The Icing on the Cake Read online

Mom hands me the phone. “It’s Dad.”

  “Um, thanks,” I say. “I knew that.”

  I’m not sure what just happened, but it sounded to me like my mom and dad were actually enjoying talking to each other. If Mom was laughing and making jokes, I’m pretty sure Dad was too. Hmm . . . Maybe letting Nana plan my birthday party won’t end up being the unluckiest thing that ever happened after all. . . .

  CHAPTER 3

  Liza

  I’m watching Antonio’s Kitchen for the first time in weeks—all of December was repeats, which is pretty boring when it’s a cooking show, even if it is my favorite. Antonio’s Kitchen has a new look for the new year. The set looks more modern, somehow, with shiny steel appliances and black-and-white subway tiles on the wall behind the stove. Here and there are splashes of red—the pots hanging from the wall, the tea towel thrown over Chef’s shoulder—that keep things from looking too slick and fancy and matching. I imagine Chef Antonio pushing a giant update button and instantly upgrading the studio kitchen like it’s an app on his phone.

  I’m happy to see that Chef still looks like himself, though in this new studio he seems even more like a TV star than he did before. It’s funny to think of him that way now that I “know” him, but it’s been so many months since Frankie, Lillian, and I took his class with our moms that I bet he’s forgotten all about us.

  After the session ended last fall and Chef Antonio surprised us by bringing the entire cooking class to our middle school project night, we were supposed to all stay in touch and get together for a reunion over Thanksgiving weekend. But too many people had other plans, so we ended up rescheduling—and then rescheduling again—until suddenly it was the holidays, and everyone got even busier. We all exchanged e-mail addresses, but I guess it’s like that old saying “out of sight, out of mind,” because it’s been weeks since I’ve heard from anyone. (Except Chef’s son, Javier, who is our age and kind of hung out at our Saturday cooking class with us. Sometimes he texts Frankie, Lillian, and me stupid jokes or weird pictures he takes when he goes food shopping with his dad—he has a thing for trying to make the headless ducks hanging in Asian markets look artsy.)

  The main ingredient on today’s show is sweet potatoes. Chef Antonio has all kinds of plans for them: soup, chili, fries, a cheesy gratin, and, of course, pie. I wish my mom were here—she’s a sweet-potato freak—but she’s taking Cole for a booster shot right after daycare. I should be finishing my homework, but instead I’m having some leftover chicken pot pie and learning the difference between yams (they have skin that’s usually darker than their flesh) and sweet potatoes (they’re orange all over). Ever since we took the class, Mom has been on a roll, cooking all afternoon on Sundays so our fridge is stocked with meals we can just reheat and eat all week. I’ve actually been bringing my lunch to school rather than buying cafeteria glop, and even Frankie—whose dad packs her amazing stuff—can’t keep her fork away from my food.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Lillian texting me and Frankie at the same time. She’s watching Antonio’s Kitchen too.

  Chef looks HOT, Lillian says, which makes me laugh. If you only knew Lillian from her texts, that wouldn’t be particularly funny. But Lillian in person is much sweeter and shyer than Virtual Lillian, and Frankie and I always crack up at how not-shy she comes off in her texts and e-mails.

  Ikr. He’s loving that new kitchen, I reply.

  Yr mom watching? Frankie asks.

  No, not home. Y? I type.

  LOL. You know.

  Know what? I’m starting to get annoyed.

  I bet he’s making her pie, Lillian writes.

  What do u mean? I am really not enjoying this conversation with them.

  Lize. That’s Frankie. Lillian never uses nicknames. U saw them flirting every week.

  My cheeks are suddenly burning and I’m glad they can’t see me. Chef Antonio and my mom . . . flirting? I mean, they’re definitely friendly, and there was that whole thing where Mom taught Chef to make noodle kugel, but that’s not exactly flirting. Is it?

  On TV, Chef grabs some dough and a rolling pin and I turn up the volume.

  “For this pie, I’m using an old recipe that was given to me by a new friend,” he says. “Una amiga muy bonita.” I’m only in my second year of Spanish, but even a first-semester sixth-grader could understand “a very beautiful friend.”

  OMG. Frankie again. Lillian is right!

  GTG. I type, then immediately call my mom.

  She picks up without saying hello. “Good timing. Dr. Gordon just gave your brother a Batman Band-Aid and an ice pop. He only cried for seventeen minutes this time.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to chat about Cole and his needle-phobia. “Mom, did you know Chef Antonio was making your sweet-potato pie on TV right now?”

  “Really?” She sounds surprised, but pleased. “Good thing his show doesn’t air in Georgia—Momma would be furious with me for sharing her secret recipe.”

  “So, like, you’ve been keeping in touch with Chef?” I ask her. “Lately, I mean?”

  “Actually, I saw him when I stopped by the studio the other day, Lize.”

  “Really? Why?” I don’t like this, not one bit.

  “Antonio invited me to see the new studio design. Nice, huh?”

  “Yeah, it looks really shiny. Why didn’t you tell me you saw Chef?”

  “Well, I was planning on keeping it a surprise.”

  This is getting weird. “Keeping what a surprise?”

  “Well, I guess I have to tell you now, Liza Lou. I signed us up for Chef Antonio’s next class—as an early birthday present. And I talked to Frankie’s and Lillian’s moms, and they’re up for taking it too. Can you believe it? So we can all go together again! Exciting, right?”

  Instantly, I feel myself relax—I hadn’t even realized I’d gotten so worked up! My mom’s been talking to Chef because she signed us up for another class. That’s not exactly flirting! Frankie and Lillian have romance on the brain.

  I hang up with Mom and text them again.

  U guys are clueless. But I <3 u anyway.

  CHAPTER 4

  Frankie

  Feng shui. Every time I’m at Lillian’s house, all I can think about is feng shui. Not that I really know what that means, exactly, but I’ve seen it in magazine articles about where to put the couch, or which direction your bed should face. I’m pretty sure it’s more than that, though, like at Lillian’s, where everything is calm, peaceful, neat, and—I think this is the right word—serene. Beyond how ridiculously clean her house is, beyond the totally amazing food that her mom is always cranking out to make us feel welcome, there’s also just this feeling you get when you’re there, a sense of . . . I don’t know . . . balance? Like things are as they should be.

  I know Lillian feels like she has to live up to her mom’s expectations. And with a sister like hers, those expectations must be set pretty high. But at her house I always feel like everything is right with the world and we can all take a deep breath. Maybe that’s not what feng shui means. All I know is that there’s something about Lillian’s house that’s the perfect antidote to mine.

  We’re scarfing down pot-stickers as fast as Dr. Wong can make them today, and I’m eating so many that I can actually feel my pants getting tighter by the minute. Not that I care. These babies are so tasty! We’re all pretty focused on the food, because Liza’s still annoyed that we mentioned the Totally Obvious Situation with her mom and Chef Antonio when we were texting yesterday. Apparently, we’re all taking the class again (which I guess my mom would have gotten around to sharing!), and she thinks that explains everything. She says we’re the ones who are clueless, but when it comes to Liza and her parents, she sort of sees what she wants to see.

  During cooking class last fall, Lillian and I totally knew sparks were flying (as my dad would say) between Chef and Liza’s mom. I mean, it wasn’t like they were flirting up a storm or anything, but you could just tell that they liked each other by the way they t
alked and looked at each other. And there was that whole thing with Chef Antonio making the family recipe Liza’s mom taught him. Like I said, Totally Obvious Situation, but Liza just pretended it wasn’t happening. Or maybe she really couldn’t see it.

  I don’t blame her. Who wants divorced parents? My parents have been together for an eternity. They have four kids, two jobs, a crowded house with cereal ground into the rugs and laundry literally falling from the ceiling (my brothers love the old laundry chute in our house so much that they decided to try to dig a second one through the floor of their room), and way too many other relatives—but they still really like each other. After eighteen years together, they still kiss when they get home from work, hold hands when they’re walking, and cuddle on the couch. It’s actually kind of sweet, when they’re not being too romantic about it. (Really, guys, as my seven-year-old brother Nicky likes to say, “Not in front of the kids!”)

  I mean, I get it. Liza wants the kind of family she thinks she used to have, and she’s not taking the Big D (that’s what we call her parents’ divorce) lying down. The thing is, I was around her family before her dad left, and most of the time it wasn’t the way she remembers it at all. Her dad was always working, and her mom got really frustrated with all of the kid stuff and housework she had to do, even though she has a big full-time job too. After Cole was born, they were both really happy about having another kid, but it wasn’t like they became this super-tight family. I can’t even remember seeing all four of them do anything together—unlike my family, who spend way too much time together. I think Liza’s mom and dad really tried, but after a while they decided that it just wasn’t working. At least that’s what it looked like to me, anyway.

  It’s not like I can say any of this to Liza, though. As her best friend, it’s my job to have her back, just like she always has mine. She just told us that she plans to use the party to undo the divorce. So if she wants to use Nana Silver’s not-mitzvah as the glue to put her parents back together, then I’ll be right there with her, doing the hora (that’s a traditional Jewish dance Liza taught me after her aunt Sarah’s wedding two years ago).

  I grab another pot-sticker and try to pull Liza out of her funk.

  “What do you guys think of this semester’s new clubs?” I say. At least, that’s what I mean to say, but with a mouth full of dumpling I doubt anyone can understand me.

  Lillian laughs and points at my cheeks bulging with food. Of course her sister, Katie, chooses exactly this moment to appear in the kitchen. Her perfect sister. Lillian calls Katie that all the time, and honestly, she’s not exaggerating. The girl is amazing. She’s beautiful without looking cheesy or like she’s trying too hard (or at all, really). And her clothes are so cool—“understated” is what my new favorite fashion blog would call her look—and they fit her just right, like she was the designer’s muse (another piece of wisdom from the blog).

  The coolest thing about Katie, though, is that she seems so confident and sure of herself. Man, I’d like to have people think that about me. Starting with my stupid brothers!

  Katie sees us shoveling in our dumplings and saunters across the kitchen to grab a clementine. Dr. Wong offers her a pot-sticker, but she shakes her head.

  “Too heavy for me,” she says with a sniff. “I just want a piece of fruit.” As her mother makes a disapproving cluck, Katie peels her little clementine calmly and precisely, without getting all sticky from the juice. How does she do that?

  Lillian is talking about something she did in art class, but my eyes are basically glued to Katie. “Do you want to sit down?” I ask her, taking my backpack off the stool next to mine. The others look at me in surprise. So does Katie.

  “No, no. But thank you, Frankie. I don’t have time to chat.” She polishes off her snack and puts some water on to boil. “I’m going to make myself some mint tea and go upstairs. I have to write a position paper on India’s independence for Model UN. We have a conference in Delaware next month. The best delegate slipped through my fingers last time,” she says, wiggling her slender digits with their evenly filed, perfectly clean nails. Then she smiles. “That’s not going to happen again.”

  Wow. Lillian isn’t kidding. Katie is hardcore. But still, she’s so cool. She points to the table, littered with dumpling scraps and blobs of sauce.

  “You guys quite finished, are you? I think maybe you missed a piece of cabbage.”

  Lillian is irritated. “We were really hungry, and these are really good.”

  Dr. Wong comes to our defense. “Katie, leave the girls alone. We cannot all exist on citrus and tea.” Lillian’s mom is an amazing cook, and she’s not a pushover, either. Until very recently, I was a little afraid of her because she doesn’t seem to approve of very much. But she started to actually like a few things, including cooking class after a bumpy start, so maybe she’s not so scary after all.

  Katie shrugs at her mother again. “No, no, no. Carbs and oil, so much better for you . . . ”

  Dr. Wong clicks her tongue at Katie, who stops talking immediately. Okay, so she still is a little scary. But Lillian is really getting annoyed. “Katie, nobody asked you. And don’t start on your soccer-training routine again. I’m sure real athletes eat real food.”

  Katie pours the water into a pretty little teapot and swirls it around. “Sure, athletes eat real food—emphasis on the word ‘real.’ I just choose to put something in my body that’s not going to weigh me down.” She shrugs. “But that’s just me . . .”

  Really? Then why do I feel like she has a point . . . ?

  Katie gives her mother a peck on the cheek as she wafts out of the room with her tea, scooping up her totally hip messenger bag on the way.

  * * *

  On the way home I keep thinking about Katie, sipping tea, playing soccer, and solving the world’s problems at the Model UN. I have ambitions too, don’t I? I played soccer in elementary school and I was pretty good. Who says I can’t just transfer that talent to a spring sport, like track? I may not have gotten around to it yet, but why not start now?

  Picturing myself sprinting around a track with a flawless ponytail bouncing against my back and my parents cheering from the sidelines makes me smile. Oh, and look who’s behind them—none other than some cute boy, yelling out my name (hey, it’s a fantasy, right?). If Katie can do it all, why couldn’t I make the track team and the honor roll this semester? And give rousing speeches at seventh-grade assemblies on the need for compostable plates and cups in the cafeteria! Who says I can’t be supersmart, righteous, and freakishly fast, too? Maybe I’ll brew myself an elegant little cup of tea and retire to my room to plot my ambitions. Color-code a few notebooks and highlighters and index cards, just to help me juggle all the activities. How does she do it all? people will say—and I’ll just smile modestly and wave them off. Keep calm and reshape the world to my exacting specifications. . . .

  I open our front door, still thinking about the new me. When I step inside, my little brother Nicky and his friend Julian practically mow me down as they bash at each other with cardboard swords. My older brothers Leo and Joey, known as The Goons, are in the living room with a couple of other hairy teenage meatheads, trying to figure out the chords to some song on their bashed-up guitars. There’s a pile of boat-size shoes right by the door. I stumble over them and practically choke from the nasty smell. Mom yells up from the basement at one brother or another—or maybe all three—and suddenly I just can’t stand it. I race up the stairs and slam the door of my room. I need to get myself some feng shui right now!

  CHAPTER 5

  Liza

  For the first time ever, we’re not running late to cooking class on Saturday. It’s a miracle. There were no tantrums, no last-minute work emergencies, no arguments. I keep looking at the curly-haired, dimpled angel in the stroller and thinking: Who are you and what have you done with my baby brother?

  When we get there, even I’m surprised at how excited I am. Although the kitchen is all sparkling and new, ev
erything seems really homey and comforting. The Newlyweds—the totally adorable, totally into each other, totally just-married couple that we met in the fall session are walking in with us, oohing and ahhing about how much bigger Cole is. Mrs. Newlywed—Margo—looks really cute with a new haircut, and as usual, Mr. Newlywed—Stephen—pretty much can’t take his eyes off her. They’re completely googly over Cole and his chubby cheeks. He’s hard to resist today, I have to admit.

  When we finally make it through the door and everyone is finished drooling over Cole, Chef is all, “Welcome, welcome, mis amigos, mis corazones.” As we reach the long steel tables, he actually winks at us, which is cute, but kind of weird. Frankie and her mom aren’t here yet, but I’m sure she and Lillian would say he’s winking at my mom. Ick.

  Chef’s mother, Angelica, rushes over in a jangle of silver bangles to hug us all and kiss us with her red-lipsticked smile. In a snap she sweeps Cole out of the stroller and into her arms, just like she did last fall, when I was sure my brother was going to ruin an entire session of cooking classes before they’d even begun.

  “Mijo, mijo lindo,” she sings as he dissolves into giggles. Angelica dances Cole off to their special corner, where she already has a bunch of stuff laid out for them to play with.

  “Hi,” I say as they spin away into their own happy world. “Nice to see you, too.”

  Errol and Henry, the two old college friends who are probably now in their fifties (older than our parents, that much I can tell) and planning to open a restaurant together, are already sitting at one of the tables. Except, wait a minute, someone else is sitting with them too—a cute boy with blondish skateboarder hair and dark gray eyes. Not really my type, but definitely noticeable. I try to get a better look at him without flat-out staring, while Errol wraps Mom and me in big warm hugs.

  “Hey, gorgeous girls,” Errol says. “Aren’t you both a sight for sore eyes!” He’s from the south like my mom and has one of those smiles that people describe as “infectious.” I mean, it always makes me feel better, I know that.