The Secret Cooking Club (5 page)

A DASH OF FRIENDSHIP

T
he flapjacks turn honey-brown in the oven. I take them out quickly so they don't get burnt. They smell rich, buttery and delicious. I put the tin on a wire rack to cool. For the next step, Violet opens the tin of caramel and scoops it into a bowl while I melt the chocolate over a pan of hot water.

‘I never really thought about trying to cook or bake anything before,' Violet says. She peers at a pencilled-in note in the margin of the recipe and then mixes some salt into the caramel. ‘I mean, my mum used to cook everything, and I guess I always thought that there'd be time to learn—'

She stops. I pause in my stirring and look sideways at her. She bites her lip for a second, and then her mouth upturns in its usual amused expression. But her eyes don't look amused. She stares down at the caramel, swirling the wooden spoon through it absently. I want to ask her what's up, but just then I notice the chocolate has completely melted, so I take it off the hob.

‘Quick,' I say, ‘let's get this on before it starts to harden. You go first.' We both take our bowls over to the table where I've put the flapjacks to cool. Violet spoons an even layer of caramel over the top. I keep stirring the chocolate, and when she's done the whole pan, I spoon a thick layer on top. When I've finished, Violet uses the handle of the spoon to score something in the cooling chocolate:

The Secret Cooking Club

She hands me the spoon. I underline the words with a squiggle. It all seems very solemn and official. But just then, my stomach breaks the mood by rumbling loudly. ‘It looks good,' I say. ‘I can't wait to taste it.'

After we've tidied up the mess and the chocolate has set a little, I cut it into squares and serve up two squares on Mrs Simpson's rose-patterned china. Violet and I clink our mugs together. Then
we each take a bite.

‘Gosh.' Violet grins. ‘It's good.'

‘It
is
good.' I can hear the pride in my own voice. It's crunchy and gooey and I can taste both the chocolate and the caramel. It all melts together in my mouth. I've had flapjacks loads of times – the kind wrapped in plastic from the corner shop. But this is completely different. This is home-made. And
I
made it.
We.
I take another bite, chewing it slowly. Part of me almost wants to tell Mum.
Almost.

I lick a streak of chocolate off my lips. ‘What are we going to do with them?' I say. ‘We can't eat them all.'

‘I could have a good go,' Violet jokes. Then her smile wavers. ‘But I guess it's up to you.'

‘No. It's up to
us
.' I savour the word. ‘We're a club now.'

Violet takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. ‘I know you've got issues about it. But I really liked giving out the free samples at school. It was weird, but it made everybody a little bit nicer somehow.'

‘Nicer?'

‘Yeah. I think so. And if we did it again, we can say they were made by The Secret Cooking Club.' Violet wipes her chin. ‘It'll seem like there are lots of us doing it.'

‘You mean, like we're some kind of underground
network who are all taking turns making things?'

Violet's eyes shine. ‘It would be cool, wouldn't it? Especially if what we make actually tastes good. And just about anything is bound to taste better than canteen food.' She sticks out her tongue. ‘That rice pudding they serve every other day tastes like sick.'

‘It looks like it as well,' I giggle. ‘All those lumps.'

‘Gross!' She laughs too. ‘So, you're in?'

‘Well . . .' I have to admit, the idea does sound cool. And if a little sugar rush makes school a happier place, then who am I to complain?

‘Unless you have a better idea?'

‘I don't,' I say. ‘Though I did think that maybe we could bake something for Mrs Simpson. If she's still in hospital, she must be hating the food too. We could take her a tin of flapjacks.'

‘That's a great idea.' Violet says. ‘Let's do it.'

‘But I like your idea about school too,' I say. ‘As long you solemnly swear on your life that no one will know I'm involved.'

‘OK,' Violet says. ‘I swear.' We shake sticky hands to seal the deal. Then we eat another square each and drink another mug of hot chocolate.

‘Um, Violet,' I say, licking the crumbs from my lips. ‘I think we might need another batch.'

A NAMELESS GIFT

V
iolet and I make two more batches of flapjacks, chatting about all the things we could make next. The possibilities are endless, and it's nice to have someone who's as excited as I am. As I'm spreading the final layer of chocolate over the salted caramel, Violet comes over to the table with a little jar. ‘I found these,' she says. ‘Crystallized Violets. It says on the jar that they're real flowers.'

The jar is filled with sparkly purple flower petals coated with glittered sugar. I open the jar and hold it up to my nose. They smell very sweet.

‘Do you want to put them on top?' I say.

‘Well, I don't know. It might make for kind of funny flapjacks. But it could throw people off the scent that you had anything to do with it.'

‘OK. Let's do it.'

Violet arranges the crystallized violets in a swirl pattern. The purple sparkles look like magic dust. I don't know how it's going to taste, but Violet seems to have a flair for making things look pretty.

We put the flapjacks for Mrs Simpson into Violet's Easter basket. For the school ones, we fill up a big tin with a picture of Peter Rabbit on it that we found in a cupboard. I wrap up the last two flapjacks in kitchen roll for Violet and me to take home. I leave the little notebook of recipes on the bookstand – it seems to have done a pretty good job keeping our secret so far, and it belongs in Rosemary's Kitchen.

We're in the middle of cleaning up when there's a muffled ringing sound. Violet's mobile phone. She checks the screen and gasps. ‘It's seven o'clock already. I have to go.'

‘Seven?' I can't believe it's that late. I was planning to tell Mum that I'd gone to the library again, but it closes at five. The words flash in my head:
Psst . . . my daughter went missing for two hours – was she: (a) smoking; (b) snogging; (c) drinking; (d) shoplifting?

I'll have to think of something else.

I quickly finish the washing-up while Violet wipes down the worktop. Whatever spell we've been under is broken. Now, all the problems with our ‘plan' seep into my head. What if the hospital won't let us in? What if Mrs Simpson is in a coma – or dead? What if someone at school sees me or Violet putting out the flapjacks? What if the crystallized violets taste disgusting?
What if? What if—?

‘I'm not sure about this,' I say. My chest feels like it's being squeezed by a giant fist.

‘It will be OK,' Violet says. ‘I promise. Let's just have a go.'

I force myself to take a breath. ‘OK.'

THE BIG LAUGH-IN

W
hen I get home, there's no sign that Mum's even noticed that I was gone. Kelsie's sitting in front of the TV watching
The Ice Princess
, her eyes glued to the screen. Her mouth is crusted with dried chocolate from a half-eaten pack of Hobnobs. The door to the Mum Cave is shut. I unwrap the flapjack, cut it into two pieces, and set it on a plate in the kitchen. I don't have my school bag or my homework, so I sit on the sofa next to my sister and eat a bag of prawn cocktail crisps.

As I'm trying to tune out my sister's off-key rendition of the theme song, all of a sudden Mum bursts into the room.

‘Flapjacks!' she cries. ‘I've been absolutely craving flapjacks all day. I mean, I didn't know it was flapjacks I wanted exactly . . .' She brushes a strand of unwashed hair off her face. ‘But where on earth did they come from?'

‘From me,' I say. ‘Some kids at school made them. They were giving out free samples.'

‘I love the purple sparkly things,' Mum says, chomping happily at her piece of flapjack. ‘And the caramel. It reminds me of something else my grandma—' Frowning, she cuts herself off. ‘You should do something like that, Scarlett.' She looks down at the empty bag of crisps in my lap. The cogs in her brain are clearly ticking.
Help! There's a new cooking club at school and my lazy, deadbeat daughter won't get off her bottom and stop eating crisps.

‘Yeah, Mum,' I say with a shrug. ‘I probably should.'

At school the next day, I sit at the back of the maths lesson, watching Gretchen and Alison text each other under the table. Just before lunchtime, Violet raises her hand and asks to go to the toilet. She gives me a quick glance on her way out of the room. I feel a little thrill of fear and anticipation.

In the canteen, I sit at a corner table and watch the kids coming in – some with their lunch bags,
others taking a tray and getting a hot dinner (some kind of chicken goopy stuff with clumpy bread pudding for dessert) from the window. While on her ‘toilet break', Violet has placed the tin with the flapjacks on the centre table with a little sign that says ‘Free Samples from
The Secret Cooking Club
'. Violet herself comes into the canteen a few minutes later, flanked by a laughing Gretchen and Alison. I deliberately look away from them.

Someone approaches the basket – none other than Nick Farr. My breath catches; he's so scrummy! His almond-shaped brown eyes widen. He looks around quickly and takes another piece. And then I find that he's looking in my direction and smiling.

OMG. Nick Farr is looking at me. He's walking towards me. Somehow he knows – he must. He . . .

. . . walks past me and sits down at a nearby table with a group of his friends. I exhale sharply. What was I thinking?

‘Check this out,' he says to his mates, pointing at the centre table. ‘The Secret Cooking Club.'

‘Killer,' one of them replies. He and another mate stand up and walk to the centre table. They each grab a little piece of flapjack and eat it, and then another. Another of Nick's mates comes up and pretends he's going to grab the whole tin and stick it under his shirt. More people come up in a
steady stream: two girls with pierced noses who are part of the goth crowd, three star rugby players, two girls on the swimming team, a couple of computer geeks, and then, horning their way to the front of the queue, Gretchen and Alison.

Gretchen wrinkles her pert little upturned nose as she looks inside the tin. Her voice is high-pitched enough that I can hear her over the din. ‘What are those things on top?' she says to Alison.

‘I don't know. But if I eat any of them, my face will break out in spots!'

The girls make a point of flouncing off without trying any flapjacks. Their rejection ruins the mood. Except for the computer geeks who come back for seconds, the crowd begins to dwindle.

Suddenly, from one of the far tables across the room, there's a loud snort of laughter. A few people turn to look. It's a tall girl with a neon-pink streak in her black hair. She's one of the goth crowd. They aren't the kind of kids who ever smile, but that's exactly what they're doing. The girl whispers to her friend, and feeds her a tiny piece of flapjack.

‘OMG, it's fab,' the friend says. Before I know it, everyone's chattering and laughing, and people are splitting their flapjacks apart to make sure that everyone can try them. The good feeling seems to move like a chain reaction from one to the other.
From person to person, table to table. The sugar rush seems to be making everyone happy.

Gretchen looks at Alison. I can tell they're on the verge of trying to ruin everything by acting like everyone is totally lame, but then Nick comes up and whispers something in Gretchen's ear. Gretchen gives him a flirty smile and goes back to the centre table and takes a flapjack. I watch as the transformation comes over her – she goes back to Nick and whispers something in his ear, and they both start laughing their heads off. It's so loud that two teachers come in. They glance around, looking surprised, and then they smile too. The flapjack basket empties quickly, but the positive vibe is still there in the room. I'm even more shocked to realize that I'm smiling at the whole ridiculous thing. I spot Violet standing near the door. She's not laughing, but her bow-shaped lips are turned upwards in satisfaction. I walk towards her, but just then the bell rings, and by the time I get over to the door, she's gone.