What am I doing? Where am I even going? I hurry past stores, practically knocking down an old man pulling along a battered shopping cart. I almost get hit as a truck grinds to a stop in the middle of the crosswalk. All the time I’m heading toward home—but I don’t want to go home. Future blog posts flash into my head: “Help! My Selfish Daughter Tried to Run Away,” or worse, “Help! My Daughter Ran Away and Then, Unfortunately, Came Back!”
Panting for breath, I finally stop. I’m standing on the doorstep of Mrs. Simpson’s house. I get the key out from under the mat, open the door, and let myself in.
The cat is there just inside the door. I scoop it up and sob into its black fur. It purrs in my arms but flicks its tail, like it’s deciding whether or not to tolerate me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, setting it down. “You’ve got your own problems, haven’t you?”
The cat struts into the kitchen, meowing for food. I follow slowly behind, my heart finally easing in the calm quiet of Mrs. Simpson’s kitchen. The recipe notebook is on the book stand where I left it. But I’m almost positive I left it open on the scones page. Now, it’s flipped open to a page on Pat-a-Cake Oatmeal Bars. There’s a drawing cut from an old book and pasted on the page of a little boy in a puffy white baker’s hat. Around him, there’s a hand-drawn border of steaming pies and frosted cakes.
I flip through the notebook, my mouth watering at the possibilities: Hansel and Gretel’s Gingerbread, Knave of Hearts Strawberry Tarts, The Princess and the Pea Soup, Simple Simon’s Potpie. But in the end, I turn back to the Pat-a-Cake Oatmeal Bars. Whatever they are, I need to make them.
Just like before, nearly every ingredient called for in the recipe is on hand as though some kind of magic baking elf has been at work. Next to the recipe book, there are even two bars of Belgian cooking chocolate on the counter that I swear weren’t there last time. It’s definitely a little weird, but I decide to make the best of it. I put on an apron, wash my hands, and get started. I even remember to preheat the oven this time.
The cat sits and watches as I work. First, I read through the recipe so I know exactly what I’m doing. Then, I measure out the “wet” ingredients—butter, corn syrup, a dollop of honey—into a pan. I add the brown sugar and cinnamon, and place the pan on top of the stove. I swirl the ingredients around with a wooden spoon over a low heat. The colors mix together—warm shades of brown and gold, marbled through with the bright yellow of the butter. The spicy scent goes straight to my head. It’s fun watching all the separate parts of the mixture melt together like they’ve always belonged that way. When everything is uniform and liquid, I take the sticky mixture off the stove and stir in the instant oats. The ingredients clump on the spoon. I scrape some off with my finger and taste it. It melts on my tongue, wholesome and delicious.
I’m so caught up in what I’m doing that when the doorbell rings, I practically jump out of my apron.
I’m not expecting to get lucky a second time. I’m sure it’s Mr. Kruffs, or maybe even the police. My heart starts to thump, but to be honest, what I’m the most worried about is the syrup mixture getting cold before I can finish stirring in the oats.
I open the door. Standing there is the one person I didn’t expect to see after the way I acted at school: Violet.
And I’m very glad to see her.
“Can I come in?” she says.
“Sure.” I stand aside and she comes inside the house. She sets down her backpack, and next to it, the empty Easter basket.
“Everyone loved the scones,” she says. “That cinnamon—it really packed a punch. And it was even better because no one could figure out who made them.”
“That’s good.” I nod uneasily. It’s just so weird that the whole school was talking about the scones I made, which is the last thing I wanted. I turn and she follows me to the kitchen.
I go back to the pan and keep stirring the oats into the sticky mixture.
“What are you making?” Violet looks over my shoulder.
“Oatmeal bars.” I wave a sticky hand at the recipe book. “With Belgian chocolate on top.”
“Yum,” Violet says. She reaches behind the book stand and picks up a can that I hadn’t noticed was there. “Look,” she says, reading the label. “Caramel. I love caramel.” She hesitates. “Maybe you could add some of that too.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Can you grab me that pan?”
“Sure.” She hands me a rectangular cake pan that I’ve already lined with baking paper. I scoop in the clumpy mixture and pat it down with the wooden spoon. When it’s all spread out and flat, I carry the pan over to the oven.
“How long does it need to cook for?”
I glance over at the book. “Twenty-five minutes.” She opens the oven door and sets the timer. I put the pan inside.
“Would you like some hot chocolate?” Violet asks. “I can boil some water.”
“Yeah, hot chocolate sounds good.” I wash my hands at the sink.
Violet fills a kettle and switches it on. I find the cupboard with the mugs. Mrs. Simpson’s mugs are pretty, all different colors of stoneware, some with stripes and polka dots. I give Violet a purple mug and use a blue one for me. She finishes making the hot chocolate and brings it over to the table. We sit facing each other.
“Look, I’m sorry about earlier,” I say. “It’s just…well…” The words stick to the roof of my mouth. “Lots of things.”
“No worries,” she says. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”
Something unspoken seems to pass between us—one of those weird moments where you just know what the other person’s thinking, and you don’t have to bother with talking. But then it’s gone, as Violet asks the question I’ve been expecting.
“So, your mom’s really that blogger?”
“Yeah.” That blogger. Enough said.
“I hadn’t heard of the blog, but Gretchen showed me. She said you guys used to be friends, but then when your mom got famous, you started acting all stuck-up.”
“Stuck-up?” I stare at her dumbfounded. “Me?”
“I said you didn’t seem like that to me. And I read some of the blog.”
“You did?” I lean forward, feeling tense.
“I know your mom doesn’t mention your name. But everyone at school seems to know about it. I couldn’t believe she wrote all that personal stuff about you. You know…the stuff about you washing your white underwear with black socks, giving your whole family head lice, and wetting the bed till you were eight.” Her face is solemn. “I know how I would feel…”
“How?”
“Embarrassed,” she says immediately. “And also kind of sad.”
I smile weakly. And then I find myself telling Violet just how embarrassing and “kind of sad” it is for me for real. I tell her about Stacie, and about how Gretchen and Alison pretended to be my friends, but really they were leaking stuff to Mom. I tell her about the violin, the tap-dancing, and the Mom Survival Kit. Then, I tell her about Dad leaving, and about Mom’s online “victory” over him. I tell her how Mom’s most popular post is the one about “Top Ten Reasons I Wish I’d Never Had Kids,” and where does that leave me? And when I’ve finished telling her all that, a tear falls into the lukewarm hot chocolate in the mug in front of me.
She puts a hand on my arm. “I didn’t tell anyone you made the scones, Scarlett. Honest.” She hesitates. “I wanted to, though. Because you should get the credit.”
“I know I’m being totally paranoid. But it’s just that I don’t want anything—anything—to get back to Mom. I can’t stand her writing about me. I—” A sob escapes. “I just hate it. Every week when her blog post goes up, I want to crawl into a hole and die.”
“Have you told her?”
“Told her?” As soon as the words are out, I realize that, despite trying to be friendly, Violet will never understand. “Yeah, I did try. I told her it made everyone laugh at me. I told her I have no friends anymore, and that I don’t want to do anything if she’s going to write about it.”
“So what happened?”
“We had a ‘discussion’ about it. She told me her side—that she’s working really hard to be successful with the blog, and get advertisers and stuff. She said she wanted to have a job where she could support me and my sister without working long hours away from home. She tried to tell me all about online demographics and unique visitors—most of it, I didn’t really understand. I told her I supported her goals, but the things she said really hurt sometimes. So, I thought we’d come to an understanding. I felt good for a few days. Until the next post came out. Guess what it was about?”
“Your talk?”
“Bingo.” I sigh. “It was called ‘The Ungrateful Teenage Muse’ or something like that. You can guess what it said.”
“Yeah.”
“The only thing that kind of works is doing nothing—and I mean nothing at all. No clubs, no activities, no friends, nothing. She can’t get as much mileage out of boring as she can out of failure.”
“Must be pretty lonely.”
“I guess so.” I shrug.
Her heart-shaped face brightens as she smiles. “It’s good then that you’re doing something about it.”
“Doing? What am I doing?”
“You’re cooking.” She sniffs the air as the smell of baking oatmeal bars gets stronger and stronger.
I lean forward with a stab of real fear. “Violet, please. I’m not really going to do anything. I can’t—I mean, I’m breaking into my neighbor’s house and using all her stuff. If Mom found out and wrote about it, I’d probably be arrested or something.”
“Well, I won’t tell…on one condition.” Her smile grows mischievous.
“What’s that?”
“I want to cook with you. We can teach ourselves—just us. It will be a secret.”
“But—” I open my mouth to protest. There are a thousand things wrong with the idea. Instead, just for a second, I let myself be swept along by Violet’s enthusiasm. “A cooking club?” I glance around me at the amazing kitchen, mulling over the idea.
“Yeah. A secret cooking club.”
“Hmm.” I stand as the oven beeps that it’s done. “Can I think about it?”