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Authors: Anna Staniszewski
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cupboard and start mixing ingredients without even thinking about what I’m doing. I can’t stop replaying the whole scene with Evan and Kurt in my head. I don’t care what Kurt thinks, but if Evan wasn’t already convinced I’m a freak, he is now. I mean, I just stood there like a statue and then ran away!
I throw down the spoon I’m holding and tear off my glue-caked fleece. Then I open the kitchen window and chuck it out into the bushes.
As I start stirring ingredients again, I think back to everything that’s happened since the beginning of the school year. When I started eighth grade, some part of me hoped that things would be different, that I’d stop being so painfully shy, that people would actually notice me, maybe even like me. But instead, everything has just gotten worse.
I go to the spice cabinet and grab the first bottle I see: cayenne pepper. Perfect. I dump some into the batter and keep stirring. The biting smell goes up my nose, and somehow the combination of that and the chocolate finally starts to calm me down.
By the time the oven finishes preheating, I’m feeling better. But I still jump when Mom opens the front door.
“Ray-chul?” She does not sound happy. When she comes into the kitchen, I can see why. She’s holding my glue-covered—and now muddy—fleece in her hand. “What was this doing outside?”
“Um.” How can I explain without her storming into Mr. Hammond’s office on Monday morning and demanding that Briana be punished? Things are bad enough without Briana telling everyone I’m a snitch. “I spilled glue on it,” I finally say.
“And then you just decided to toss it into the azaleas?”
“Maybe?”
“Are you really this thoughtless? Can’t you see we don’t have the money to just be throwing things away?”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
I expect her to start furiously scrubbing at the fleece, trying to clean it to death, but instead she drapes it over one of the kitchen chairs and sinks down into another one. Her shoulders are rounded, like she’s too tired to sit up straight. “I thought we were a team, Rachel.”
“We are,” I say, though the words feel fake and hollow coming out of my mouth.
She looks over, and her eyes seem to bore right into me. I expect her to call me out on everything: taking the money, lying to Dad, and lying to her. But instead, she gives me a sad smile and says, “We only have each other now. That means we have to work together, okay?”
I want to yell that it’s not just us, that Dad will be coming back any day now. But then I remember that I have to act like the dutiful daughter who can’t wait to go clean another house, because if Mom starts to suspect anything, then my plan will be over.
“I know, Mom,” I force myself to say. “We’re a team.”
Some of the wrinkles on her forehead fade. “Do you want to help me work on the basement tonight?” she asks, which I know is her attempt at being nice. She already did two rounds of cleaning in the basement, so I can’t imagine what kind of super-crazy organizing she has in mind.
“Um, I can’t. I have to—” The oven timer goes off, saving me from having to make up an excuse.
“Are you making some kind of spicy chocolate?” Mom asks. “It smells delicious.”
I nod, surprised to hear her say something about my cooking other than what a waste of time it is. I dish out a couple of portions, too impatient to wait until the brownies cool down. When I take a bite, the cayenne burns in my belly, just like my leftover anger. But when my mom’s eyes start watering and I have to run and get her some water, I realize this recipe is probably too intense for the bake sale too.
At least there’s one thing that came out of this awful day. My mind is finally made up: I’m going to take Steve Mueller up on his offer and spy on Briana. In fact, I can’t wait to dig up her dirty secrets.
Chapter 18
Saturday morning, only the dollar signs swimming around in my head get
I throw down the spoon I’m holding and tear off my glue-caked fleece. Then I open the kitchen window and chuck it out into the bushes.
As I start stirring ingredients again, I think back to everything that’s happened since the beginning of the school year. When I started eighth grade, some part of me hoped that things would be different, that I’d stop being so painfully shy, that people would actually notice me, maybe even like me. But instead, everything has just gotten worse.
I go to the spice cabinet and grab the first bottle I see: cayenne pepper. Perfect. I dump some into the batter and keep stirring. The biting smell goes up my nose, and somehow the combination of that and the chocolate finally starts to calm me down.
By the time the oven finishes preheating, I’m feeling better. But I still jump when Mom opens the front door.
“Ray-chul?” She does not sound happy. When she comes into the kitchen, I can see why. She’s holding my glue-covered—and now muddy—fleece in her hand. “What was this doing outside?”
“Um.” How can I explain without her storming into Mr. Hammond’s office on Monday morning and demanding that Briana be punished? Things are bad enough without Briana telling everyone I’m a snitch. “I spilled glue on it,” I finally say.
“And then you just decided to toss it into the azaleas?”
“Maybe?”
“Are you really this thoughtless? Can’t you see we don’t have the money to just be throwing things away?”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
I expect her to start furiously scrubbing at the fleece, trying to clean it to death, but instead she drapes it over one of the kitchen chairs and sinks down into another one. Her shoulders are rounded, like she’s too tired to sit up straight. “I thought we were a team, Rachel.”
“We are,” I say, though the words feel fake and hollow coming out of my mouth.
She looks over, and her eyes seem to bore right into me. I expect her to call me out on everything: taking the money, lying to Dad, and lying to her. But instead, she gives me a sad smile and says, “We only have each other now. That means we have to work together, okay?”
I want to yell that it’s not just us, that Dad will be coming back any day now. But then I remember that I have to act like the dutiful daughter who can’t wait to go clean another house, because if Mom starts to suspect anything, then my plan will be over.
“I know, Mom,” I force myself to say. “We’re a team.”
Some of the wrinkles on her forehead fade. “Do you want to help me work on the basement tonight?” she asks, which I know is her attempt at being nice. She already did two rounds of cleaning in the basement, so I can’t imagine what kind of super-crazy organizing she has in mind.
“Um, I can’t. I have to—” The oven timer goes off, saving me from having to make up an excuse.
“Are you making some kind of spicy chocolate?” Mom asks. “It smells delicious.”
I nod, surprised to hear her say something about my cooking other than what a waste of time it is. I dish out a couple of portions, too impatient to wait until the brownies cool down. When I take a bite, the cayenne burns in my belly, just like my leftover anger. But when my mom’s eyes start watering and I have to run and get her some water, I realize this recipe is probably too intense for the bake sale too.
At least there’s one thing that came out of this awful day. My mind is finally made up: I’m going to take Steve Mueller up on his offer and spy on Briana. In fact, I can’t wait to dig up her dirty secrets.
Chapter 18
Saturday morning, only the dollar signs swimming around in my head get
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