Free The Cupcake Queen by Heather Hepler Page B

from the City. As they leave I hear the back door open and then Gram’s voice. She starts talking about the family she just photographed. How the baby spit up on the father’s suit and the two children started fighting over a toy, which led to a skirt being torn and a black eye. Her voice sounds tired. My mother keeps um humming, as though she’s barely listening. Then she says something so softly I can’t hear it. I stand next to the door to hear better and think, I’ve been reduced to eavesdropping.
    “It’s a good offer,” my mother says. “I should probably take it.”
    “Have you told Penny?” Gram asks, and I’m nearly leaning against the door. No! I want to shout. No one is telling me anything!
    My mother sighs. “I will,” she says. “As soon as it’s more definite. I mean, I wouldn’t want to tell her and then have to un tell her.”
    “I think you should tell her,” Gram says. “But it’s your choice.”
    I hear footsteps coming toward the door. I back up and busy myself with wiping the counter. “Penny,” Gram says, pushing through the door. “I have to tell you about the shoot.”
    “Later,” I say, moving past her toward the back. I’m tired of everyone hiding things from me, making decisions behind my back and telling me when it’s too late to change anything. “I’m going . . .” I start to say “home,” but then I realize I’m not sure where that is anymore. “I’m going back to the house,” I say. I pick up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. I go out into the alley without even pulling on my coat. I can see my mother’s face as she looks up from the papers and Gram’s as she watches me from the doorway. I just keep walking, head down, feeling the cold seep all the way through me, settling deep inside.
     
     
    I drop my backpack in the entry hall when I get to Gram’s. I kick off my shoes and put them in the washer, where I dropped my jeans and socks earlier. Maybe a good wash will get the slightly moldy gesso smell out of everything. I pull on a pair of sweatpants that are sitting on the dryer and walk into the kitchen. The clock on the oven blinks. Nearly five. I’m on my own for a while. I know Gram and Mom will be late getting home. They have to put together a huge wedding order. I feel a tiny bit bad for not helping, but I just had to get out of there. I pull a sleeve of Saltines out of the pantry and sit on the window seat, looking out at the ocean. I lean my face against the glass. It feels cool against my cheek. I keep thinking the one thing I’ve been thinking all day. I just want to go home. I want to go away from this place where everyone either hates me or hides things from me. I sigh and put the corner of a cracker in my mouth. And then I do a dumb thing. I only say it to myself, but it’s enough. At least it can’t get any worse.
    The phone rings, making me jump.
    “Hello?” I’m expecting Mom or Gram or maybe Tally. It’s not any of them. It’s my dad.
    “Hey, sweetheart,” he says. “I got your message.”
    I try to think of something to say but can’t. Ever since we left the City, there’s been this big gap between us that neither of us seems to be able to cross. “Listen,” he says finally, “I need to talk to your mother. Is she there?” They only refer to each other as they relate to me now. Your father. Your mother.
    “She’s still at the bakery,” I say.
    “Oh,” he says, and then there’s this tiny laugh. “The bakery.” He sounds like he’s making quotation marks with his fingers and rolling his eyes. Part of me agrees with him, and part of me gets mad. “Listen, just tell your mom I got the paperwork today.” I’m thinking, What paperwork? But I don’t have to wait long for an answer. “Tell her I talked to the Realtor. If she can get everything filed before the weekend, we can close before the end of the month.”
    Somewhere in all those unfamiliar terms, I realize he’s talking about an apartment. And I