1 large bar dark chocolate
½ C. evaporated milk (NOT sweetened condensed milk,
that kind is totally different)
For the cakelets
8 oz. semisweet chocolate chips
2 sticks unsalted butter
4 eggs
1 C. white sugar
2 t. vanilla
⅔ C. flour (sifted if it’s lumpy)
cooking spray
Melt the chocolate bar in a bowl in the microwave for about one minute, or until it is melted enough to stir smooth. Mix in the evaporated milk with a fork until it’s totally mixed into the chocolate. Put the bowl in the refrigerator. Preheat oven to 375°. Use either 6 giant-size muffin tins or 12 regularsize muffin tins, and coat them with cooking spray. Melt chocolate chips in a bowl in the oven as it preheats, or in the microwave until totally melted (about 1 minute). Melt the butter and mix it into the melted chocolate chips. Set aside. Mix eggs, sugar, and vanilla with an electric mixer for about 5 minutes, or until the mixture is very smooth and creamy looking. Add the chocolate/butter mixture and mix it in well. Add the flour and mix it only long enough for the flour to disappear, no longer, or the cake will be tough. Divide the cake batter into equal portions in the muffin tins. Get the chocolate “lava” bowl from the refrigerator. Using your hands, roll the mixture into the same number of chocolate balls as muffin tins filled with batter. Put a chocolate ball in the middle of the batter in each one. Bake about 20 minutes, or until the cake springs back when lightly poked. Cool in the tins for 10 minutes, then run a knife around edges and carefully remove them by turning the tins upside down on a counter or cutting board. Serve warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
It’s a Mafia Thing
Nicki has a cell phone, but she is only allowed to use it for emergencies. Over the summer, on at least two occasions, M and I have seen Nicki pretend to be doing something, like going to the bathroom, when she is actually using the “emergency” phone. I asked her straight-out once who she was calling, and she snapped and said she was checking on her brother. But why would she sneak away to call her parents about her brother? I’d started to push her on it, but the look in her eyes stopped me. Nicki seems shy and gentle, but she can get crazy angry. It flashes in her eyes and you just know not to cross her. It only happens once in awhile, but lately it usually involves her phone.
This is why I am cautious about asking her to use it now. I form prayer hands and ask Nicki, “Can I use your phone to call my mom really quick? I need to figure out this mess, and you know M and I don’t have cell phones.”
Nicki shakes her head. “Sorry, Air, but this isn’t really an emergency . . .”
M interrupts her, “God, Nicki, it might be. We don’t know if maybe something did happen to Mr. Solomon.”
Nicki shrugs, looking a little apologetic, and says, “Obviously it is just a weird misunderstanding. I would let you call, Ariel, but my parents monitor the minutes. You know how strict they are, they would take it away if they thought I was letting my friends use it.”
I drop my hands and sigh. That phone will only see action if something is on fire or someone is bleeding. She is so responsible, I swear. Then again, it seems like she must have quite a few “emergencies” lately, the way we have seen her talking hurriedly between classes and by the bathroom during study hall.
There is no point arguing with her anymore. She is not going to bend. We decide I will have to ask to use the office phone.
I give Nicki a look and get up. “I guess you guys will have to get to your next class, so see ya.”
“Don’t be mad, Ariel.” Nicki is looking down as she speaks, twirling her hair.
“We could go with you,” M cuts in. “I don’t care if we get detention . . .” The shrill of the five minute bell cuts her off.
“Thanks, M, but it’s okay, I’ll see you guys after class.” I pat her arm and trudge across the blacktop toward the office. I can hear the soft rise and fall of Nicki and M talking as I walk away.
Mom picks up on the second ring. “Hi!” she says, all cheerful. Caller ID, she must think it’s Ms. Patel.
“Mom, it’s me.”
“Oh, yes, Ariel.” She’s still upset with me—her voice assumes the injured, slightly cold tone she gets when she’s sulking.
“Mom, is everything okay with Dad?”
“Your father? Well, yes, of course, Ariel. He’s filming the Godfather commercial. You know, we talked about it last night.”
I am possibly the only fourteen-year-old girl on the continent who has actually seen The Godfather several times. It is the classic of classics for mafia movies, which I adore. In fact, I am the one who gave Dad the idea to spoof it for his next commercial.
“But he’s okay and everything?”
“Ariel, what is this about?” Mom asks me sharply. “If you called to apologize for your rude behavior this morning, just say so. You don’t need to act like you were calling for some other reason and then . . .”
I cut her off impatiently, “Someone heard that Dad had a heart attack. On the police scanner here? I was confused, because you were just here to give me the bee kit and why wouldn’t you tell me if Dad got sick?”
Mom is quiet.
“Mom?”
“I . . . I . . . don’t know anything about this, Ariel.” Her voice sounds scared.
“You mean it might be true?” I feel tears spring to my eyes and I realize I am holding the phone in a death grip.
Mom sucks in her breath like she always does when she is upset but taking charge. Her voice still has a quaver in it as she says, “Honey, I will get to the bottom of this. You sit tight, stay in the office, and I’ll call back as soon as I know what’s going on.”
“Okay, but . . .” I am about to ask her to come get me—I don’t want to sit here waiting—but she has already hung up. I hand the phone back to Ms. Patel.
“Everything okay, hon?” she asks me.
“My mom is going to call back,” I tell her. “I need to wait here.”
“Wait in the nurse’s office if you want,” Ms. Patel gestures toward the closet-sized office behind the counter.
“Okay, thanks.” I am grateful to be somewhere that’s not so public. I am still trying to keep from crying. I lay down on the padded table, the crunchy paper covering scrunches up under my shoulders in an uncomfortable lump. I close my eyes. I can’t stand waiting. I try not to think. Isn’t that what meditation is? I can’t do it. I am thinking about what not to think about. I sit up and start ripping the crunchy paper into little flakes. I put them in my pocket.
Ms. Patel sticks her head around the corner. “Ariel, it’s your mother. You can take it in here.” She picks up a wall-mounted phone, pushes a blinking light and hands me the receiver. Then she just stands there.
I press the receiver into my chest and give her a tight smile. I am not going to hear potentially terrible news with her standing over me. “Thanks, Ms. Patel.” She stands there two more seconds, and then finally leaves.
“Mom?”
“Oh, Ariel, this is really something . . . your dad did collapse,” she is almost laughing as she says this.
“What?”
“Remember how the Godfather commercial was going to be filmed? We