The Cupcake Queen Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Well, I must have given you a locker already.” She folds the sheet in half and hands it to me. “Memorize that and then destroy it.” She seems so serious that I smile.
    “Do I have to swallow it?”
    She tilts her head and squints at me. “Why would you do that?”
    “Never mind,” I say. I fold the blue piece of paper, push it into the back pocket of my jeans, and follow the directions she gave me to find my first class. I stop at Room 110 and double-check my schedule. French. Well, this should be interesting. I turn the knob slowly and push open the door. As expected, every eye in the class is immediately on me and no longer on who I guess to be Madame Framboise.
    “Bonjour,” she says. Okay, I know that one.
    “Bonjour,” I mumble.
    “Class,” she says, turning back to them. There is a murmur through the room. Whispers of “She’s new” filter toward me. I keep telling myself that it’s no big deal, that I’ll be moving back to New York soon and then this nightmare will be over. “Class,” Madame Framboise says again. Then she says something that sounds like a cootie bean , but that must mean “listen,” because everyone gets quiet. She puts her hand out toward me and I start to put out my own, thinking she wants to shake it. “Votre schedule,” she says. I catch the last word and hand her my pink sheet. “Ah, Penny,” she says, putting a stress on the end of my name so it sounds like she’s saying “Pen Knee.” There are more whispers and this time I hear “Pen Knee” thrown in. One girl toward the front says it in a particularly nasty way, and I recognize her from the birthday party. Great. “Pen Knee. Prenez le____ .” This one I have no idea. She repeats it. I can feel myself turning seventy-five shades of red.
    “I don’t—”
    “En français,” she says.
    “I don’t understand—”
    “Vous ne comprenez pas.”
    Okay, I can do this. Comprenez. Comprehend. I shake my head.
    She sighs, and the whispers start up again. “Take your seat.”
    The only free desk is one toward the back of the third row. I have to walk past Charity’s friend, who slides her backpack into the aisle, making me step over it. Luckily, I’m ready for it. Unfortunately I’m not ready for friend number two about halfway back, who decides at that moment to stretch her leg. I only fall partway, catching myself on the edge of a desk.
    “Bon voyage?” she asks, smiling.
    I feel my face get hot and then the backs of my eyes get hot. Do not cry, I tell myself. I slide into the empty chair and pretend to study my schedule while everyone begins whispering again about someone named Pen Knee.
    Somehow I make it through French. Then math, where it’s a lot of stuff I already did in eighth grade. There don’t seem to be any of Charity’s friends in that class, but art class is another story. The whole back table is full of them. And there she is, Charity, right in the middle. I hear “Pen Knee” under their breath as I walk in. I find a seat near the window, next to a girl with dark hair with the tips dyed blue. She’s wearing glasses with rhinestones in the corners. The teacher, Miss Beans, begins talking about all of the projects we are going to do this year. She seems nervous as she talks, and I wonder if she’s new, too. One of the girls at the back table makes a coughing noise and in the middle says, “Pen.” Another coughs, “Knee.” And another, “Loser.” Miss Beans looks at them for a long moment until they are quiet. How is it possible that after only one day I have more enemies than after nine years of school in the City? And that’s including the mashed potato incident in fifth grade and the BeefSteak incident in eighth. I try to put on my tough face, but it probably looks more like my vaguely ill face. I look over at the girl with the rhinestone glasses, but she’s busy drawing something in her sketchbook.
    Miss Beans is still talking about learning objectives and methodology, which