Chapter 1
There was this poem Mom used to read to me when I was six. Boys were made of slugs, snails, and puppy-dog tails. Girls were made of sugar, spice, and everything nice. I probably gave Mom the evil eye when she read that part. I’m famous at school for having an attitude and ranting on about how girls are just as good as boys. I play on the girls’ soccer team, and we clobbered the boys just last week, so you can see where I’m coming from. But that poem must have somehow gotten stuck in my head or gone through my skin and into my body. If you cut my arm, I bet it wouldn’t be blood you’d see pouring out, but pure cane sugar. If you look into the whites of my eyes, you’ll see that they’re the tiniest bit yellow. Like the palest, freshest sponge cake made with plenty of free-range eggs. Even my hair is the color of melted dark chocolate swirling around in a glass bowl that sits over a pan of gently simmering hot water. I am made of sugar and spice. I live to bake. My life would be empty without it. Most of the time there’s only one thing on my mind: Flour Power. *** Mom has gotten used to her kitchen being a complete mess. “If it keeps you happy,” she says through tight lips, casting a horrified eye over her stainless steel surfaces, or what’s left of them underneath the smears of flour, egg, and butter that mark my residency in the kitchen. “Mm hmm,” I say, but I’m not really listening. Right now, I’m greasing a couple of muffin tins with a buttery paper towel. “What is it today?” says Mom, checking her lipstick in the mirror and pressing her lips together. Mom works for a lawyer and has to be in full makeup and dressed in a suit by eight each morning. “Orange polenta muffins,” I say, creaming sugar and butter together in Mom’s brown ceramic bowl and then pouring flour onto a cup on my grandmother’s antique scale. The scale is pretty neat. Mom was going to throw it out, but I rescued it and polished it up until it gleamed as dark and shiny as molasses. “Wow, very twenty-first century,” says Mom. “I’m not sure I even know what to do with polenta.” She picks up her black purse with the gold chain and takes one last look in the mirror. There’s a honk from outside. Mom’s friend Yvonne always drives her to work. They share an office and do a whole bunch of boring women’s stuff, like splitting bottles of wine over lunch together and going shoe shopping. “It’s a grain,” I say. “It soaks up the orange juice and gives the cake a moist texture so that you can add less flour. If you undercook it, you get too much crunch, though.” “Oh, right,” says Mom, but she’s halfway out the door. I can see Yvonne sitting behind the steering wheel, squirting on gallons of perfume. She’s always running slightly late. “Don’t forget to go to school, Amelie! And don’t forget to take all your stuff, okay?” I frown. I’m not likely to forget. Then she slams the door and clicks off in her heels. I hear the screech of her greeting Yvonne, then another slam and the sound of the car disappearing into the distance. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and crank up the volume on the radio. Then I glance at the kitchen clock. Forty minutes until I need to leave for school. Perfect timing. I pour the juice of four freshly squeezed oranges into my mixture and add the grated orange peel. Then I lift the dripping wooden spoon to my lips and let the raw batter swish around in my mouth. My tongue comes alive with zingy orange and rich, buttery batter. “Awesome,” I say, reaching for a metal spoon. I spoon the mixture into two greased muffin tins and slide them into the oven. Then I bolt upstairs to get ready for school. *** I leave a tray of muffins cooling on the rack for Mom to see when she gets home. She works part-time, so she’s always home before me. I put the rest in a Tupperware container and shove it into my backpack. Then I pick up the plumpest one from the rack, dollop a spoonful of rich, creamy Greek yogurt on top, and stuff it into my mouth as I run for the bus. Crumbs and yogurt get all over my clothes, but I don’t care. School comes second to baking. I spend the whole day in school dreaming up recipes to try out when I get home. Even though I’m only thirteen, I recently got a job in the local grocery store. Since I asked to be paid in ingredients, it’s okay that I’m younger than the normal hiring age — fourteen. When I asked about the ingredients, Karim, the owner of the shop, looked closely at me over the top of his black glasses and scowled until his hairy eyebrows met in the middle, like two confused beetles. “You want me to pay you in eggs and flour?” he said. “This is most unusual. Girls your age like to have money for makeup and boys, no? Though I suppose I can’t pay you anyway.” His shoulders moved up and down when he laughed. Then he stopped because I wasn’t laughing with him. I mean — I do like clothes and makeup and all that stuff as much as the next thirteen-year-old girl, but I’m not obsessed with them like I am with baking. “Flour, eggs, sugar, and butter, with other ingredients thrown in according to the season,” I say in my best business-like voice. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.” Karim rubbed his brow in astonishment and shook his head. “You are one crazy American girl,” he said. “But okay. I pay you in stuff. Not too much, mind you.” The day I got the job at Karim’s shop, I skipped all the way home. *** School is okay. In most classes, I sit next to Jenna Smith, my best friend and guinea pig. She’s not actually a guinea pig. What I mean is that I test out all my new recipes on her before I record them in The Amelie Day Book of Baking. The book is going to be published one day, and it will be a best seller. Jenna and I are total opposites, which I guess is why we’ve been best friends for almost three years. She’s tall, blond, and pink-cheeked. She loves clothes, jewelry, and animals. I’m short, dark-haired, and pale, and animals make me cough. During a passing period, I get out my Tupperware and lean against Jenna’s locker as she grabs her books for her next class. I wave the box under her nose until she caves in and takes one of the fat muffins. “Orangey,” she says, sniffing. “Yum. Did you make these today?” I nod and take another one for myself. “Yeah, of course,” I say. “You know me.” Jenna takes a bite and chews on the muffin with a faraway look in her eyes. “These are the best muffins ever,” she says. I laugh. She says that about every single batch I make. The laugh turns into a cough. Jenna rubs my back. “Okay?” she says. I take a deep, steadying breath and nod. “Polenta,” I choke. “That’s what gives them their moist texture.” “Mmm,” says Jenna. “Could I have another one for lunch?” I let her take two, and then I eat another one myself, devouring it in three bites. Most people wouldn’t stay as slim as I am if they ate all the cake and calories I chow down every day. Most people would get fat and pimply and would probably die. But then again, as Mom is always reminding me, I am not Most People. I snap the lid of the box shut. “Time for French,” I say as the bell rings. I link arms with Jenna, and we head off toward class. *** At lunchtime I hang out with Harry. I think we’re going out. Harry’s amazing. He accepts me for who I am. I can’t even remember my life without Harry, because I’ve grown up with him. We’ve been friends since we were six years old. At one point, his parents lived next door to mine, so he truly was the “boy next door.” He’s in the grade above me. And he’s a big fan of my baking. “Awesome,” he says, biting into one of my orange muffins with a glint in his dark brown eyes. I bet a lot of other girls wish they were going out with Harry. He’s handsome, but not in a preppy, arrogant way — more of an athletic, outdoorsy kind of way. And he’s kind. “You okay today?” he asks. I flush a little. I wish people wouldn’t keep asking me that. I know it’s only because he cares, but it makes me feel like a charity case sometimes. “Fine,” I say. I wave the box of muffins under his nose, and Harry doesn’t need much persuading to help himself to another one. Then I head off to my next class in order to disguise another bout of coughing. I leave Harry stuffing his face and waving.
