The Cupcake Queen Read Online Free PDF

tells me that she isn’t just new here, she’s new at teaching, because she hasn’t figured out that kids don’t care about that stuff. As she’s talking, I try to distract myself from the nasty looks I’m getting from across the room. I wonder if all the teachers at this school are named for food. Madame Framboise’s name means “raspberry,” which I know from the French jam my mother always buys. Then for math there was Miss Mellon. . . .
    Just as I’m about to make another one of my life observations, he walks in. He hands a note to Miss Beans. He glances around the room while she reads it. He looks in my direction and I smile, hoping he’s looking at me and not someone just past my shoulder, some willowy blonde with perfect teeth. But he seems to be looking through me. I start thinking that maybe I was wrong, that this isn’t the guy from the beach. I stare down at my desk, feeling my cheeks get hot. Miss Beans finishes the note and scribbles something on it before handing it back to him. He looks at me again, and then he’s gone.
    As the door shuts, the back table starts up again, and I hear words like “cute” float toward me before Miss Beans calls for quiet. I take a peek at the back table again. This time Charity is looking at me. She glares at me for a moment, then mouths, “Mine.” I turn back to the syllabus on my desk, realizing that somehow I’ve stepped in it again with her. I scan the words on the page, wondering if in between the list of weekly assignments and the list of topics for the research paper, maybe I’ll find a clue about how to get myself out of this mess.
    At lunch, instead of sitting alone in the lunchroom or trying to find a small bit of grass to myself out on the lawn, I decide to find my locker. I slide the blue sheet out of my pocket. 311. It’s at the end of the next hall. I notice the two girls from my French class whispering together near the water fountain, but I walk past them. Just ignore them, I tell myself, but it’s hard. I feel my face heating up again. I stop in front of my locker. At least it’s a top one. I try the combination, but it won’t open. I try it again. Still it won’t open. The group near the water fountain has gotten larger. I notice that the bottom part of the locker is bowed out a little and I push it in and hear it click. Maybe that will help. I try it again and this time the latch comes up.
    It’s another one of those common mistakes people make. The voice inside your head just keeps saying, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it, even though the evidence is right there. It’s the voice that seems to be controlling your muscles, though, because you just stand there, watching. Sometimes the voice in your head changes it up a bit. “No way.” “Nuh uh.” “There is no freaking—” By the time you convince yourself that what you are seeing is real, it’s too late. That’s how it is with my locker. It starts slowly. One penny falls out. Then two, but then the weight of them pushes the door open and it’s a wave of pennies. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. A penny tsunami. I mean, how many pennies does it take to fill up a whole locker? And if you’ve ever poured out a whole jar of change, you know how loud it can be. Now take that noise and multiply it by the number of pennies, the height of the drop from the locker to the floor, and the hardness of the tile in the hallway. If you’re thinking car engine gunning or maybe a waterfall, you’re close. I keep watching them gush out until it’s just a trickle and then done.
    “Oh, Pen Knee.” I turn and see that the group of girls has grown by one. At the center is Charity. She is smiling that ice smile of hers. “Just our way of saying welcome to Hog’s Hollow, Pen Knee,” she says. Then all of the girls turn at once and walk away. In fact, most everyone who came running down the hall to see what the commotion was walks away. I guess no one wants to hang around after the