Grace Makes It Great Page 3

  I had an idea.

  I dashed outside to where Mom was working in her garden, and I asked her about the poster board she kept on hand in the laundry room.

  “Sure,” Mom said when I told her my plan. “Great idea, honey,” she called after me as I raced inside.

  I laid a sheet of poster board on the kitchen table. With a marker, I made one huge calendar. I turned to the computer and copied each order onto the board, under the day of the week it was supposed to be delivered. Then I worked backward to figure out our baking schedule so that our products would be fresh for delivery. Some things could be made ahead of time and frozen, but not everything.

  Then I taped the board up on the pantry door, where we could all easily see it.

  “Wow,” Maddy said. “That’s great. It breaks a huge mountain down into small hills. We can do this, can’t we?”

  I nodded. “We’ll tackle these orders, and then after our deliveries next Saturday, maybe, with a little luck, we’ll move our business over to the kitchen of First Street Family Bakery.”

  “I hope so!” Maddy said.

  “Are your grandparents charging us anything to use their space?” Ella asked.

  I paused. I hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see what they say. But for now, we’d better get busy baking,” I said with renewed energy.

  Just then, Ella’s cell phone dinged. “It’s my dad,” Ella said. “And he says, ‘Sounds like fun. Count me in!’”

  We did a quick dance and cheer session around the kitchen, and then we forced ourselves to settle down and get to work—filling one order at a time.

  Mom wasn’t happy that I’d put off my report on astronaut food until Sunday night, especially when she found out that part of the report involved baking. “Oh, Grace. It’s eight o’clock, you’ve been pushing hard all weekend, and now you’re going to squeeze in a report and start baking at this hour?”

  I felt a little bit like Bonbon getting scolded after misbehaving. “It’s okay, Mom,” I said quickly. “I’ve already done all the research for the report, and I picked one of Grandma’s super-easy recipes. While the cupcakes are baking, I’ll write my paper. It’ll go fast.”

  Mom sighed. She filled the teakettle with water and put it on the back burner. “I’ll be in the living room,” she said when her tea was ready. “Let me know when you need the oven.”

  It wasn’t that I had to bring a treat as part of the assignment, but I had it in my head that it would be more fun if I did. Unfortunately, by the time I was all done with my report and with cleaning up the kitchen, it was after ten o’clock. I felt as tired as I did the day Mom and I flew home from Paris.

  As I turned off the kitchen lights and woke Bonbon to follow me upstairs, Mom said, “Grace, sweetie, I know this weekend was an exception. You had lots you needed to do, but no more late nights like this, okay? Schoolwork has to come before your bakery business.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Thanks for staying up with me, Mom.” I wrapped my arms around her waist. “Good night.”

  Mom kissed the top of my head. “Good night, my little baker.”

  I smiled at that. I was tired, but also excited because I’d found a way to combine baking and schoolwork. I couldn’t wait to share my “tasty” report with my classmates tomorrow!

  The next morning, I was still tired—but ready. I stood at the front of the class, a little jittery to have everyone’s eyes on me. I cleared my throat, and then read aloud from my report:

  What Astronauts Eat

  In early space missions, gravity caused all kinds of problems with crumbs and liquids flying around, so astronauts ate meals from squeeze tubes. Of course, the food wasn’t very appealing. I mean, who wants to eat a meal out of a tube? Plus, astronauts couldn’t bring fresh fruits and vegetables on board, because they wouldn’t last very long in space. So it was hard to bring tasty, healthy meals, and it didn’t take long before space travelers were losing too much weight.

  That’s why many astronauts began to eat freeze-dried foods, which keep for a long time. All they have to do is add water to the dried foods at a rehydration station on the space shuttle.

  Today, in the International Space Station, or ISS, one of the favorite items on the menu is freeze-dried shrimp cocktail with horseradish-infused powdered sauce! Astronauts can eat freeze-dried anything, from steak to chocolate cake.

  When I finished reading, I turned to the supply cupboard and pulled out the baking box I’d stashed before class.

  “Because we’re studying space and astronauts,” I said, “I brought a space treat: Cosmic Cupcakes.”

  Mr. Bauer led the class in a round of applause as I began handing out the cupcakes.

  “With chocolate frosting,” a girl named Amelia said. “My favorite!”

  A boy named Marcos raised his hand and asked, “So these were freeze-dried? You just added water and they turned into cupcakes?”

  I laughed. “Maybe that works up in space, but here on earth, I made them the old-fashioned way.”

  Another girl, whose name was Brooke, said, “You mean, you used a box of cake mix?”

  “I know lots of people make cupcakes that way,” I said, “but I like to bake from scratch.”

  Mr. Bauer said, “Grace, you might explain what you mean.”

  “Oh, right, that means I don’t use premade mixes. I start with flour, sugar, and whatever else the recipe calls for. Sometimes I add my own ingredients, too. I love to bake. My friends and I started a business called La Petite Pâtisserie, and we sell our own French pastries.”

  Mr. Bauer let everyone chat as we ate our cupcakes. As I took a bite of mine, I worried that I might have said too much. But then another girl raised her hand and asked, “Where can I get some of the French treats?”

  I grinned and told her the website address for La Petite Pâtisserie. Mr. Bauer nodded approvingly, and I could feel my cheeks flush. I’d done well on my report. My classmates liked my cupcakes. And I’d even managed to advertise my business!

  The rest of the school day was a bit of a blur. I got really tired listening to everyone’s space reports. At some point during the math lesson in the afternoon, I felt a tap-tap at the back of my head. “Grace?”

  I blinked, unsure of where I was. I’d been dreaming about giant vats of batter and of orders coming in so fast that our printer was spitting them out—and my friends and I were getting buried in paper.

  “Psst! Grace,” the voice came again.

  It was Marcos, who sat behind me.

  I blinked my eyes open and spun around.

  Marcos held up the eraser end of his pencil, which he pointed toward the front of the room. “Captain Bauer asked you a question,” he whispered.

  “Grace?” Mr. Bauer asked. “Are you unwell?”

  A twitter of giggles rose up around me.

  “Do you need to go to the nurse’s office?”

  I couldn’t believe it—I’d fallen asleep in class! I gazed at all the math problems Mr. Bauer had written on the board. Which one was he asking about?

  “Um, what was the question?” I mumbled. But before he could answer, I shook my head. “Never mind. I won’t know the answer. I fell asleep,” I admitted.

  Luckily, Mr. Bauer wasn’t angry. “Make sure you get enough sleep tonight so you can be more alert in class tomorrow, yes?” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, my face burning hot with embarrassment. Mom had been right about my late-night baking. I should have started earlier. I fought another yawn and sat up straight. I had to stay awake for the rest of the day.

  n Saturday, with help from Ella’s dad, we drove our huge order of macarons to the Red Goose Inn, a bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of Bentwick. The driveway curved through flaming maples and stopped at a small parking lot packed full with cars.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” Mr. Petronia asked as we jumped out of the backseat.

  “No, we’ve got it,” Ella said.


  “Thanks anyway,” Maddy added.

  Ella, Maddy, and I carried three big boxes to the towering brick house. The front steps were decorated with pumpkins and gourds and looked ready for trick-or-treaters.

  I tapped the door’s steel knocker: a goose painted cherry red. When the door opened, a tall woman with cropped hair greeted us.

  “Ms. Dodd?” I asked.

  She glanced at our boxes, labeled with our business logo and name. Then she looked toward Mr. Petronia’s car. “Are you delivering these for your parents?” she asked.

  “I’m Grace,” I said, forcing a smile. “And this is Ella and Maddy. La Petite Pâtisserie is our business. It says so right on our website.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Ms. Dodd said. “I ordered through the website. I guess I didn’t read the fine print. But I have a party here that requested macarons—the real French version. I bake, but I wasn’t going to pretend to be an expert at something like that. Oh dear.”

  She frowned, as if the fact that we were kids meant our products would be a huge disappointment. “Well, I’d better take a look,” she said. “They have to be authentic macarons. Otherwise I can’t accept them.”

  My stomach dropped. We’d slaved to finish this huge order on time. Ella and Maddy had arrived at my house extra early this morning, and we had carefully packed the assorted flavors and colors of macarons six to a box, just as Ms. Dodd had requested. We had centered our La Petite Pâtisserie logo stickers on the top of each package, with our contact information and all of our ingredients listed, just as Grandma and Grandpa had taught us. We had worked so hard to make everything perfect, but what if Ms. Dodd didn’t agree?

  As she reached out to open the lid of the large box in my hands, I suddenly flashed back to one of the first deliveries we’d ever made. We’d ridden our bikes to Mr. Williams’s house with a box of tartes in my bike trailer. When we delivered the box, the tartes were all broken into pieces because the bike path had been so bumpy. Mr. Williams had been very upset. We had made things right by delivering a fresh and unbroken batch, but I would always remember the feeling of embarrassment when Mr. Williams was unhappy with our product.

  I didn’t know if Ms. Dodd would be happy with our macarons, but at least I could make sure none of them were broken before she looked at them. “Let me set the box down so you can take a look,” I suggested. “I don’t want to drop them.”

  I walked to a table on the porch and carefully set down the box.

  “Well, your packaging is lovely,” said Ms. Dodd. “A French bulldog. Very cute.”

  “Thank you,” Maddy answered proudly. She was the one who had designed the logo.

  As Ms. Dodd opened the big box and then one of the smaller boxes within, I held my breath. The perfectly round cookies in pink, light green, yellow, and orange looked as beautiful as any I’d seen in the window cases in France. But would that satisfy Ms. Dodd?

  “They certainly are pretty!” she said.

  “I learned how to bake these in Paris,” I blurted. “Now my friends and I make them here.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Paris? Is that right?”

  “My aunt and uncle run their own pâtisserie there,” I added. Once I started explaining, my words tumbled out like falling autumn leaves. “If we run into any trouble, we get help from our French consultant.” I didn’t mention that our “consultant” was my younger cousin, Sylvie—my Aunt Sophie’s stepdaughter.

  “Well, is that so? I just never dreamed that such young girls could run such a professional business.” She nodded and carefully closed up the boxes. “I’m willing to try these macarons. If my guests like them, I may order more. Bring them into the kitchen, please. I’ll write you a check.”

  Maddy, Ella, and I looked at one another with relief—and pride.

  When we finished all our deliveries, Mr. Petronia dropped us off at my house. It was mid-afternoon, and Ella and Maddy and I had planned to relax by going biking. Then we were going to get Bonbon and Ella’s dog, Murphy, together for a playdate.

  But when we arrived home, a silver car was parked in our driveway. “That’s my grandparents’ car,” I said.

  “Do you think they have an answer for us about using their kitchen?” Ella asked.

  I nodded. “Cross your fingers,” I whispered nervously to my friends as I opened the front door.

  We found Mom and Dad and my grandparents on the deck out back, sipping coffee. Bonbon ran out from under the table, and I scooped her up in my arms. Her smooth little tongue immediately found my cheek.

  Before I could say a word, Grandpa gave me an exaggerated wink and a nod.

  “We can?” I blurted. “Oh my gosh!”

  Maddy bounced on the balls of her feet. “Really?”

  “That’s awesome!” Ella added.

  Grandma put up her forefinger. “Wait, girls. There’s a catch. We looked into the rules and learned that in order to share our kitchen with you, you’ll still need to apply for a business license. And your grandpa and I will need to apply for a ‘commissary kitchen license,’ which is quite expensive.”

  “How expensive?” Ella asked, sitting down.

  “Three hundred dollars,” Grandma said. “We might be able to help a little with it, but—”

  “No, Mom,” my own mother interrupted. “That’s not your responsibility.”

  “Three hundred?” I repeated, closing my eyes. I buried my face in Bonbon’s warm fur. Why did every step forward feel so hard? I felt like someone out there wanted us to fail, to quit following our dream. We were starting to make a little money at our baking business, but nothing close to three hundred dollars.

  When I looked up, Mom gave me a sympathetic smile. “Here’s what I think. Your dad and I could pay the fees for the licenses and invest in your business. We’d lend the money to you, and then you girls could pay us back as your business grows.”

  “But what if it doesn’t grow?” I said, my voice breaking. “What if we can’t pay you back?”

  “Then we’ll have made a poor investment,” she said, looking to Dad, who nodded in reply.

  “But,” Dad added, “we think your business is going to do just fine.”

  I swallowed hard. Then I looked from Ella to Maddy. “What do you think?” I asked them.

  Maddy beamed. “I think we’re on a roll!”

  Ella just grinned.

  I glanced back at Mom and Dad, their eyes full of belief in me—in the business I’d started with my friends. I gave each of our “investors” a giant hug.

  It would take a couple of weeks to get the licenses we needed, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t start moving! We were so excited that instead of biking that afternoon, we packed up our baking supplies from my house. Mr. Petronia drove over in his minivan, and we filled it with packaging supplies, French baking cookbooks, and all the equipment we had bought. While we packed, we talked about how excited we were to use the equipment in Grandma and Grandpa’s kitchen—especially for larger orders. Then we squeezed into the van and headed to First Street Family Bakery.

  Grandma and Grandpa were waiting there to help us get settled in and organized. While we had been packing up at my house, they had cleared off several shelves and one long countertop for us to use, as well as a couple of shelves in one of their refrigerators.

  Grandpa gave us a tour, covering everything from proper hand washing at the sinks, to the location of fire extinguishers, to special oven instructions for Mr. Petronia.

  “The ovens each have six rotating shelves, which helps everything bake evenly,” Grandpa explained. “They’re over sixty years old. Heck, they’re antiques, like me.” Grandpa winked at me. “But if they ain’t broke, I say, don’t fix ’em.”

  Grandma chuckled. “See why I had such a battle trying to get him to agree to buy a laptop? He’s an old turtle sometimes.” Then she turned to us. “Girls, there’s nothing like learning by doing. So why don’t you go ahead and whip up something—maybe a new recipe—just for fun?
We’ll stick around to answer any questions that come up.”

  As we put on our aprons, I glanced back at my grandparents, who for the first time in forever were sitting down in their kitchen. I have so many good memories of hanging out with them here, but they were always bustling around the room, making half a dozen different things at once. I’d always thought I was such a big help to them, stirring a bit of batter or punching down a bowl of yeasty dough. Now that I know how much work actually goes into baking, I realize how hard my grandparents have worked all these years. Somehow, they’ve always made it seem easy. Grandma and Grandpa are experts at what they do. Maybe it’s because they love baking—just like me.

  I pulled my tablet from my backpack and said, “We like to play French music to put us in a French baking mood. Do you mind if we play some here?”

  “What, instead of my country music?” Grandpa made an exaggerated frown. Then he started singing a few bars of a twangy song about a cowboy.

  Grandma wagged her head. “Honey, not everyone loves country the way you do. Don’t torture the girls.”

  “French music?” Grandpa said. “Well, why not? Looks like I’m in your kitchen at the moment, Grace.”

  I grinned at him. Then, as French folk songs floated around the bakery, I looked at the blinding white walls surrounding us on every side.

  “Would you mind one more thing?” I asked.

  “What’s that, Grace?” Grandma tilted her head at me, smiling in a way that told me she was proud of me and happy to help us out.

  “Sometime, could we put up a few French posters? Maybe on just one wall, to help keep us inspired?”

  “Mais oui,” Grandma replied.

  “But yes?” I translated. “Grandma, I didn’t know you knew French!”

  “A little,” she said. “After all, our daughter and her husband—and now two of our granddaughters—speak French. I really should learn the language. Will you help me practice?”

  “Bien sûr! Of course!” I said.