Prank List (12 page)

The last day of pastry class, I'm jittery from head to toe.

“You'll do fine,” Mom says as she drops me off. “I'll come get you after class and we'll go out to celebrate.” Since we only have two cleaning jobs today, Mom is going to do them while I'm in class. How depressing to think that only two months ago, our Saturdays and our Thursday nights were packed with clients. And now, thanks to the Ladybugs, we have almost none.

That reminder is all the fuel I need to march into class, ready to kick Whit's butt.

When I get there, Whit is already wearing his apron and stretching his arms and legs like he's about to run some kind of weird baking race.

“Where's your leather jacket?” I can't help shooting at him.

His mouth tightens. “I got caramel all over it when I was cleaning my sister's van,” he says.

Oh. I don't know what to say, so I grab my apron and pull it on. I focus on trying to breathe and concentrate.

“It was my dad's,” Whit says after a second.

“What?”

He comes up beside me and lowers his voice. “The jacket. It was my dad's. It's pretty much the only thing I have of his.”

I open my mouth and close it again. Holy deviled eggs. What am I supposed to say to that? His dad died and left him the jacket, and now because of me, it's ruined?

“Rachel!” someone calls across the room. I spot Mr. Leroy waving at me. Still speechless, I practically run away from Whit. Maybe I should have apologized to him about his father's jacket, but I guess it's too late now. Besides, I have to concentrate on qualifying for the Bake-Off, not feeling bad about something that I can't fix.

In fact, I bet Whit told me about that at this moment to throw me off my game. For all I know, he made up the whole thing about the jacket being his dad's to mess with me!

“I didn't think you'd be competing today,” I say to Mr. Leroy.

He slowly rolls up his sleeves. “I'm not vying for a spot in the Bake-Off, but I figured I should at least show off what I've learned.”

Beside him, Ms. Gomez is carefully putting her utensils in order like they're surgical tools. Normally, people are chatting and laughing before class, but today they're quiet and focused. I guess Chef Ryan's made everyone feel competitive. Realizing that other people are taking this seriously makes me even more nervous.

Then Chef Ryan comes in and announces that we'll start in a minute. I don't have time to be nervous anymore. It's time to get to work.

“To challenge you,” Chef Ryan says, “I'll be giving you a brand-new recipe and seeing what you do with it. Those of you who advance to the Bake-Off tomorrow will be asked to make one of the pastries we've already made during the class.” He grins evilly. “Though, tomorrow, you won't be given a copy of the instructions. You'll have to work from memory.”

I swallow as he grabs a stack of papers and passes them out.

“And today we're making molten chocolate cake,” he announces.

I hear people groan around me. It's not a tricky recipe, but it's hard to get the inside of the cake perfectly melty. I can't help grinning, though, since it's one of my favorite things to make.

I quickly glance at the recipe before going to grab everything I'll need. I could make this without even looking at the instructions at all, but I don't want to mess it up, especially not when Chef Ryan is watching each of us like a hawk.

As I get to work, I can hear Mr. Leroy humming at the table next to mine. I think he's the only person who's actually enjoying himself. Everyone else looks as stressed out as I feel.

But the further I get into the recipe, the more relaxed I am. The familiar smells of chocolate and butter calm me down, and after a few minutes, I realize I'm almost having fun.

When the timer goes off, I'm actually surprised to discover that there are other people around me. For the first time since I started this class, I was able to relax and just enjoy the process. Isn't that the reason I signed up for this class in the first place?

Chef Ryan goes down the row army-style again, and this time I'm actually pretty proud of the dessert standing in front of me. As I glance around at the others, I see a few cakes whose centers have already erupted and others that are obviously rock hard. I have to admit that Whit's looks pretty good, but no better than mine.

As Chef Ryan gets closer to my dessert, I start to get really nervous. He digs his spoon into the cake and pops a tiny bite into his mouth. The chocolate center oozes out onto the plate just like it's supposed to. He chews it slowly, like he's swishing a sip of wine around.

Finally, he swallows and says, “Good job, Rachel.” Then he moves on to the next person.

My legs suddenly go watery under me. He liked it. He actually liked it! And he told me I'd done a good job! No criticism. No yelling. Nothing!

Finally, when he's made his way all the way down the line, Chef Ryan looks over his notes and then clears his throat. “And the three finalists are…” He glances at his list again. “Adam Whitney, Rachel Lee, and Gordon Leroy.”

Whit lets out a whoop at the other side of the room, while I grin so wide it feels like my lips might curl backward over my face. Mr. Leroy, meanwhile, wipes tears from his wrinkled eyes. “My wife would be so proud,” he says when he sees me looking at him. Then he turns to Chef Ryan and I know he's about to tell him that he won't be competing in the Bake-Off. But before he can get out a word, I jump in front of him.

“Please, Mr. Leroy,” I say softly, “come to the Bake-Off, okay? You deserve to be there. Your wife wouldn't want you to be home alone missing her.” I don't know where these words are coming from. Or maybe I do. After Dad left, I did nothing but mope, wishing he was still around. The only way I got out of that funk was by actually doing something about it.

Mr. Leroy gives me a watery smile. “All right,” he says. “I suppose I can give it a try.”

The morning of the Bake-Off, my nerves are making me so sick to my stomach that I'm about to throw up everything I've ever eaten in my whole life. Thankfully, Mom is there to speak to me in soft, relaxing tones and practically force-feed me dry toast.

“You'll do fine,” she says. “You have every one of those recipes memorized backward and forward and upside down. And I'll be sitting in the front row, cheering you on.”

“Is Mr. Hammond coming?” I ask.

Mom frowns. “Robert is…” She doesn't finish, like she can't come up with a good excuse for why he won't be there.

“Look, Mom. It's probably none of my business what's going on with you and Mr. Hammond, but he's a really nice guy. If you have to be with someone other than Dad, he's not a bad choice.”

“I know that.”

“Then why are you ditching him? Did he do something wrong?”

“I'm…trying to be more independent.”

“By never seeing him? By not answering his calls? I'm not an expert, but I'm pretty sure that's not the way to show a guy that you like him.”

Mom sighs. “I know. I just don't want to put us in the same situation all over again.”

“You won't. Even if things don't work out with Mr. Hammond, we'll be fine. But for now, I think you should keep him around, especially when he makes you smile so much.”

And then a miracle happens. She does smile,
really
smile, for the first time in weeks. “Look at you, Miss Smarty. You can bake
and
you have brains!”

The mention of baking makes my stomach lurch. I groan. “Maybe I shouldn't go to the Bake-Off. What if I'm really sick?”

“You were feeling fine a second ago,” Mom points out. “Besides, if you skip the Bake-Off, Marisol will—”

“Never forgive me,” I finish. “I know. Okay, fine. I'll go.” I groan again and get to my feet. “But if I lose the Bake-Off because I gave the judges the plague, I'm blaming you.”

•••

When Mom drops me off at Ryan's Bakery, she plants a good-luck kiss on my forehead and says, “I'll go pick up Robert and be back in a few minutes.” She hasn't stopped smiling since our conversation this morning, which is a good sign. Too bad I'm still ready to throw up.

As soon as I get out of the car, I'm struck by what an amazing job Marisol did in planning the whole event. There's a stage set up in the parking lot for the music and fashion show, and lots of people are already milling around. I go into the bakery where everyone is furiously prepping, including Chef Ryan and Cherie, who both look thrilled at how busy things are. Then I wander into the kitchen where the Bake-Off will be. Someone's set up cameras that will record the action and project it onto a screen above the stage outside.

It hits me that people are going to be watching every move I make. My stomach does a flip, and I turn and run toward the bathroom. As I dart past, I spot Briana and Angela standing in the corner, clearly having an argument.

I have to smile when I notice that Angela is wearing her favorite T-shirt. I guess that means she found it under her bed. Marisol will be relieved. I think that prank still gives her nightmares.

I'm about to round the corner when I hear Briana say my name, and I freeze. The churning in my stomach fades as I creep behind a nearby rack of pots and pans and try to listen to their conversation.

“You mean you just took it?” Briana is saying. “That necklace belongs to Caitlin. You had no right to steal it.”

“I didn't steal it!” Angela says. “She didn't want it anymore, and I did. She's not your best friend now. I am. Why should she have it when she doesn't even wear it anymore?”

“That's not the point!” says Briana. “How did you even get it?”

Angela shrugs. “I snuck into her room when Caitlin's mom was outside doing yard work. It wasn't a big deal.”

Briana shakes her head like she can't believe what she's hearing. That makes two of us.

“You're a total psycho, you know that?” she says. “I thought it was bad enough that you were stalking me, but you've been breaking into people's houses and stealing their stuff? Especially after you accused everyone in the world of stealing that ugly shirt when it was in your room the whole time? You really are crazy.”

“I'm not crazy!” Angela insists. “I've wanted to be friends with you since first grade. Do you think I was just going to give up my chance?”

Briana shakes her head. Then she seems to spot me out of the corner of her eye. I'm standing there with my mouth hanging open, trying to process what I just heard. Angela was the one who stole Caitlin's necklace?

I expect Briana to snarl at me, to ask me if I have a staring problem, but instead she grabs Angela's arm and drags her over to me. “Tell her,” she says.

Angela stares at Briana like she's the one who's crazy. “What?”

“Tell Rachel what you did,” she says.

“The necklace,” I whisper. “You took it.”

“Not just that,” says Briana. “She messed up your flyers, too.”

“What? Why?”

Angela huffs and doesn't respond.

“Because,” Briana finally answers for her, “she knew I was mad at you about the Caitlin thing and she thought I'd be impressed if she did something to get back at you. As if writing ‘sux' on something would ever impress me. As if I even care about your stupid cleaning business.”

My blood feels like it's turning into a bubbling stew. “Do you know what you've done?” I ask Angela, my voice taking on the scary calm tone that my mom uses when she's furious. I can't believe it. All the pranks Marisol and I pulled. All the things I accused Whit and Lillian of. And none of it was the Ladybugs' fault.

“Rachel Lee?” I hear Cherie call out. “Has anyone seen Rachel Lee?” When she spots me, she rushes over with a clipboard in hand. “Oh good, you're here. We're starting in five minutes. We need you in the kitchen right now.”

But I don't care about the Bake-Off. My eyes are still zeroed in on Angela. She's the reason my life has gotten totally derailed.

“You're a horrible person, you know that?” I spit at her. “Because of you, my mom's business is ruined and things with Evan are…” I can't even get the words out. They hurt too much. Instead, I stomp over and get right in Angela's face. “Why would you do that to me?”

She looks terrified, like she thinks I might hit her. “I didn't do anything to you,” she whispers. “I just did what I had to do.”

My breath stops in my throat.

“Rachel!” Cherie says. “We need you on stage right now.”

I'm shaking as Cherie pulls me away from Angela and walks me toward the stage.

I
did
what
I
had
to
do.
Those are pretty much the exact words I said to Whit when I was justifying the Ladybug pranks. I was convinced I had no choice, that this was the only way to keep things from changing. That to keep my life from falling apart, I had to sink as low as necessary.

Maybe that's what Angela was doing, too.

As Chef Ryan explains the Bake-Off rules, I can barely pay attention. I'm not even distracted by the video cameras set up nearby. All I can think about is what Angela did, and how that made everything spiral totally out of control.

And because of her stupid decisions, I made a bunch of stupid ones of my own. And now Evan hates me, Whit hates me, and my mom's business is all but dead in the water.

“Ready?” Chef Ryan says.

I blink, realizing we're about to start. I glance at Whit on one side of me, looking ready to run a marathon, and then at Mr. Leroy on the other side. He seems so relaxed that he could be in his own kitchen at home.

Focus, I tell myself. Forget about Angela and the Ladybugs and everything, and focus.

Chef Ryan riffles around in the hat of recipes, just like he did in class the other day. Then he pulls out a slip of paper and reads: “Caramel squares.”

My stomach sinks all the way through my legs and into the floor. Of all the desserts that fate could have thrown my way, why does it have to be the one I messed up the worst in class?

But
you
did
great
at
home
, a small voice in the back of my mind chimes in.
The
caramel
squares
you
made
last
time
were
amazing.
It takes me a second to realize that the small voice sounds a lot like Evan.

I take a deep breath and get to work. Around me, Whit and Mr. Leroy are scurrying around like mice, but I try to block them out as I grab all the ingredients and bring them back to my table.

I keep running over the recipe in my head, even though I could recite it in my sleep. I don't want to accidentally skip a step because I'm nervous.

As I start measuring things out, I can't help thinking of the caramel that Marisol and I dumped on the Ladybug vans. How did things get so messed up? Why was I convinced that doing that stupid stuff was the only solution?

Rachel, you have to focus
, the Evan voice says.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Whit mixing ingredients. How is he already ahead of me? When he catches me peering at him, he quickly looks away.

He has every right to hate me, I realize. After everything I did to him and his sister, after everything I accused him of. Okay, so the Ladybugs jumped on the rumor Angela started, but that's the only bad thing they did to us. Now, because of me, Whit lost his father's jacket and Lillian might have to give up part of her business.

I'm so distracted that I almost drop a bowl of sugar.

Forget
about
all
that
, the Evan voice says.
You
can't do anything about it now.

But…

Pretend
you're at home
.
Just
relax
and
pretend
you're doing all this for yourself.

I try to picture Marisol sitting nearby on a kitchen stool, chatting with me like she always does when I'm baking. I can do this. I know I can. It's not about the competition. It's about doing something I love.

I pause for a second, realizing that it's true. Even if Chef Ryan thinks I'll never be good enough, even if I don't win this competition, even if I never become a pastry chef, it won't change the fact that I love baking.

But that doesn't mean I always know what I'm doing or always know how to do it perfectly. That's where Chef Ryan was right. I've been so set on doing things my way that I've been totally deaf to any criticism. It's time to stop being stubborn and be open to change for once in my life.

“Rachel?” I hear Chef Ryan say. “Are you okay?” He's peering at me with a look of total concern on his face.

Of course he's worried. I'm standing here in front of my mixing bowl, staring off into space. Apparently, I can't bake and think at the same time.

“I'm fine.” I suck in a deep breath and get back to work. Instead of using the recipe as a general guideline like I usually do, I follow it step by step. I'm tempted to take shortcuts, to do things my way, but I ignore those impulses and do everything by the book.

The minutes tick, tick, tick by, but I barely pay attention to the clock. Before I know it, my squares are in the oven and it's time to make the chocolate glaze. Even though I could make it in my sleep, I still go over the recipe carefully in my head and realize that the way Chef Ryan does it might actually take less time than my method.

Who knew?

Well, I guess he did. And Marisol had an inkling when she reminded me that a professional chef might be able to teach me a few things.

As I melt the butter, I can't get over how stubborn I've been. Clinging to my parents' marriage, desperate to keep the house, terrified of anything changing—even the way I hold my spatula! And because I was so petrified of change, I was willing to do anything to keep my life from getting even more out of my control. Which included dragging Marisol into totally crazy plans and not being honest with Evan.

No wonder everything went so wrong.

Ding!

The oven timer goes off, and I rush over to get my caramel squares. I can practically feel Chef Ryan's eyes on me as I cut up the squares with my spatula. Just the way he taught me. And, sure enough, it works perfectly.

I have just enough time to get one of the squares on a plate and pour a little chocolate glaze on top before the buzzer goes off and the competition is over. Before I have a chance to taste my dish.

Uh-oh. Suddenly, all I can think about are the horrible soap cookies I brought to Evan's house. If only I'd tried those beforehand, I could have averted total disaster.

I'm panting as I step away from my dessert. My food looks pretty good, but for all I know, it could taste awful or be full of rat poison. I wish I'd had one more second to sample it.

I glance over at Whit's plate and have to bite back a smile. His caramel square is lopsided and his chocolate glaze looks watery. Maybe I have a chance to win this thing, after all.

Then I turn in the other direct and almost gasp at the sight of Mr. Leroy's dessert. Not only does it look perfectly made, but he's drizzled the chocolate glaze in the shape of a heart. His dessert looks the best out of the three of ours. If it tastes anywhere near as good as it looks, I'm in serious trouble.