Read The Icing on the Cake for Free Online

started, seventh-graders are allowed to eat lunch in the quad, along with the eighth-graders who have had it to themselves since September. So far it’s been too cold to eat outside, but today is one of those weirdly warm January days when all you need is a fall jacket, and maybe a scarf if your mom gives you a hard time (which, of course, mine does). Frankie, Lillian, and I have staked out a corner of the quad, and we’re sitting cross-legged onour coats with our lunches lined up in the middle like a mini buffet. The sky is practically cloudless, and the sun feels so good on our faces that we all close our eyes for a minute and soak it in, like we’re plants desperate to photosynthesize after a long winter.
    The sun is so warm on my skin that I almost feel like I’m still at my dad’s in California. Unfortunately, thinking about LA reminds me of the party, and an icy wave crashes through my toasty daydream. I open my eyes.
    Frankie’s poking through the couscous salad I brought, picking out the raisins and piling them up in one corner of the container. She has a thing about raisins in savory food because she thinks they don’t match the other flavors. Frankie has been acting kind of quiet and distracted, which isn’t unusual on days that we have social studies right after lunch. I’m about to tease her about still having a crush on Mr. Mac, when Lillian yanks her backpack open and pulls out a bulging plastic bag.
    â€œI forgot I brought these!” she says, adding what’s left of the cookies she and her mom took home from Saturday’s cooking class to our smorgasbord.
    Frankie pauses her archeological exploration of the couscous and looks up at us. “You know Errol’s nephew—what’s his name—he was sitting at my table?”
    She asks this in an overly casual way, but she’s not fooling anyone. Frankie pretending she doesn’t remember a cute boy’s name can mean only one thing. I raise my eyebrows at Lillian.
    â€œYou mean Tristan ?” Lillian says, unzipping the bag of cookies.
    â€œOh, right, that was it,” Frankie says, still acting cool as a cucumber. “So, he seems kind of nice, right? Taking a cooking class with his uncle and everything.”
    Lillian pulls a perfect-looking meringue out of the bag. “He didn’t say a whole lot,” she says, taking a bite and starting to giggle, “but he was totally hot!”
    Lillian always giggles when she talks about boys, which cracks me up.
    â€œTristan Holland,” I say, “a.k.a. Total Hotness. But a ninth grader. I don’t know, Franks, isn’t that like cradle robbing for you, after liking Mr. Mac all this time?”
    Lillian laughs again, sending little pieces of meringue flying out of her mouth. She quickly covers it with her hand.
    Frankie puts down her fork, glaring at me. “Ha-ha. Whatever. I guess he was pretty cute,” she shrugs. “You guys don’t, like, like him or anything . . . do you?”
    I roll my eyes. The truth is, I’ve been so busy thinking about the party and the whole thing with my mom and dad that there isn’t any room in my brain for boys right now. “No,” I say. “But I know who does.”
    â€œWho?” Frankie asks, dropping her casual act and sounding concerned.
    I give her shoulder a shove. “You do, you faker! It’s so obvious.”
    Frankie blushes. “I so do not! No way. I hardly even know him.”
    â€œWell, you have six weeks to get to know him,” Lillian says. “We’ll have to figure out a way to make sure he’s in your group on Saturday.”
    â€œI know! I was thinking the same thing,” Frankie says, giving up her pretense and grabbing our hands. “You guys have to help me.” The force of her grip crushes the cookie I’m holding, and the crumbs fall onto the remains of Lillian’s sesame noodles like sprinkles on