She’s talking to me like I’m five, but it’s only because I don’t want to believe what she’s saying. I thought I had a good two weeks before I was going to have to meet anyone. I mean, I’ve met people. A lot of Gram’s friends who stop by on their morning walks to get a breakfast cupcake (one of my inventions) and some gossip. And a lot of my mother’s old friends from when she grew up here. But I’ve been able to duck anyone my age, sliding into the bakery through the back and staying in the kitchen all day before heading home to stay in my room all night. I keep telling myself if I pretend I don’t live here, I don’t. I spend most nights IM’ing my friends back in the City. They’re keeping me up-to-date with everything so when I move back I won’t have missed too much.
“Earth to Penny,” my mother says, actually waving her fingers in front of my face. “Look,” she says. “Don’t be nervous.”
“Who’s nervous?” I ask. And the truth is, it’s only partly nerves. Mostly it’s that I don’t want this. Any of it. I don’t want to start a new school and make new friends. I don’t want to have a mother who runs a bakery called The Cupcake Queen instead of the cool art gallery in Chelsea. I don’t want to live in Hog’s Hollow instead of in the Village. And I definitely do not want to carry six dozen pink cupcakes covered in pink rosebuds into the ballroom of the Hog’s Hollow Country Club so that some fourteen-year-old girl named Charity can have a HAPPY SWEET FOURTEEN, as the banner over the entrance says.
“Come on, Penny,” my mother says. “Try to make the best of it.” She winks when she says it, and I can kind of see the mother that I used to know. The one who would walk with me through Central Park even when it was three below zero. The one who would take me all the way uptown to Zabar’s so we could get a cup of the best hot chocolate in the whole world. Then she blows it. “Just try to focus, okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Focus.” As I slide the first box of cupcakes out of the rack in the back of the van and start to carry it inside, I want to tell her that focusing isn’t the problem. It’s what I’m focusing on that sucks.
chapter two
I have never done this be fore, but the job sounds simple enough. Go in, set tables with tablecloths, silverware, napkins, forks, etc. Set up cake stands, add cupcakes, check rosebuds, leave. Usually Mom does this alone, or if she needs help, she’ll call Jeannie. Jeannie, who is in college. Jeannie, who has naturally blond hair, a red MINI Cooper, and a boyfriend named Stuart. But instead of Jeannie, my mom has me. And Mom tells me “It’ll be fine” so many times that when I pull the last box of cupcakes out of the van, my hands are shaking badly enough to knock off some of the rosebuds. By the time I get inside it sounds like I have a cardboard box full of marbles instead of cupcakes.
“Just put it over there, Penelope,” my mother says over her shoulder. I know now that something is up, because my mother never calls me Penelope. It’s unfortunate, too, considering my name. My father, Peter Lane, is a huge Beatles fan. In addition to a cat named Rita (as in lovely Rita meter maid), a dog named Lucy (in the sky with diamonds), and a tank full of fish named after the band members themselves, he decided that he should pay tribute to the Fab Four with his daughter’s name, too. Yep, I’m Penny Lane. I’m told it could be worse, but no one who says that can actually tell me how.
I place the box full of cupcakes on the table and stand there, waiting for my mother to finish talking to a very large woman with very big hair. Manhattan is filled with women with simple, stylish hair. From what I’ve seen of Hog’s Hollow, the trend here seems to be the more, the better. More hair, more makeup, more jewelry. I start pulling the napkins out of their wrappers. I know a trick to make them spiral into a star pattern instead of just sitting there in a stack. You take a glass and lay it on its side on top of the stack and then twist. I used to do it all the time for openings at Mom’s gallery. Chelsea art openings serve sushi and little crackers covered with slivers of cucumber and spoonfuls of caviar. Here in Hog’s Hollow it’s pink cupcakes and punch made from ginger ale and fruit juice, and watermelons hollowed out to look like baskets to hold little balls of watermelon. There’s something disturbing about gutting a piece of fruit and then reshaping and replacing the guts like it’s art.
“Penelope, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Again with the Penelope. I walk over to where she is standing with the big-hair woman and a girl wearing enough pink to make Barbie look somber. “This is Mrs. Wharton, and this”—dramatic pause—“is her daughter, Charity.” I take Mrs. Wharton’s hand, which feels like limp lettuce, and smile at her daughter.
“Um, it’s Penny,” I say softly. Charity looks at me briefly and then past me. I can’t stop staring at her hair. It’s the same color as mine, but where mine tends toward wavy on good days and frizzy on bad days, Charity’s is shiny and smooth and seems to almost glow. The way she keeps shaking her head slightly to make it move makes me understand that she knows exactly how great her hair is.
“It’s my Charity’s special day,” Mrs. Wharton says, and at first it doesn’t register what she is talking about. Finally, remembering the sign out front, I mumble, “Happy birthday.” Charity makes her hair ripple again and offers me a cold smile that nearly matches the ice carving on the buffet table. Who has an ice carving of herself?
“Charity is going into the ninth grade, too,” my mother says to me. When I don’t respond, she continues. “Penelope?” She looks over at me. “Penny is just a little bit nervous.”
And for the first time in a while, my mother is right. I am nervous. Back home, I had friends. Not a lot, but enough, and then a whole group of sorta-friends. Here, well, other than my mom (who I don’t count) and Gram (who I do, but who’s a little old to be attending high school) and my cat, Oscar (there’s no Beatles reference—I put my foot down), I have no one.
“Oh, don’t you worry, dearie,” Mrs. Wharton says. “Charity will show you around.”
Charity smiles again, but as soon as our mothers turn their attention away from us, her smile fades. She looks at me as if the effort of just being near me is painful. “So, you’re new,” Charity says, but the way she says it is almost like she just said, “So, you smell like sweaty socks.” I just nod, wishing I could sound as cool and funny on the outside as I think I do on the inside. “Well,” Charity says, looking at me, waiting for me to say
something.
“Nice talking to you, Patty.” I start to correct her, but she just walks away, giving me this half wave with the back of her hand.
I decide that instead of just standing beside my mother, wishing I was anywhere but there, I’ll start setting up. My mother is so into something Mrs. Wharton is saying about the chamber of commerce that she doesn’t notice what I’m doing. I start with the cake stands. I try to make as little noise as possible as I fish through the box holding the various pieces. There are six plastic disks, two of each size, and then four columns that support each disk, forming two tiny towers each perfect for three tiers of cakes or, in this case, three dozen cupcakes. If you’re having a hard time picturing it, think the Parthenon, but smaller and made out of plastic. I start fitting the two towers together, setting them up on either end of the dessert table. I fill the bottom two tiers first, thinking that I don’t want them to topple over from being too top-heavy. I have filled both towers by the time my mother finishes talking and Mrs. Wharton is clapping her hands for everyone’s attention.
“Thanks, Penny,” my mother says, stepping around the table to where I am quickly replacing rosebuds on some of the cupcakes. To my mother’s credit, her smile only slips the tiniest bit when she sees what I’m doing. “Penny, go ahead and set the rest of the cupcakes out on the platters around the cake stands.”
Just as I am carefully transferring the last of the cupcakes to the trays, Mr. Wharton starts walking toward us. As big as Mrs. Wharton is, Mr. Wharton is bigger. And I don’t mean just a little bigger. I mean like he left the town of Three Hundred Pounds and is careening toward the city of Four Hundred Pounds. His wife looks at her watch. “Let’s all gather around the birthday girl for a photo. That’ll give us time to get some food before we start the fashion show.”
I back up from the table so that I can see the stage they have set up at the front of the room. This gives my mother enough room to step up to the table to adjust the cupcakes that I had set out. Mr. Wharton walks over and pokes one of his fingers into a cupcake, stealing a glob of frosting. My mother smiles stiffly at him. He winks at her and turns to watch as Charity has her picture taken from every possible angle.
“Okay, Charity, you go first,” her mother says. But Charity is already halfway across the floor and coming toward the table. Something tells me Charity
always
goes first.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Mr. Wharton says when Charity walks up to dish up some fruit and select a cupcake. She barely glances in his direction. Mr. Wharton is not about to be separated from the food, so instead of going to stand beside his wife, he decides to lean against the dessert table. Maybe if an average-size person had leaned against it then everything would have been fine, but as I already said, Mr. Wharton is not average-size.
The rest all happens as if in slow motion. As the table tilts under Mr. Wharton’s weight, the upper tiers of the cupcake stands begin to teeter. My mother makes a grab for the tower on one end, attempting to keep it upright by pushing on one of the columns. The upper two tiers tip sideways and then topple. My mother catches half a dozen cupcakes with her hands and a couple more with her face. The second tower is positioned right in front of Charity, who at that very moment has her hand poised over a particularly large cupcake. Charity apparently doesn’t have the hand-eye coordination of my mother. She ends up wearing a dozen or more cupcakes like a hat while half a dozen more slide slowly down the front of her dress.
“Oh my goodness,” is all Mrs. Wharton can manage. She hustles over to the table, pushing her husband, who has also been hit by a few flying cupcakes. Unfortunately, instead of pushing him out of the way, she pushes him into the table. Now, I know those kinds of tables have to be built to hold a lot of weight, but I don’t think the builders had someone like Mr. Wharton in mind. When his right hip hits the end of the table, it buckles slightly—enough to tip over one of the melon baskets and send the punch bowl sliding down the tablecloth.
“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Wharton repeats. She grabs at the punch bowl as it slides toward her. The bowl bumps against her stomach, which stops it, but the contents of the bowl keep going, splashing up and over her, turning the whole front of her white dress pink. All of the extra cupcakes begin sliding along the length of the table, too. Trying to prevent more damage, Mr. Wharton grabs the closest end of the table—the lower end—and lifts it up. Unfortunately, he lifts too fast and too far, sending
everything
flying. Mr. Wharton snatches a couple of the cupcakes that shoot in his direction and stuffs one into his mouth. The forks that my mother had so carefully arranged in a circle become dangerous projectiles. The glasses—luckily not glass at all, but heavy plastic—clatter loudly to the floor.
“Save the melon!” Mrs. Wharton shouts over the noise, as if saving one piece of fruit will make any difference. My mother manages to grab one of the melon boats, catching it like a football. The other upends right in front of Charity, sending balls of watermelon flying in every direction. I manage to snag a couple of the plates, but the rest of them crash to the ground. Some of them shatter, but others land on end and make lazy circles on the floor before flopping over. Not everyone ends up wearing some sort of food. Several girls manage to stay clean. I am one of them; something my mother is not likely to forget.
After a lot of apologies and promises to refund their money, my mother and I spend an embarrassing twenty minutes cleaning up the mess. About halfway through, Charity comes out of the bathroom, where she had fled immediately after the accident. She has a tablecloth clutched around her; her dress either abandoned in the trash or left for her mother to retrieve. Her mascara has left long trails of black on her cheeks, and her hair is matted. Her friends stay close to her as they walk past me. I bend to scoop up another handful of melon balls before I realize that the group of girls hasn’t walked past after all but has stopped in front of me. Charity stands there, her pink high heels peeking out from under the tablecloth. I look at her and watch as a glob of pink frosting slowly slides from her hair and comes to rest on her shoulder. “I’ll see you in school, Penny.” She stares at me for several seconds without blinking. I start to stammer an apology, but she just shakes her head at me. She walks out, followed by her entourage, each of them pausing long enough to give me the ice stare.
“Great,” I say, dropping the handful of melon balls into the empty box. “Now she remembers my name.”
chapter three
Saying the ride hack is a lit tle uncomfortable would be like saying that walking across pieces of glass and then a pile of salt smarts a little. My mother is taking the sighing thing to a new level. It’s at the point where I’m afraid she’s going to hyperventilate. I tell her it’s going to be okay. She just nods and keeps watching the road.
We ride in silence for the rest of the way into town. I stare out the window, seeing the big wooden sign for Hog’s Hollow. WELCOME HOME, it says at the bottom. The brochures my mother keeps in the bakery describe about the rustic charm of the area. If
rustic
means “old,” they’re right. Main Street still has a whole section of cobblestone, and most of the store signs are made out of wood that’s been carved and painted. When we lived in the City, my family used to go to the shore in the summer, to towns that are faux rustic. You can tell that they’re not the real deal because everything seems a little too perfect. All the signs match; there are identical iron lampposts on every corner. Flowers are planted in barrels; trash cans have wooden boxes built around them. Even the McDonald’s look rustic. They’re like Hollywood studio sets. But Hog’s Hollow isn’t fake rustic, it’s the real deal.