Sticker Girl and the Cupcake Challenge Page 3

  “Pencils down.” Ms. Graham stands at the front of the room to collect the papers.

  I’ve never handed in an incomplete quiz before; I feel so guilty that I spend the rest of the day taking pages of notes and listening intently to all my teachers.

  After school, Samantha and I wait for rides together. It turns out she also likes to watch Dancing with the Stars, so we discuss which couple we think will win. Samantha has been taking ballet classes for years and stands straighter than any kid I know. Waiting in front of the school with her makes me adjust my posture too.

  When Eric picks me up, I get in the car as gracefully as I can, hoping some of Samantha’s ballet discipline will rub off on me.

  “What are you doing?” my brother asks. “You look stiff as a board.”

  I ignore him but find myself slouching into my seat within minutes.

  “Dad wants us to swing by the diner,” Eric says. “Debbie called to say she couldn’t work for him anymore, so he needs some help.”

  “Debbie’s leaving?!” Debbie is our favorite waitress, and she’s been with our family since Dad first bought the diner. She taught Eric and me little tricks to save time and keep customers happy—like cleaning ink from an exploding pen off your hands with a lemon wedge and always having crayons handy for families with kids. Debbie takes college classes at night and worked in the diner four days a week. She has tattoos of Japanese fans on both her arms and can remember most people’s orders without writing them down. I always thought of her as the older sister I never had. If losing her is hard on me, I can’t imagine how devastated Dad must be.

  “Business is really slow, so Debbie didn’t have a choice. She wasn’t earning enough in tips to make ends meet,” Eric continues.

  Last time I was at the diner, Debbie didn’t complain about how little she made in tips that morning, but I could tell she was used to making more.

  “What’s she going to do now?” I ask. “I hope we still get to see her.”

  “I’m taking her to the movies on Saturday,” Eric says. “So I definitely will.”

  My mouth hangs open in disbelief. Eric fake-punches me in the arm to let me know he’s kidding.

  “Debbie would never go on a date with you—even to the movies, where no one could see her.”

  “Very funny.” Eric turns his head to look in the other lane so I can’t see his smile. That’s how it is with Eric now—hiding his feelings pretty much all the time. I don’t want to be like that when I’M in high school.

  When we get to the diner, Dad looks tired but I’m sure some of that is sadness from Debbie quitting. I act extra happy and ask him to help me bake cupcakes for the sale on Friday.

  He tells me he’d love to help but I can tell his mind is focused on how he’s going to manage with one less worker. Debbie was a pro who easily did the work of two servers; it’ll be difficult to find someone to replace her.

  Eric has a research paper due tomorrow so he can’t stay long. Dad tells me to fill all the napkin dispensers and condiment bottles while he and Eric go to the back room to take stock of what needs to be ordered.

  I’ve been helping Dad with side work around the restaurant for so long that you’d think I’d have these chores done in a flash, but no matter how many times I stack the napkin dispenser, one of the napkins always ends up sticking out from the pile and I have to start all over again.

  Only fourteen dispensers to go when the diner phone rings with a call from Bev.

  At first I don’t know what she’s talking about when she mentions Burger and Fries. Then I realize she wants me to come over to play with the kittens. I tell her I’d love to be playing with kittens instead of working here for the next few hours and she responds with one word: STICKERS.

  Of course! I’ve got a robot right here in my backpack! Even if the robot has some weird hobby like the ballerina chipmunk or zombie DJ from my last sheet, it’s still a ROBOT. It’s got to be better at these repetitive tasks than I am.

  The problem—as always—is how to explain the sudden appearance of something strange and new—in this case, an android at the diner. This robot’s head IS a gumball machine; maybe I can say I got us a free trial of the Gumball Machine of the Future to put by the cash register.

  I smile to myself and whisk the sticker off the page.

  “A little rough there, weren’t you?” When the robot rubs his head with his metallic hand, a yellow gumball falls out of his mouth and onto the floor.

  “Don’t even think about eating that,” he tells me. “Unless you want to spit out your pancreas for ME to chew on.”

  “Gross! No!” I hand him back the gumball and he takes off the top of his glass head and pops it back in with the others.

  I ask him why he’s talking with a British accent.

  “It’s the only one I’ve got. I’m from England.”

  I want to ask how a British robot sticker landed on a sheet my dad got in California but I can hear my dad and brother in the back room and have to make up a story—fast.

  Dad and Eric swing through the doors and stop short when they see the robot. Before I can come up with a believable story, the robot greets them.

  “Hello, I’m Model M29,” he says. “But you can call me Nigel. I’m here to help.”

  Eric looks at me with an expression of utter confusion but Dad just points to the ketchup bottles lined up on the counter and tells Nigel he can start with them.

  “Uh … where did the robot come from, Martina?” Eric can’t stop staring at Nigel, who’s already filled two bottles of ketchup without spilling a drop.

  His question must wake Dad out of his worry daze because he’s suddenly interested in the answer too.

  “It’s a funny story,” I begin. Why did I listen to Bev? I’m not good at coming up with explanations like she is!

  “I’m part of the new robotics lab at Martina’s school,” Nigel interjects.

  “I went to that school too,” Eric says, “and there’s no robotics lab.”

  “There is now!” I point to Nigel, who’s already moved on to the mustard. “Nigel’s been programmed to do all kinds of things.”

  Eric’s still not buying it. “What kind of things?”

  Nigel stops working. “I follow instructions to the letter. My résumé is quite extensive, if you must know.”

  “Nigel’s been helping all the kids in my class,” I add. “I’ve been so busy with student council, I forgot to tell you it was my turn to take him home.”

  Eric circles Nigel with a raised eyebrow. “I drove you home from school and there definitely was NOT a robot in the car.”

  “Yeah…” My voice trails off. I notice a delivery truck leaving the store across the street. “The last kid who took him home just dropped him off.”

  “Seems like Nigel knows his way around a restaurant,” he says.

  “He does!” I cross my arms and turn to Eric. “Don’t get any ideas about Nigel filling in at the coffee shop,” I say. “He’s working with just me and my class.”

  Dad must still be flustered from losing Debbie. “I’ll take all the help I can get, even from a gumball machine,” he says.

  “I BEG YOUR PARDON,” Nigel says. “I am a mechanical being of the highest intelligence.”

  Dad smiles. “You’re certainly better than the cotton-candy machine I bought last year. That thing was impossible to clean. You can help out anytime.”

  Dad takes Eric back to the walk-in fridge to record inventory of the meats and dairy. I thank Nigel for making up the story about the robotics lab.

  “It isn’t a story,” Nigel says. “I’ve dispatched electronic mail to your principal and student council members with my blueprints to begin work immediately.”

  What?!

  Nigel’s gumballs bounce around inside his head and he shoots me a look that, if he were human, could only be described as a smirk. “I’m not sure you have anything to say about it, Martina.”

  Who’s in charge here—me or the robot?<
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  I Get to Bake!

  It’s dark by the time we get home from the diner. Dad apologized several times for having me stay so late, but there was no one else to help him. Usually the diner closes at nine o’clock, but tonight business was so slow Dad closed an hour early. The optimist in me wants to believe he locked up early because I was there, but I see how much it upsets him to stand at the counter and watch people walk past the diner and into the trendy restaurants down the street.

  We bring home some unsold chicken fajitas to make a quick dinner for him and Mom. Dad asks Nigel if he wants to sleep on the couch but Nigel laughs and explains that sleep means something different to a robot. He then plugs himself into the hallway outlet and wheels into the hall closet alongside the mop and broom. It seems like an uncomfortable way to spend the night, but I’m too tired to argue. I collapse onto my bed.

  When I check on Nigel the next morning, he’s no longer in the closet but folding laundry alongside Mom.

  “Nigel was just telling me about the new robotics lab,” Mom says. “I miss one PTO meeting and suddenly your school is zooming into the future!”

  She hands me a glass of orange juice and spoons out some scrambled eggs from the skillet. Eric comes into the kitchen and takes a forkful of eggs off my plate until Mom hits his hand with the wooden spoon and he gets his own.

  “I thought your school was broke,” Eric says. “You’re having a bake sale to buy books but you have a robotics lab? Doesn’t make sense.”

  I’m surprised Eric was actually listening at dinner the other night when I talked about the sale. Before I can answer, Nigel does.

  “EVERY school should have a robotics lab. Robots are the way of the future!” He neatly folds one of James’s shirts and puts it on top of the tidiest pile of laundry I’ve ever seen.

  “That doesn’t really answer my question.” Eric sinks his teeth into a piece of toast.

  “Well, if the robots that come out of the new lab are half as helpful as Nigel, then let the fund-raising begin!” Mom hands me the folded clothes to drop off in our rooms but Nigel intercepts and whisks the stacks down the hall.

  “I could really get used to having him around,” Mom says. “How long before you have to pass him on to the next student?”

  “Uhm, he’s mine for a few more days at least,” I answer. “But don’t get too attached.” I run upstairs before Mom or Eric can ask any more questions.

  As much as I love having a houseguest to help with chores, I worry about what kind of ruckus Nigel’s planning on causing at school. After I finish brushing my teeth, I find him waiting by the front door, eager to tag along.

  “I must say, I cannot WAIT to get started on this new adventure.”

  Nigel’s been so helpful, but he must have a few wires loose if he thinks I’m taking him to school—today or any day.

  “I need you to stay here and help me prepare,” I tell him. “I’ve got to bake cupcakes for the sale.”

  Gumballs swirl around inside Nigel’s head. “Gathering ingredients, mixing, then baking one dozen cupcakes requires forty-seven minutes,” Nigel answers. “I certainly don’t need all day.”

  Nigel’s organizational skills make me look like an amateur.

  “Besides,” I continue, “my father needs you at the diner.”

  Dad walks over with his keys, ready to drive me to school. “I would LOVE an extra pair of hands at the diner today—you’re a godsend, Nigel.”

  “Finally, someone who gives me the respect I deserve.” Nigel swivels around and follows Dad to the car, itching to get to work. I can see I’m going to have to come up with a giant family to-do list to keep Nigel busy and distract him from the robotics lab idea.

  The school day passes pretty quickly, thanks to an assembly on fire prevention. Bev keeps leaning over during the visiting firefighter’s speech and asking me questions about Nigel. “What part of England is he from? How is he going to build a robotics lab? You left him alone with your dad all day?!” Another teacher finally comes over and makes Bev switch seats with a girl on the other side of the room.

  The assembly is a great opportunity to turn off my brain and just listen, but as the firefighter finishes, I know it’s time to get back to my to-do list. First and foremost, I’ve got to crank out some cupcakes for tomorrow’s sale.

  When I get home, I’m shocked to see HUNDREDS of cupcakes covering every surface of the kitchen—counters, table, even the top of the fridge. The ones on the dining room table are stacked in a giant pyramid.

  All the cupcakes have buttercream frosting and look exactly like Craig.

  “This isn’t funny!” screams a familiar voice.

  I can tell it’s Craig but I can’t find him amid all the chocolate clones.

  “OVER HERE! OVER HERE!”

  I follow his voice to the middle of the cupcake pyramid and find him in the second row from the bottom.

  I laugh. “You look good enough to eat.”

  “Here’s a tip,” Craig says. “If a robot ever asks if you want to be a model, say NO!”

  I look over to Nigel, who’s washing a mixing bowl, and tell him he did an amazing job. “But I thought you were helping Dad today?”

  “I organized the stockroom, cleaned the oven and grill, recycled all the bent silverware, washed the baseboards, and waxed the floor. He brought me back home because there was nothing else to do.”

  I don’t know how to tell Nigel I was actually looking forward to baking tonight. I’m not a kid who just WATCHES cooking shows; I actually like to cook too. Bev was going to come over and help; will her mom still let her come over with the kittens if the baking’s already done? How was Nigel supposed to know I wanted to bake those treats myself?

  “If you don’t get me out of here right this second,” Craig says, “I’m going to sneeze and bring this whole thing down!” Poor Craig does seem uncomfortable in that pyramid.

  I take apart the lavish display and rescue my cupcake friend.

  “It’s hard to feel special when there are others who look just as delicious as you are,” Craig complains.

  “At least you’re the only one who talks,” I say. As soon as the sentence is out of my mouth, I wonder if it’s true.

  I pick up a few different cupcakes. “Hello? Hello?”

  “Why are you talking as if they can answer?” Nigel asks. “They just came out of the oven! They’re cupcakes! Cupcakes that look delicious!”

  Craig looks at me and sighs.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” I ask.

  He rolls his eyes and tells me to go ahead.

  I pull down the pleated liner and take a bite of the warm cupcake.

  “Nigel—these are incredible!”

  “You’re welcome,” Craig answers. “I’M the one who gave him the recipe.”

  I wonder how Craig knows what ingredients he’s made out of. I certainly can’t name all MY body parts.

  It doesn’t take more than a few bites to finish the cupcake. Even though the only others in the kitchen are Craig and a robot, I resist the temptation to lick the buttercream frosting off my fingers. It’s one of the things that drives Mom crazy and she’s burned into us to reach for a napkin instead.

  When Mom gets home, I borrow her phone and snap a few photos of the kitchen full of cupcakes. Mom then forwards them to Ms. Graham, who can post them on social media. Christy Morales and the Cupcake Challenge crew have GOT to see this!

  If these cupcakes are any indication, tomorrow’s bake sale is going to be a huge success.

  The Bake Sale

  In addition to moviemaking and cartoons, it turns out Mike is pretty good at organizing too. He scheduled two different times for the bake sale—one at morning drop-off and one at afternoon pickup. Our class is the only one doing the fund-raiser, so we’ll be able to target every kid and parent during those two slots. Mike and I would probably make a great team if I didn’t have to keep Craig and the other stickers a secret.

  Samantha, Scott, and
I divide the baked goods into morning foods—muffins and assorted breads and pastries—and afternoon treats—brownies, cookies, bars, and cupcakes. Mike and Samantha also set up cones in the parking lot to make sure people from the neighborhood can park and get goodies too.

  Dad drives me to school forty-five minutes early. He offers to stop at our favorite donut shop to get me a hot cocoa and chocolate twist but I tell him I’m saving my appetite to buy something at the sale. He hands me a ten to get something for him and Mom and to “keep the change.” Although my parents don’t like to talk about it in front of us, I know they’ve been worried about money, so it means a lot to have Dad show his support for our class’s efforts.

  As I place two of Samantha’s mom’s cinnamon rolls into a paper bag for Dad, Scott comes over.

  “I want to eat every single one of these.” Scott’s eyes are as glazed as the cinnamon rolls as he gestures to the three large tables displaying everything our class will hopefully sell. “Can the class treasurer also be the official taste tester?”

  “You can definitely taste-test the quinoa date bars Noreen’s mom made,” Samantha says. “They look like they’re filled with centipedes.”

  Seeing all the homemade goodies laid out, I can’t help but be proud of our work. You can tell some items were made without much help from a grownup—like Scott’s lopsided M&M cookies—but a few things look good enough to be in a bakery window. A few weeks ago this bake sale was just an idea in my head, but the whole class came together to make it happen. Maybe I’m a pretty good class president after all.

  Mike holds up one of the Craig clones. “Martina, I don’t think you made enough cupcakes,” he jokes. “There’s enough to feed three football teams, and our school doesn’t even have a football team!”

  Ms. Graham lays two crisp bills on the table for a blueberry muffin. “You kids have done a fantastic job. Not only does the food look great, the social media campaign you suggested was very effective. A woman at my gym told me she’s stopping by because she saw the sale posted on Instagram.”