Free The Cupcake Queen by Heather Hepler Page A

cupcakes, sliding them toward the front. The penny cupcakes have been selling pretty well, but the best sellers are still the triple chocolate mud slides. It was hard to make it look like there was an actual mud slide on the top of the cupcakes without them looking gross, like someone got sick on them. I check my phone for about the fortieth time. I left another message on my dad’s voice mail. It’s starting to get pathetic. Either he’s incredibly busy or he just doesn’t want to deal with me.
    The other person I’ve been trying to reach is Tally. The whole can-of-lard-in-the-locker thing is making me crazy. All Tally does is smile and tell me to trust her. It’s just too weird to get my head around. The sleigh bells on the front door jingle, making me look up.
    “Hi,” I say, sliding the case closed. The UPS delivery guy whose name I can never remember, Paul or Saul, walks in and places a heavy padded envelope on the counter. I read the name on his ID badge. STEVE. Not even close.
    He slides his electronic mail tracker out of the holster on his belt. I notice he has a place for his cell phone and a clip for his keys and even a miniflashlight. He’s the postal equivalent of Batman. “Where’s your mom?” he asks. He taps the digital pen against the screen a few times before putting the unit on the counter in front of me.
    “Meeting,” I say, signing my name in the tiny box on the screen. I have to do it three times before it resembles anything like my signature. Even then it looks like my name is Pezzy Leme. Steve takes a sample from the tray and pops it into his mouth. I push the pen back into its holder and pick up the envelope. It’s soft, but heavy. TALBOTS & TALBOTS, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW, with a Manhattan address in the corner. It’s addressed to my mother. Ms. Elizabeth Lane.
    Steve helps himself to another sample before sliding his tracker back into his belt.
    “Tell your mom I said ‘hi.’ ” I just nod and keep looking at the envelope. CONFIDENTIAL is stamped on the front in red ink. The bells jingle as the door eases shut behind him. I flip the envelope over and look at the tear strip on the back. There’s no way I can sneak it open. I sigh and put it on the counter behind me. It seems like really important things keep happening all around me and no one is talking about them. At least not to me.
    I pick up the sample tray and walk back into the kitchen to cut up a couple more cupcakes. I’ve just finished arranging quarters of cupcakes on the tray when the back door opens. Mom pushes her sunglasses up on top of her head but keeps talking on her cell, frowning at me as she walks past. Even though I’m doing my job, that frown makes me feel like she’s caught me slacking. I push the door toward the front open with my hip and walk around the front of the counter. I put down the tray of samples and start brushing up crumbs with my hands. My mother snaps her cell phone shut as she pushes through the door. She stands on the other side of the counter, the frown now trained on everything she sees. I try to look through her eyes. I see a few fingerprints on the display case, way up in the corner, where they missed the sweep of my cloth. I see that the triple chocolate cupcakes are uneven. She sighs and finally looks at me. But it’s the same way she’s been looking at everything else. Judging, calculating, studying.
    “Did anyone come in?” she asks.
    “Just the UPS guy.” I have to say the list of names in my head again. Paul. Saul. “Steve,” I say aloud. “He left that.” I point to the envelope on the back counter. Mom picks it up and then frowns at it, too. I wait, hoping she’ll say something about it, but she doesn’t. She takes it into the back and I hear her pulling the strip, ripping the envelope open. I start to follow her, but the bells on the door ring and soon I am boxing up cupcakes for two women in jeans and twin sets, who seem forced-relaxed in a way that tells me they’re