, Hayley?” she asks.

I clomp in an awkward circle.

Annie comes over and grabs the dress under my armpits. Normally, I would have slapped her hands away, but I’m too shocked. She heaves it up, then stands back. “That’s a perfect fit,” she says. “And the color really makes your skin glow.”

“It’s
lovely
,” Chloe gushes.

It’s ug-lee,
I want to tell them.
It has a fake flower on it!
“I don’t think it’s really me.”

“Okay — go try on something else!” Chloe says.

“Those dresses really aren’t my style,” I confess.

“You’re welcome to go look on the racks for something else,” Annie says.

“I don’t really want to —”

Chloe looks at me eagerly. “You should get this one, Hayley, it looks —”

“I said no!” I snap.

The dressing room is silent. I become aware of the elevator music being piped in over the speakers as I see the tears rise in Chloe’s eyes. I want to apologize, but Sheila chooses this moment to walk in. “Well, everyone, how are we doing?” she asks. “Oh, Chloe, that dress is wonderful on you.”

“Thank you,” Chloe says politely, but all of the joy has drained out of her.

“Chlo, I’m sorry —” I say, but my sister has already retreated into her dressing room.

“And how are you doing?” Sheila asks me. She gives me the up-and-down once-over. “I love that color on you.”

I exchange glances with Annie. She folds her arms awkwardly and looks down at her shoes. I feel sorry for her, and sorry for myself, and angry at her, and angry at myself, and I don’t know what to do because I don’t want this fancy Thanksgiving dinner. I just want my normal life. That’s all.

I bite my lip. “I’ll take this one,” I tell Sheila.

“Wonderful!” Sheila looks like I’ve made her day.

Well, I guess that makes one of us.