I leave for school in a daze. It all seems like some kind of dream: Mom’s story, her guilt, her “new direction,” and the fact that she’s actually helping another human being who’s in trouble. I don’t believe in magic—not the fairy-tale kind, and certainly not “everyday” magic, whatever that is. But I can’t deny how much things have changed since Mrs. Simpson came into our lives.
They talked about the details while I was finishing my breakfast. Mrs. Simpson will get a part-time caregiver to look in on her, but Mom and I will help her out too. Mom will speak to Mr. Kruffs and try to get everything squared away with him. How she’s going to find time to do all this, I’m not quite sure, but she actually gave me her old phone so we can “keep in touch” if Mrs. Simpson needs anything. And even if Mom really is transformed, she and I still have a lot of issues to figure out. I accept that she’s sorry, and I forgive her. But as they say, “The proof is in the pudding.” Still, for now, it’s a lot more than I ever expected.
The school day goes by quickly, and at the end of the day, my pulse races at the prospect of meeting Nick. I make my way to the library, worried that my knees might turn to jelly at any moment.
Nick is already there with his computer on.
“Hi, Scarlett.” He pushes his wavy, brown hair back from his forehead.
“Hi.” I try to slow my breathing and sit next to him.
“I see you’ve got your blog up and running,” he says. “I think it’s a great idea.”
“Well, I did what you said. But I still need to figure out all the different pages, and I’m not sure the layout is quite right—”
He beams at me, and my heart almost stops. “You’ve already got twelve followers. Not bad for less than a day, don’t you think?”
“Twelve?” I lean over and scroll down the screen. The little counter at the bottom that Nick inserted shows twenty-two people have visited my blog, and twelve of them have signed up to follow it.
“It’s real, then.” My fingers on the keyboard begin to tingle with something like excitement. It strikes me that this is what Mom must feel every time she makes a new connection with a total stranger.
“Yeah,” Nick says. “It is.” He helps me add the four additional pages: “Yummy Cakes and Bakes,” “Healthy Bites for Home,” “Home-Cooked Dinners,” and “Recipes for Sharing,” and add some boxes for uploading photos.
“Now,” he says, when all the pages are up. “There are some things we can do to increase your following. Sign you up for some other social media sites and then link everything together. You’ve got to build your online presence—strike while the iron’s hot.”
“Okay.” I sit there watching him as he goes about setting things up for me. I know I ought to be paying more attention to the stuff he’s doing, but instead I’m transfixed by his long fingers typing expertly on the keyboard, and his chocolate-brown eyes as he concentrates on clicking, linking, adding icons, and creating my profile as the “Little Cook” on other sites.
“What password do you want?” He turns to me, and I sit back, startled.
“Oh…” I think for a minute. “How about ‘buttercream’?”
“‘Buttercream’ it is.” He types it in. “Speaking of which, are you still okay for cooking on Monday after school?”
“Monday?”
“My mom’s cake.” He flexes his fingers. “I can’t wait to get started on it. I can count on the Secret Cooking Club, can’t I?”
“Of course.” I smile. “After all, I owe you one.”
“Well, I’m happy to accept payment in baked goods.” He gives me a sly little smile.
“So it’s true then—the way to a boy’s heart is through his stomach…?”
“Something like that.” He holds my gaze for a second.
My insides quietly melt. OMG.