The Truth About Twinkie Pie Part 1

The Truth About Twinkie Pie.

Kat Yeh.

For Jaz.

What you make is up to you.

one.

Truth is, I knew the lady with the green scarf was not Mama.

But I followed her anyway.

Mama's hair was supposed to be brown and wavy like mine. Or brown and curly like DiDi's. Not pale and blond and straight like rain. Also, Mama was dead. So yes. I knew the lady with the green scarf was likely not her, but I still followed along. Just for a bit. It was this game I play sometimes: What If.

What if it was all a big mistake and Mama didn't die the way I've always been told? What if she didn't want to leave me and DiDi, but had no choice? Like, maybe, she was working for the government on some top secret mission where her death had to be faked and her ident.i.ty changed. After all, Mama had been the best hairdresser in South Carolina, so she would know all about hair color and makeovers.

... But see, that doesn't really work out, because DiDi always says Mama was so popular, she had a line of people waiting on her at the beauty parlor from opening to closing, every day. Not leaving much time for government spying. So, unless the FBI was hunting down the masterminds behind all that sprayed-up hair at the Piggly Wiggly (which, in my humble opinion, would make a fine government priority), I guess Mama wouldn't be their first choice of spy.

Still, I couldn't help thinking... What If.

Now, following the lady with the green scarf during the Grand Opening of a brand-new Super Saver was not exactly what I thought I'd be doing my very first week as a resident of this fine town on Long Island, New York. But then our old neighbor, Davey Dylan, hadn't planned on that snapping turtle biting off his pinky finger five summers ago. It just happened. When he saw that turtle heading out to nap under a rotten log, it made him think of snapper soup. When I saw the lady with the green scarf heading for the cosmetics, it made me think of Mama.

As she slowed down near the lipsticks, my heart started beating really fast inside me. I watched as she looked up and down the aisle. Searching and searching.

She reached out her hand. I held my breath.

But then she grabbed hold of some nothing-brand lip gloss, and just like that, it was over. After all, Mama had been a Revlon lady all the way. And there were no What Ifs about it.

"May we help you?"

Two Super Saver clerks were standing behind me, looking all official with their big old name tags: KATE, a.s.sT. MGR., and TIM, TRAINEE. Tim was also wearing this big b.u.t.ton that said: SUPER TRAINEE!.

TELL ME IF I'M DOING A SUPER JOB!

Now, I was supposed to be looking for maraschino cherries, so DiDi could make Mama's Famous Twinkie Pie. But anytime I'm in a store and a clerk asks, "May I help you?" these words always come out before I can stop them: "Do you have Revlon's Cherries in the Snow lipstick? In the Cla.s.sic Gold Case, please?"

a.s.st. Mgr. Kate leaned way down and touched the tip of my nose with a pearly painted finger. "Listen to you with that little southern accent. You are adorable. And out here shopping all by yourself for lipstick. Is it for your mommy?"

Now, the worst part about looking like a ten-year-old when you're twelve is that no one takes you seriously and just answers your questions. Add freckles and a name like GiGi and grown-ups just about lose their minds thinking you're too cute for words. DiDi always says my being extra brainy trumps being tall any day and I should just look people in the eye and Say It Like It Is.

So I did.

"No, ma'am. My mama died when I was a baby."

Dead Mamas have a way of changing things.

"Oh. Dear. Let me find out for you, right away." And she got right down to business, talking into this headset thing she was wearing. Like she was part of the Lipstick Secret Service or something. I held perfectly still until she looked up and slowly shook her head. "I'm sorry, no. We don't carry that shade."

Now, I already knew Cherries in the Snow wasn't in that store. I knew it wasn't in any store, anywhere, in the whole country or planet, and hadn't been for a good while. So it's not like I was even hopeful or anything. That would be plain silliness. It's just... there's something about asking for Impossible Things. For one little second, they feel Possible.

I smiled even though the disappointment pressed into me like a too-tight belt buckle. "Oh, that's okay. Thanks anyway. Could you tell me where I can find maraschino cherries, then? The red kind in a jar, please."

After Dead Mamas, maraschino cherries were probably like a vacation, because a.s.st. Mgr. Kate smiled as wide as the day. "For that, we'll turn to our newest trainee, Tim."

She gestured to Tim, who was standing there with his shirt tucked in a whole lot tighter than I'm guessing most shirts would want. He gave a nervous nod.

"As part of our Grand Opening Super Trainees Challenge, Tim will be back with any one of our quality Super Saver Products in under ninety seconds or it's yours free!" And just like that, she had a big old stopwatch in her hand. "Maraschino cherries!" she called out. "Red-in jar-go!"

Click! Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick...

And off he went. Looking like he was going to fetch those cherries if he had to tackle his own granny to get to the last jar.

I looked at a.s.st. Mgr. Kate.

She looked at me.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick...

And that stopwatch, it kept right on counting down the seconds like the whole place would explode or something if Tim failed to come back in time. People always come up with these ideas that they think are all fun and games, but truth is they're just plain stressful.

Like DiDi's favorite cooking show on TV-the one where the contestants get this Basket of Mystery Ingredients. And whatever is in there, they have to cook. I swear once they pulled out chicken feet and pancake mix. Then, just like that, the clock went off and they had to make a gourmet dinner. During the last ten seconds, the judges always start wringing their hands like the world's going to end, practically crying, "Get the food on the plate! Just get the food on the plate!" DiDi loves this show. But I don't.

It's just not fair.

If you don't get to pick your own ingredients and take your own sweet time, how do you even have a chance to make something worthwhile?

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick...

And what do you know. There he was. Speed-walking around the corner. Big b.u.t.ton shining. Shirt tucked in tight as ever. Holding up that jar of cherries like it was a chicken feet and pancake souffle.

Click.

Tim handed me the jar and snapped right back to standing at attention.

"Is there anything else we can get for you, young lady?" a.s.st. Mgr. Kate began to raise that stopwatch again.

"Oh, no thank you," I said, and started to walk away. But then I remembered something and turned back to Tim. "You're doing a Super Job."

That Tim, Trainee. His face split into a grin that was half triumph and half relief, and without missing a beat, he gave me the old wink and double gun fingers and said, "Thank you, miss-and you have a Super Day!"

a.s.st. Mgr. Kate couldn't have looked prouder.

If my life were a TV cooking show, it's no mystery what I'd want in my Basket of Ingredients. But, like I said before, you don't get to pick. No one does. And besides, even if I could, I don't think there's a basket out there big and magic enough to hold Mama and her lipstick.

two.

The first thing DiDi did when I handed her the maraschino cherries was hold them way up high and sashay across our kitchen calling out, "Sweet Stuff coming through!" Then she peeked back over her shoulder and did a little bam-bam with her hips. "And I'm not talkin' about the maraschino cherries."

DiDi is always cracking jokes like that. Like at dinner last night, she yelled out, "Hot Stuff coming through!" Big wink. "And I'm not talkin' about the tuna noodle ca.s.serole."

Of course, she didn't think it was all that funny last Thanksgiving when she was sweating under that heavy platter and I yelled, "Big Turkey coming through! And I'm not talkin' about Thanksgiving dinner."

DiDi set the cherries down on the counter and got right to work making Mama's Famous Twinkie Pie. We usually only have Twinkie Pie once a year for our birthdays, which are exactly nine years, nine days, and nine hours apart. But today, DiDi made an exception because she wanted to bring it to Welcome Night at my new school, where all the parents would get to meet the teachers and stuff. It was hosted by this committee that I guess controls the universe, seeing how much DiDi wanted to impress them.

Whenever DiDi makes Mama's recipes, she likes to pretend she's starring in her own TV cooking show. Sometimes she even puts on a nice shirt for the occasion. I told her she should let her curls go all loose and pretty, which would look great on camera, but I don't think there's been a day in her life she didn't have them pulled back in a tight little knot.

I got myself nice and comfy. My job is to watch and DiDi's is to ignore any suggestions I might make.

"Now remember, GiGi," she said in her cooking show voice. "The secret to Twinkie Pie is to make it just like Mama did, and that means using maraschino cherries so you can make your whipped topping the perfect shade of pinky-red. Just like-"

I said the next part with her: "Cherries in the Snow!"

Ever since I was a little bitty thing, whenever DiDi made Twinkie Pie, she'd tell me the story of Mama and Revlon's Cherries in the Snow lipstick.

"Cherries in the Snow was Mama's favorite lipstick and the only one she'd ever wear. Why, if she walked into a drugstore and they were out of it, she'd walk right out that door and down the street to the next store and the next and the next until she found it."

I remember how happy it made me to imagine my mama being so particular about her lipstick. I imagined she looked just like DiDi with her tilty nose and curvy top lip. I'd pretend the little pink candles DiDi put on top of the Twinkie Pie were tiny lipsticks, pulling them off and spreading the frosting on my own mouth. "I wish I had Cherries an' Snow...." I used to say.

"I wish you did, too, baby girl," she'd answer. "But no one does anymore. The good people at Revlon haven't made that lipstick in about a hundred years."

Of course, I found out later it was nowhere near a hundred years, but it didn't matter either way. It was gone. When she lit the candles, DiDi would lean in close and say, "Make a wish, G. Only... well, you don't want to go wasting a perfectly good birthday wish on-" Then she'd put her cheek next to mine and whisper, "Why don't I just make one for the both of us?"

And we'd blow out the candles together. Even as a little girl, I knew what she was worried about. Me wishing for things that would never come true. That would never come back.

I watched as DiDi set out all her bowls and mixing spoons in a nice tidy row. She winked up at her imaginary camera. "Now, I always like to make the pudding ahead of time, so it's nice and chilled when I'm ready to get started."

I was sitting on one of our new twirly bar stools. They slid under this counter that's like a big window between the kitchen and the living room, so you can pa.s.s food out to the people sitting there like you're at the diner. Before we moved, our friend Lori found the stools in the Dumpster behind this bar she used to go to. She was pretty handy now that she was on the wagon, and she gave them nice new seat covers. Except for some scratches on the legs, they were perfectly fine.

"Did I tell you the thing Lori said when she called?" I twirled a little bit right. Then left. And then right again.

DiDi's behind was sticking out of the fridge, where she was looking for the pudding. "What's that, baby girl?"

"It's no biggie... but, well, you know that salesman she dated?"

"Lori dated lots of salesmen, honey."

"The No-Good Lying Son of a Walnut who was married with like ten kids."

"Oh. Him. Go on."

"Well..." I paused for a second. "He calls on all the big drugstores, and he told her that makeup companies sometimes bring back old colors-the really special ones, anyway." I peeked over at her to see what she would say.

DiDi had set the pudding on the counter and was now unwrapping Twinkies and slicing them up. "Now, there are a lot of Twinkie pies out there in the world, but Mama's is the only one that's double-decker. Isn't that right, G?"

"Uh... yes. I guess."

"After you have your crust and your Twinkies all set up, go on and get your maraschino cherries." DiDi looked up and snapped her fingers at me. "Earth to G. Pa.s.s the cherries, please."

"What? Oh." I looked over at the jar of cherries, but instead of reaching for them, I got up and went to a Super Saver bag I'd left by the sofa. I held it out to her.

"What's that?"

I poured it out on the counter. A jumble of ruby-red cherries tumbled out, fresh and shiny, rolling all over DiDi's neat work s.p.a.ce. "They had them at the Super Saver. I wanted to surprise you-I thought maybe-"

DiDi put a hand out to stop them. "The recipe says maraschino cherries, G."

"Maybe you could use both-or maybe you could just put these on top or-"

DiDi quickly gathered the cherries together and put them back in the bag. She rolled the top down nice and tight. "Why don't you stick these in the fridge? You can have them for a snack later."

I nodded and took the bag.

"I can see you pouting from here, G. Don't you like having Mama's recipes the way she made them? To remember her?" One curl slipped out of her bun. She reached up and tucked it back in.

"I know, D, it's just that you never-Nothing."

I put the bag away, handed her the maraschino cherries, and sat back down.

DiDi watched me for a second, then sighed and got back to work. I twirled a few more times, then reached out toward Mama's Cookbook and gently ran my fingers over it.

"Can I?"

DiDi paused in the middle of fussing with her cherries. "Okay, G, just please-"

"I know, I know. I'll be careful. I promise."

On the outside, Mama's Cookbook is just a regular old three-ring binder like you have at school. But inside are Mama's recipes, all nice and typed up or handwritten with little cutout pictures and notes and such. You can tell exactly what Mama was like by looking through it. She didn't do anything unless she thought it was special and fun and one of a kind with some sort of little twist. I think she would've wanted DiDi to change things up every once in a while, but that wasn't happening anytime soon. DiDi could move us 800 miles. But she couldn't put fresh cherries into Twinkie Pie.

I turned the pages carefully, making sure I didn't bend or wrinkle anything. Mama's Cookbook is like the fancy room in a house where I'm only allowed to go if I promise not to touch any of the fussy throw pillows. It's the only thing of Mama's that DiDi and I have. And it was plain dumb luck that our babysitter, Miss Linda, asked DiDi to bring it to her place that night when she was watching me. The night of the fire, I mean. I was only a little baby, so I don't even remember any of it. DiDi tells me the worst part was that it took everything. We don't even have a photo of Mama. Sometimes I squeeze my eyes shut and try to see if I can picture her face. But it never works. DiDi says I don't need a dumb old photo. Every time we make her food, it's our way of remembering the way she was.

I only ever asked once about having a daddy, and DiDi said, "Best forget about him, GiGi. Everything you got in the brain department you got from Mama. She may have been a hairdresser, but she was brainy like you and had big plans." I liked that.