Sprinkles and Secrets (6 page)

“Absolutely,” I say.

“Wonderful. I'm going to drop all of the details about the audition in the mail to you. Please confirm with me once you receive it, all right?”

“Great, thanks, Mrs.—I mean Candace. Oh, wait, do you know what the commercial is for? I mean, what product I'd be selling?”

Mom gives me a thumbs-up. I think it means this is a good question to ask. “Of course,” Candace says. “Sorry, I didn't mention that, did I? It's a wonderful company. I believe there's even a store there in your little town of Willow. Beatrice's Brownies?”

Oh no. I swallow hard. It couldn't be, could it? “Uh, what did you say?”

“Beatrice's Brownies. You've been there before, haven't you? Or are you the one person in a million who doesn't like brownies?”

“Yeah, I've been there,” I say quietly.

“Wonderful! All right, Sophie, I have to run, but we'll talk again soon.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Sophie,” Mom asks. “What is it? You look disappointed or something. Who's the commercial for?”

I want to cry. Why, out of the thousands of companies in America, does it have to be
that
one? Isabel's mom almost didn't open her cupcake shop because of Beatrice's Brownies. And now it may be one of the reasons It's Raining Cupcakes isn't doing very well.

Before I can say anything to Mom, Isabel appears. “Hey, Sophie, what'd your
agent
have to say? Don't you just love saying that? Your
agent?
Wait, let me guess. They want to give you your own TV show, right? A series?”

I force a laugh. “Yeah, right. She's working on a big deal for me. Huge! I can't even tell you guys, that's how big it is. She wants me to keep it to myself for now. Besides, I might jinx myself, you know?” I get up and pull on Isabel's arm. “Come on. Let's go study.”

“But that's so silly,” Isabel jokes. “You're going to be famous! You don't really need an education, do you?”

Oh, I need an education, all right. I need an education on how to choose between the opportunity of a lifetime and ruining my best friend's life.

Chapter 9

M
om makes my favorite meal for dinner to celebrate the audition. The
Wicked
music plays softly in the background, “for ambiance,” Mom says. She's trying to make it really special. All the music seems to be doing though is reminding me how much I
want to be an actress, when I really want to forget that right now.

I haven't told her yet which company the audition is with. I said I'd wait and tell everyone at dinner. So now as we sit at the table in chicken enchilada heaven, I decide to break the horrible news. I can only hope my parents will forbid me from doing something that terrible to my best friend. Then all I have to do is call Candace back, cancel the audition, and sit back and wait for something else to come along. Please, oh please, let something else come along.

“Delicious, as always,” my dad says, pausing after intense shoveling from plate to mouth to take a drink of water.

“Yeah, Mom,” I say. “It's really good.”

“Soph, tell Dad and Hayden your good news.”

My dad turns and gives me the pirate look. I know, that sounds strange, but it's, like, this grin with one eye practically shut and he just looks like a pirate to me. Or he did when I was five, and the idea stuck. He's got the wavy brown hair, the beard, and the tanned, rugged face. My dad is an electrician, so he's nothing like some of my friends' dads who wear a
suit to work everyday. Maybe if he was, I wouldn't be able to spot the hidden pirate in him.

I swallow the bite in my mouth, then take a sip of milk. “Well, I got a call today for a commercial audition.”

Hayden does a fist pump. “You
are
going to be famous. I knew it!”

“Sophie, that's amazing,” Dad says. He takes his napkin and wipes all around his beard and mustache. “So, what's the commercial for? An interesting product, I hope.”

“Yeah, not bran cereal or something yucky like that,” Hayden says.

“Oh, it's interesting all right,” I say. I take a deep breath. “It's Beatrice's Brownies.”

For a second, everyone's quiet. Then Mom blinks a couple of times and says, “Sophie, that's wonderful. That's right up your alley—you love desserts.”

I set my fork down. “Mom, it's not wonderful. It's terrible.”

“Why?” Dad asks. “I think it sounds fantastic.”

Who are these people and what have they done with my family?

“Won't that make Isabel mad?” Hayden asks.

“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Yes, Hayden, thank you. It's going to make Isabel very mad. Which is exactly why I can't do it.”

Dad scoots his chair away from the table and leans back. “Sophie, this is about you and your dreams, not Isabel. She's a good friend. I think she'll understand.”

I look back and forth between Mom and Dad. Mom. Then Dad. “No! You guys need to tell me I can't do it!”

Mom laughs. “Sophie, why would we do that? Don't you want to do it?”

“That's not the point. The point is that I—”

And then I stop. Because suddenly, I'm not sure what the point of arguing with them is exactly.

“Look, honey,” Dad says, “if you want to do the commercial, do the commercial. It's not like you're doing it to spite your best friend. You're doing it because it's a good opportunity. And no one would want to deny their best friend a good opportunity. If it was the other way around, I'm sure you'd encourage her to go for it. Right?”

I stand up. “I don't know. I guess I thought you guys would see it the way I see it.”

Mom stands up and gives me a quick hug. “Sweetheart, I see where you're coming from. But this is the kind of thing that could lead to bigger things—things that could help make your dream come true. At the very least, go to the audition and see what it's like.”

“I agree,” Dad says. “If nothing else, it's good practice for the next time.”

“Sophie,” Hayden says, “maybe they'd let you hold a cupcake in one hand and a brownie in the other.”

If only it were that easy.

“Do you want any dessert?” Mom asks.

“I do!” Hayden says.

“No, thanks,” I tell her. “Dessert is the last thing I want right now.”

I go to my room.

Dream #4 –
I dream of the ability
to do the right thing,
even when it's hard.

The next day, I do my best to avoid Isabel. I hang out in the library before school and go straight to science first period without going to the locker first.

Dennis catches me in the hallway outside of the classroom. “They're called feet,” he tells me. “Not talons. At least on regular birds. You were wrong.”

“Whatever,” I mumble.

“Hey, I apologized to Isabel like I promised. I really am sorry. I didn't mean to upset her. Or you. So, we're good now, right?”

I look over at him. He seems to mean it.

“Anyway,” he continues, pushing his glasses up with his finger, “I thought you might want to know birds do have feet. Not that I wanted to prove you wrong or anything. I was just, you know, curious.”

“It's fine. I'm probably wrong about a lot of things.”

And as soon as the words are out, I stop in my tracks.

“What?” he asks. “What is it?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.” I look at Dennis. “Okay, have you ever thought you were absolutely, positively right about something? But then everyone
else tells you maybe you aren't right after all, and you start to second-guess yourself, even though you
know
you're right?”

He gives me a blank stare. “No. Not really. Hey, do you think birds have ears?”

I laugh. I can't help it. It's so ridiculous, and I can't believe I'm spilling my guts, in a roundabout sort of way, to Dennis Holt.

“I have no idea,” I tell him.

“Maybe we can research it,” he says. “We're still doing homework at my house later, right?”

Oh no. With all of the stuff going on about the audition, I totally forgot. Well, at least if I see Isabel after school, I have a reason to rush off. “Yeah. I rode my bike. You don't live very far from here, right?”

“You remember! My birthday party in first grade was pretty awesome, huh?”

I shake my head. “You had a Power Rangers cake, Dennis. That was not awesome. At least, not to all the girls you invited.”

He laughs. “Power Rangers, activate!”

The warning bell rings, so we start walking toward our classroom.

“I'll meet you at the bike rack after school,” he says.

“Okay. And hey, Dennis?”

“Yeah?”

“You're not going to try and show me the dead bird's foot at your house, are you?”

“Don't worry. I know it's not everyone's thing. But, Sophie, I'm curious. What is your thing?”

And before I have time to think twice, the word comes out. “Acting.” I let out a big sigh, because the truth really does sort of hurt. “My thing, right now, is acting.”

“Cool,” he says. “I bet you're good at it.”

And all I can think is,
We'll see, Dennis. We'll see.

Chapter 10

W
hen we walk into Dennis's house, it smells delicious, like we've just walked into a bakery.

“Hello!” a woman's voice calls out. “Dennis, I'm in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, Mom, I can tell. Whatever you're making, it smells really good!”

We're standing in the living room, where there are more knickknacks than I've ever seen in one place. She has hutches, bookshelves, and end tables full of music boxes, tea cups, ceramic and glass figurines, and all kinds of other stuff. It's totally different from our house. My mom can't stand having knickknacks or useless stuff just sitting around.

Dennis must sense my amazement. “Something else, huh? My mom calls them her treasures.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “That's not what I would call them.”

“Where does she get it all?” I ask.

“The thrift store. Man, she loves that place. There's nothing here that cost more than three ninety-nine. Except maybe the sofa. I think she got that for nineteen ninety-nine.”

I look at the old sofa with pink-and-green stripes. She paid $19.99 for that? I think she got robbed. “So, I guess you could call her a treasure hunter?”

He smiles. “Something like that.” He picks up a glass penguin as we walk by one of the end tables.
“Help!” he says in a high, squeaky voice. “Get me back to the South Pole. I'm dying here.”

“Watch your feet, penguin,” I say. “They're not safe around Dennis.”

“Wait a second,” he says. “Do penguin have feet?”

I give him a shove. “Stop it.”

I follow him into the kitchen where his mom is standing at the counter with a spatula, taking cookies off a baking sheet and putting them on a cooling rack. She's a short woman, and has her brown hair up in a bun. She's wearing a bright red-and-yellow apron and a big smile.

“I hope you like chocolate, Sophie.”

“I love it,” I say.

“Good. This chocolate-chip cookie recipe is our favorite. It's very unique in that the oatmeal is blended before you add it in. Dennis, you want to pour some milk for you two?”

She puts the spatula down and comes over to me, carrying a plate of cookies. “Don't know if you remember me. I'm Margie.”

“I remember. We were just talking about his first-grade birthday party.”

“Let's see, was that Power Rangers or Spiderman?”

“Power Rangers,” Dennis and I say at the same time. Then he says, “I think I still have some action figures around here somewhere, Sophie. You want to play with them when we're done? You could be the pink one.”