“Welcome to the Secret Cooking Club.” My voice comes out less steady than when I practiced it. I force a smile as Violet comes into Mrs. Simpson’s kitchen followed by Gretchen and Alison.
Gretchen eyes me carefully. “Hello, Scarlett.”
“This is such a killer kitchen,” Alison says. “It must be nice to have a superblogger for a mom.”
I glance over at Violet. She’s obviously not told them whose kitchen this really is. She shrugs awkwardly.
“We need to get a few ground rules straight.” I gesture to the table where I’ve set out some mugs and glasses. The kettle has boiled, and I’ve also set out a carton of juice. Alison and Violet sit, but Gretchen leans against the shelves of cookbooks, her arms crossed.
I’m not quite sure what to do next: sit or stand; pour drinks or not. There’s a strong current of tension in the room. I continue standing at the head of the table and just keep talking.
“First of all,” I say, “secret means secret.” I look squarely at Gretchen.
She lifts her chin as though I’ve insulted her, staring right back. “We won’t tell anyone at school,” she says. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Or my mom?” I realize I’ve given away my entire hand in three words, but what else can I do?
She pauses long enough to make me sweat. “Or your mom.”
Our eyes lock for a long second. I decide enough is enough. I sit down at the table. I’m not sure which one of us has won, but the tension begins to ebb away. Gretchen makes herself a cup of hot chocolate, and I pour juice into glasses for the rest of us.
“Okay,” I say. “That’s the main thing. But there are still some other things you should know.” I look at Alison. “Like…this isn’t my house.”
Violet gets the cupcakes we left here out of the fridge while I explain about Mrs. Simpson. Gretchen tries not to act surprised, but I’m sure I see a new respect dawning in her eyes. I tell them about my breaking and entering to feed the cat, and how Violet and I visited Mrs. Simpson in the hospital.
When I’m finished, I expect some kind of reaction—questions or something. But by then, we’re all biting into the delicious, pink cakes with buttercream swirls, and no one says much of anything at all. Finally, Alison wipes her mouth. “You can trust us, Scarlett. I mean, the whole thing is cool because it’s a secret.”
“And since we’re a club,” Gretchen says, “we should have some kind of secret handshake or password.”
“Okay,” I acknowledge.
“How about ‘banoffee’?” Violet suggests.
Gretchen makes a face.
“Maybe not.” Alison laughs.
“What about ‘marzipan’?” Violet tries again.
“Too complicated,” Gretchen says.
“‘Buttercream,’” I say quietly.
“What’s that?”
“‘Buttercream.’”
Gretchen looks at Violet, who nods. “Yeah,” Gretchen says. “That sounds good.”
“Fine,” Alison says. “Now that we’ve got that over with, are we going to cook something, or what? Those free samples aren’t going to make themselves.”
I get up from the table and retrieve the little marble-covered notebook from the book stand. “This is the recipe book we’ve been using,” I say. “It’s really special—at least, I think so.”
Violet nods.
I hand it to Gretchen as if it were a flag of truce. “What do you guys feel like making?”
Gretchen and Alison flip through the book. “I can’t believe someone took so much time to write all of this,” Alison says. “And the pictures—they’re so cute! Let’s try the Knave of Hearts Strawberry Tarts.”
“I’d rather do Hansel and Gretel’s Gingerbread,” Gretchen says. She lowers her voice as if someone might leak her preference to the PTA. “Gingerbread is my favorite.”
Leaving them to get started, I check what’s in the cupboards and the fridge. To my surprise—why am I surprised by anything that happens in Rosemary’s Kitchen?—there’s lots of fresh fruit in the fridge, including cartons of strawberries and blueberries, kiwis, and even a little basket of cherries.
“I think we should start with fruit tarts,” I say. “We can do gingerbread next time.” I glance at Gretchen to make sure she’s okay with that.
“Fine.” She shrugs. “Whatever.”
I take the fruit out of the fridge. Violet looks surprised too, but like me, she just goes with it.
“Okay,” I say, “now, first, everyone wash their hands. Then, someone needs to wash and cut the fruit, someone needs to make the custard, and someone needs to make the pastry for the tarts, and... Oh, before I forget, we need to preheat the oven.”
The tasks get easily assigned. I team up with Gretchen to make the pastry dough. Together we find the ingredients and measure them into a bowl.
“Did your mom teach you to cook?” Gretchen asks me.
“No,” I say. “She doesn’t cook at all really. She doesn’t have time.”
Gretchen stiffens, and I wonder what I’ve said.
“I mean, she’s too busy making fun of me,” I add.
She stops measuring. “I never really got why you were so angry. Your mom made you into a star.” She frowns. “And then, you completely changed. It was as if you didn’t have time for any of your friends, or anything at school anymore.”
“That’s totally not it.” How could Gretchen, of all people, get things so wrong?
“Well, what then?”
I tip the flour into the bowl. “You know, before she started, I thought I was pretty normal. I sometimes did stuff I wasn’t proud of…you know, embarrassing stuff. But it didn’t seem like a big deal. But then, Mom started broadcasting everything. It was front-page news that I farted at Christmas dinner and scratched my eczema in my sleep. And she’d go on about what underwear I wore and what my gym clothes smelled like. Suddenly, all that stuff seemed huge—it was all I could think about. I felt like everyone was looking at me and laughing.” I shove the bowl toward Gretchen. “I mean, do you really think that makes me a star? Do you think I didn’t have time for any of my friends so I could get more of that?”
Gretchen shrugs. “To be honest, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, you totally helped on my campaign, and then you disappeared as soon as I won. I thought maybe you were jealous—but then, why didn’t you just run yourself? You totally could have won.”
“Me?”
“I mean, you were cool! Smart and talkative and stuff. Everybody thought so.”
“I thought I was the ‘most boring girl in the world’—your words, not mine.”
“Come on, Scarlett, I didn’t really mean that. I was fed up, that’s all. You never even said congratulations when I won. I had no idea what I’d done wrong.”
“Well, emailing my mom didn’t help.”
Gretchen puts her hands on her hips. “I thought your mom was totally cool when she started that blog. And for the record, she emailed me, not the other way around. I am the PTA rep after all. She asked me stuff about you because you stopped talking to her. I assumed she was just worried. I said maybe you weren’t feeling well because it was your time of the month or something. I had no idea she was going to start writing about it.”
“So it was all a misunderstanding?”
“Maybe.”
I add the cubed butter and stir it in. I stop waiting for an apology that isn’t going to come, and wonder if maybe I should be the one to say sorry. Maybe I was a little quick to drop her as a friend—just the way Stacie did to me. Maybe I should have tried to tell her how I felt six months ago. Maybe, maybe. But maybe it isn’t too late.
I stand back and let Gretchen rub the butter into the flour. “I’m glad you won the election,” I say. “And I’m glad you’re here now.”
“Yeah,” she says.
“It’s just…the mom stuff has been awful for me. Before the blog, I guess Mom and I did get along—or at least, we were kind of normal. But now, it’s ‘Help! My Daughter This’ and ‘Psst! My Daughter That.’ All I know is—she can’t find out about this.”
“She won’t find out from me.” Gretchen pauses for a long second. “I promise.”
“Okay.” I hope I’m not foolish to believe her.
• • •
I close my eyes and take a bite of fruit tart. My tongue tingles at the different tastes: the pastry light and crumbly, the custard rich and wobbly, and the fruit shiny and fresh (arranged neatly by Violet) on top and covered in a sticky apricot glaze. By the time we finish up for the evening, the four of us are kind of normal together. I have to admit that four people seems more like a real club than just Violet and me. I’m relieved when Gretchen volunteers to put the fruit tarts in the cafeteria at lunchtime. (“Well, no one will think I’m involved, will they?” she says.)
Once the fruit tarts have been put away, Violet, Gretchen, and I clean up the kitchen (Alison manages to spend most of the clean-up time answering texts). We double-check that we’ve left no trace we were ever here, and when it’s time to leave, I lock the door and replace the key under the mat. Then we all repeat the secret password: “Buttercream.”