Free Confectionately Yours #3: Sugar and Spice by Lisa Papademetriou Page A

for the improv group.
    Here is a secret: Sometimes you don’t stop caring about someone just because they aren’t nice to you.
    It would be easier if you could.

“I just can’t figure out if we should open with juggling, or with David Lesser and his Corgi,” Meghan says as she stirs her yogurt.
    “What does David’s Corgi do?” I ask. I’ve met Priscilla — she’s a great dog, but her legs are so short and stubby that I can’t imagine her jumping through a hoop, or anything.
    “She does ballet, apparently,” Meghan says.
    “Are you joking right now?”
    “No.”
    “No, really. Tell the truth.”
    “I am.”
    “Quit lying.”
    “Swear,” Meghan says, holding up three fingers, scouts-honor style. “David says she dances on her hind legs.”
    “Open with that,” I say, and nibble a plantain chip. I seriously love them. The salty kind, not the sweet ones.
    Meghan nods, makes a note, then takes a bite of her yogurt. “This talent show is really coming together.”
    “Have you asked Ms. Lang’s permission yet?”
    “Not exactly.” Meghan blows her pink bangs out of her eyes.
    I sigh. I should have known.
    “If everything’s all set, it’ll be harder for her to say no,” Meghan reasons.
    “If everything’s all set, it’ll be easier for her to go ballistic,” I shoot back.
    Meghan chews on her pen cap. “Do you think it’s possible to do it without her finding out?”
    “No. And if you try, Meghan Markerson, I swear, you can forget about my help.”
    “Okay, okay.” She rolls her eyes and makes another note. “Too bad Artie won’t help us. She could probably convince Ms. Lang to go for it.”
    It’s as if the mention of Artie’s name causes her to appear. I see her cross the cafeteria and approach the dramarama table holding her tray. She hovers at the end for a moment, and I think that she and I realize at the same moment that there isn’t an open seat for her. Artie glances over at the other nearby chairs, as if she might drag one over, but nobody at the table even looks at her. I see her mouth move, forming, “Hey.”
    Still nobody glances her way.
    “Okay, I’m thinking that Adelaide Green’s jazz trio can open the second half,” Meghan is saying, but I’m barely listening. I can’t tear my eyes away from the train wreck happening at the dramarama table. Artie hesitates a moment, uncertain. Chang finally looks over at her. But that’s all she does. She eyeballs Artie from head to foot, then turns back to Trina Bachman. Sharp little needles stick into my heart as Artie turns and walks toward the double doors.
    “Where are you going?” Meghan calls, and that’s when I realize that I’m chasing Artie. I don’t even remember deciding to go after her. I’m just doing it.
    “Artie?” I ask softly once I’m two steps behind her.
    She wheels, her eyes flashing. “How many times do I have to ask you to call me Artemis?” she snaps.
    “Um — one more?”
    She huffs out a sigh, and her nostrils flare. “What do you want, Hayley?” she asks. She sounds tired.
    “I just wondered if you wanted to eat lunch with me and Meghan,” I say.
    Artie blushes, and I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have let her know that I saw her get dissed by the dramaramas. “Sit with the two of you?” she hisses. Her eyes fill, and a tear catches on her long eyelashes. “Are you serious? This whole thing is your fault!”
    I almost walk away. Almost. But, for some reason, my feet stay bolted to the floor. The usual noise of the cafeteria surrounds us — the clank and chatter of lunch. It reminds me of the café, and I find myself thinking of Gran and Uzma.
    Sometimes the people who most want to share are the ones who aren’t very good at it , Gran had said.
    “Yeah, I get that,” I say to Artie. “But — maybe you want to sit with us, anyway.”
    Artie stares at me for a moment. She sneaks a sideways glance toward the drama table and presses her lips together, so that they form a slim