The Icing on the Cake Read online

  He points to the cute skater kid. “I want you all to meet my nephew, Tristan Holland.”

  “Hey,” Tristan says, with a sort of half wave. Not a chatty guy, I’m guessing.

  While Henry asks Chef all about the new kitchen design, Errol tells Mom and me that he was inspired by our mother-daughter togetherness last session. He thought taking a cooking class would be a great way to spend some time with his nephew, now that he’s in ninth grade and not so big on field trips to the zoo. It doesn’t look to me like Tristan is so into this idea either—it actually looks like he’d rather be anywhere else—but Errol is so pumped about it that I hope it works.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder and manage to tear myself away from staring at Tristan long enough to turn around.

  “Hi, Liza,” Lillian says, smiling like a jack-o’-lantern. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Lillian and I hug like we haven’t seen each other in months, even though it’s actually been less than twenty-four hours. Over her shoulder I see Dr. Wong, who’s busy inspecting the appliances in that very serious, scientific way of hers. One of the cake mixers gets a nod—she must be impressed.

  Lillian and I are still hugging when the studio door slams open and everyone spins around to see who it is. In their typical Caputo family frenzy, Frankie and her mom rush in, late to class as usual. Despite the fact that there’s an incredibly cute boy just a few feet away, Lillian and I grab each other’s hands and jump up and down like total goofballs—we’re all here! Oh well, he’s bound to see us act like dorks eventually. Frankie waves excitedly at us, and then her eyes go wide like an anime cartoon, and I can tell they’ve landed on Tristan. Frankie has some special radar that’s super sensitive to any hot boys in the area. Uh-oh. All the way from across the room, I can hear the gears cranking in her head.

  Frankie’s mom, Theresa, hugs mine, and—to my surprise—the very proper, a little bit scary, Dr. Wong. I guess everyone is excited to be here.

  Chef Antonio claps his hands. “Okay, good people! We are all back together again, mis amigos, so let’s get cooking! We shall roll up our sleeves and dust the hands and make some tasty pastries!” Sometimes Chef really reminds me of a thinner Cuban Santa Claus, he’s that jolly.

  When Chef gets started, it’s hard not to get caught up in his mood. Today we’re tackling cookies, he says, since no one can resist a cookie. Apparently, on the food history time line, crackers came before cookies, and some kind of crackerlike item has been around forever. Basically, they’re just flour and water made into a paste with salt or spices to preserve them. When you break it down like that, it doesn’t sound so yummy to me, but I guess that’s all a Saltine is, and there’s nothing better when you’re sick.

  Chef tells us how crackers used to be baked twice to keep them firm, which is where the French word biscuit, or “twice cooked,” came from. Eventually people started adding sugar, spices, and fruit to make the sweet biscuits we call cookies today. So where did we get the word “cookie,” you might ask yourself. Good question! And, of course, Chef has an answer: The Dutch called them koekje when they came to this country, and since Americans were pretty anti-everything-British for a while, they decided to use the Dutch word, which morphed into “cookie.”

  “So, everybody, step up to the tables and let’s bake some cookies!” Chef Antonio hollers after our history lesson.

  Frankie gives me a look like, “Here we go again,” as she and her disaster-in-the-kitchen mom take their places at one of the long work tables covered with little bowls of flour, sugar, and other ingredients. Lillian and Dr. Wong stay with Errol and his nephew at one table, so Henry joins the smiling, snuggling Newlyweds. That leaves Mom and me together, until Chef appears. So he’s helping us, I guess? I can think of other people who need it more . . .

  Chef tells us all to start with the softened butter, which needs to be creamed, first by itself and then with the sugar. We crack the eggs—I hear Theresa, Frankie’s mom, shriek when an egg rolls out of her hand and off the table with a splat. “Here we go again” is right. I don’t even need to look at Frankie—I can feel her embarrassment all the way over here.

  We sift flour, baking soda, and salt and mix it all up. The first thing we’re making is some dough that needs to chill in the fridge before we can shape it. As we follow the recipes propped up on clear plastic clipboards, Chef brings some tables melted chocolate to fold into the dough. Some of us will be making chocolate logs, while the others will make vanilla ones. Luckily, Mom and I are at a chocolate table. Later, when we slice our logs into cookies that are round and flat, we get to put all sorts of toppings on them. So that explains all the little bowls of nuts, dried fruit, and candies. Yum.

  We shape the dough with our hands and then roll it into a log. It’s fun to do and I think I’m doing a pretty good job with mine, while Mom and Chef bond over the fact that growing up, both of their mothers called refrigerators “ice boxes” (I’m guessing Angelica’s version was in Spanish—I know “ice” is hielo, but I don’t think I’ve ever learned the word for “box”—I make a mental note to ask Javier, if he ever shows up). We all carry our rolls over to chill for a few minutes in the freezer, and I notice both Lillian and Frankie (maybe Tristan too, but it’s hard to tell) giggling at the chocolate logs on our tray. Are they less impressive than I thought? I take another look and realize that the little brown rolls do sort of look like rows of, well . . . there’s no other way to say it, turds. I laugh along because it is kind of funny in a gross way, but part of me wishes I’d never made the connection between my edible creations and well, you know what. Whatever. I’m sure they’ll taste better than that. And anyway, Frankie’s mom’s rolls look more like lumpy snakes that are busy digesting a bunch of rats than a soon-to-be tray of cookies, so we all end up laughing at them, too.

  Frankie, Lillian, and I are still cracking up when Javier strolls in through a door in the back of the studio, where Chef Antonio has his office. He looks around like he’s just landed in the Emerald City. “Whoa, I forgot this was starting up again today,” he says, making a big show of surprise and running his hand through his dark, shiny curls. Hardly. He totally knew we were coming—we’ve been texting him about it all week. I guess he thinks pretending he has more important things to do than keep track of our cooking-class schedule makes him seem cool, or mysterious.

  Javier turns to Frankie, Lillian, and me. “Hey guys,” he starts to say—and then he notices Tristan.

  All of a sudden, it’s like when Frankie’s pug Rocco smells a cat—or maybe more like another dog. Javi looks Tristan up and down like he’s trying to decide if he’s someone he wants to be friends with, or avoid.

  “Dude,” Javier mutters, tipping his chin up in some weird boy greeting.

  “Dude,” Tristan says back. End of discussion.

  I roll my eyes at Frankie, who shakes her head in agreement. Boys. Lillian, on the other hand, can’t seem to take her eyes off Javier, even though now that his riveting conversation with Tristan is over, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. This session of cooking class is definitely getting interesting. . . .

  * * *

  While the rolls are firming up so we can slice them, we make biscotti—Italian cookies. More dough ingredients, except that this time, we use olive oil instead of butter. We get to toss any of the goodies from the little bowls on the table into the biscotti—cranberries, pistachios, almonds, slivered ginger—anything that we want. . . . I like coming up with wacky combinations—chocolate and dried blueberries! cinnamon and candied orange peel!—and mixing them into the dough. Since this dough is a little stickier than the one we made for the logs, we have to dip our hands in water to shape it into rectangles, which feels kind of slimy.

  I guess seeing all of our disgusted faces makes Javi want to join, so he dunks his hands into the water on Frankie’s table. Since he doesn’t have any dough (duh!), he decides to fling the water off his hands instead—in Tristan’s direction. Maybe it was on purpos
e, maybe not, it’s hard to say—but Javier is definitely not into the fact that there’s some competition for him in the class this time around. Luckily, Errol saves the day.

  “Javier,” he says, waving Javi over, “I’d like you to meet my nephew Tristan. He was a little concerned about being the only boy with all of these lovely young ladies, so I’m sure he’d be really thrilled if you’d stick around.”

  Clearly embarrassed, Tristan gives Errol the evil eye, but Errol just smiles and hands him a paper towel to wipe off his still-wet face. Tristan’s not really my type (do I even have a type?), but blushing somehow makes him even cuter. Frankie’s practically drooling.

  I guess what Errol said worked, because Javier—whose surly-puppy face has suddenly morphed into his I’m-the-man look—strolls over to Tristan and holds out his hand, palm up.

  “Sorry, man,” he says, nodding his head toward Frankie. “I was aiming for her.”

  Frankie half laughs, half snorts at Javi—yeah right, nice try—but he ignores her.

  Tristan smiles. “S’okay,” he says, slapping Javi’s hand. A high five? Really? Boys don’t make any sense.

  Chef sends Javi to the sink to wash his hands and claps at the rest of us again. “Now we will make some very special chocolate chip cookies. You can do this anytime, if you have the leftover Easter bunnies or Valentine’s hearts or just want to make bigger chocolate pieces!”

  Instead of using regular chocolate chips, we get to cut up these really fancy chocolate bars into different size pieces. I look over at Lillian’s table and notice that her mom is actually letting her cut them—but of course she’s making sure that every piece is as perfect and even as possible. Mom’s and mine look pretty good, although there are chocolate shavings all over. Chef doesn’t seem to mind, though—is it my imagination or is he coming by every few minutes to brush off our table?

  After we mix our chocolate chunks into yet another bowl of dough, we drop spoonfuls onto baking sheets to go into the huge, gleaming ovens.

  “These very special cookies will emerge in a few minutes, so, okay, mis amigos, while those are becoming golden brown morsels of deliciousness, how about we slice some logs?”

  While most of us cut the logs into little round cookies, Frankie and Lillian get to make icing that will get pressed between some of them as sandwich cookies. At our table Mom and I make a thumbprint on each cookie and then press a nut or an M&M into it for decoration. Meanwhile, we’re also working on the biscotti, which we’ll bake once, take out, slice into strips, and then put back in the oven so they’re hard enough for dunking in coffee or hot chocolate.

  Just as the biscotti are going into the oven for the second time, Chef announces that we’re going to cram one more recipe in—meringues—even though we’re running out of time. He has already prepared bowls of egg whites that he tells us to whip into “stiff peaks” with the giant professional mixers.

  “Make mountain tops, señors y señoritas, mountain tops! But first, while the egg white is still foamy like the tip of an ocean wave, sprinkle more dulces from the little bowls—chocolate, fruit, nuts—-anything is good baked in little meringue.”

  Over the noise of the mixers, Chef tells us about all the shapes meringue can take—flowers or cups or nests. My mom starts squealing—seriously—about how we could make these for my birthday party and fill them with ice cream. Ugh. I was having such a good time and totally not thinking about the dreaded birthday party—why did she have to bring it up?

  Luckily, everybody seems too busy with the last-minute meringues or twice-baking their biscotti or not burning the other cookies to even really notice. Lillian and Frankie are both arguing with their moms—Dr. Wong won’t let Lillian “operate heavy machinery” like the mixer, and the Caputos just can’t get their egg whites to peak. I’m not big on conflict, but right now I’m glad they’re all too preoccupied to join in my mom’s birthday party menu planning.

  It really is good to be back!

  CHAPTER 6

  Liza

  Now that second semester has started, seventh-graders are allowed to eat lunch in the quad, along with the eighth-graders who have had it to themselves since September. So far it’s been too cold to eat outside, but today is one of those weirdly warm January days when all you need is a fall jacket, and maybe a scarf if your mom gives you a hard time (which, of course, mine does). Frankie, Lillian, and I have staked out a corner of the quad, and we’re sitting cross-legged on our coats with our lunches lined up in the middle like a mini buffet. The sky is practically cloudless, and the sun feels so good on our faces that we all close our eyes for a minute and soak it in, like we’re plants desperate to photosynthesize after a long winter.

  The sun is so warm on my skin that I almost feel like I’m still at my dad’s in California. Unfortunately, thinking about LA reminds me of the party, and an icy wave crashes through my toasty daydream. I open my eyes.

  Frankie’s poking through the couscous salad I brought, picking out the raisins and piling them up in one corner of the container. She has a thing about raisins in savory food because she thinks they don’t match the other flavors. Frankie has been acting kind of quiet and distracted, which isn’t unusual on days that we have social studies right after lunch. I’m about to tease her about still having a crush on Mr. Mac, when Lillian yanks her backpack open and pulls out a bulging plastic bag.

  “I forgot I brought these!” she says, adding what’s left of the cookies she and her mom took home from Saturday’s cooking class to our smorgasbord.

  Frankie pauses her archeological exploration of the couscous and looks up at us. “You know Errol’s nephew—what’s his name—he was sitting at my table?”

  She asks this in an overly casual way, but she’s not fooling anyone. Frankie pretending she doesn’t remember a cute boy’s name can mean only one thing. I raise my eyebrows at Lillian.

  “You mean Tristan?” Lillian says, unzipping the bag of cookies.

  “Oh, right, that was it,” Frankie says, still acting cool as a cucumber. “So, he seems kind of nice, right? Taking a cooking class with his uncle and everything.”

  Lillian pulls a perfect-looking meringue out of the bag. “He didn’t say a whole lot,” she says, taking a bite and starting to giggle, “but he was totally hot!”

  Lillian always giggles when she talks about boys, which cracks me up.

  “Tristan Holland,” I say, “a.k.a. Total Hotness. But a ninth grader. I don’t know, Franks, isn’t that like cradle robbing for you, after liking Mr. Mac all this time?”

  Lillian laughs again, sending little pieces of meringue flying out of her mouth. She quickly covers it with her hand.

  Frankie puts down her fork, glaring at me. “Ha-ha. Whatever. I guess he was pretty cute,” she shrugs. “You guys don’t, like, like him or anything . . . do you?”

  I roll my eyes. The truth is, I’ve been so busy thinking about the party and the whole thing with my mom and dad that there isn’t any room in my brain for boys right now. “No,” I say. “But I know who does.”

  “Who?” Frankie asks, dropping her casual act and sounding concerned.

  I give her shoulder a shove. “You do, you faker! It’s so obvious.”

  Frankie blushes. “I so do not! No way. I hardly even know him.”

  “Well, you have six weeks to get to know him,” Lillian says. “We’ll have to figure out a way to make sure he’s in your group on Saturday.”

  “I know! I was thinking the same thing,” Frankie says, giving up her pretense and grabbing our hands. “You guys have to help me.” The force of her grip crushes the cookie I’m holding, and the crumbs fall onto the remains of Lillian’s sesame noodles like sprinkles on a sundae. Frankie lets go. “Okay, maybe I do like him a little.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, brushing biscotti crumbs off my jacket and hoping it’s still too cold for ants.

  “Well, if I do, I’m not the only one with a cooking class crush,” Frankie says, giving Lillian the one-rais
ed-eyebrow treatment.

  Lillian turns as red as the marinara sauce on Frankie’s pasta. Even though she hasn’t told us, Frankie and I can tell Lillian likes Javier by the way she looks at him when she thinks he doesn’t see her, and how she gets extra quiet when he’s around.

  Frankie’s eyes light up. “Guys, I have a totally brilliant idea.”

  I check my phone. “Does it have to do with teleporting to Mr. Mac’s class?” I ask. “Because if we don’t get going soon we’ll be late.”

  “No,” Frankie says, as we all start cleaning up. “It has to do with your birthday party.”

  “Ugh. Did you have to mention the not-mitzvah?”

  “Yes, I did,” says Frankie, dumping what’s left of her half-eaten pasta into a trash can, “because the party is the perfect opportunity for me and Lillian to get to know a certain pair of boys a little—or maybe even a lot—better!”

  Lillian drops the bag of cookies she was about to shove into her backpack. “What? Frankie, do you lie awake at night thinking up evil boy-related plans?”

  Yes, probably, I think.

  “Calm down, Lils, I’m not talking about doing anything creepy or stalkerish,” Frankie says, picking up the broken cookies. “I’m not even suggesting that we ask them to the party ourselves. Nana Silver’s going to do it for us—from Liza, I mean. What do you think, Lize?”

  “Guys, I’m sure they’ll be on the list,” I say. “I mean, I don’t really know Tristan, but he’s Errol’s nephew and I’m planning to invite the whole class.”

  Frankie looks pleased with herself. Lillian looks ill.

  Lucky for Lillian, the two-minute warning bell rings, and the three of us make a mad rush for the door along with everyone else who decided to have lunch in the quad. As I’m absorbed into the mob of middle school bodies, I replay our conversation in my head. Suddenly the party that I wish I’d never agreed to has become an event my two best friends are looking forward to (or at least one of them, anyway). This probably sounds selfish, but I realize that I don’t want Frankie and Lillian to be excited about my party—I want them to totally dread it, just like me!