Salted Caramel Dreams Read online

  CURL UP WITH ALL OF THE SWRLNOVELS!

  Pumpkin Spice Secrets by Hillary Homzie

  Peppermint Cocoa Crushes by Laney Nielson

  Cinnamon Bun Besties by Stacia Deutsch

  Salted Caramel Dreams by Jackie Nastri Bardenwerper

  To Ceci and Bo—may you always follow your dreams.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jackie Nastri Bardenwerper

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  www.skyponypress.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Liz Casal

  Cover photo credit: iStock Photo

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-3048-9

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3014-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One THE SECRET

  Chapter Two INVITATION ONLY

  Chapter Three’s A CROWD

  Chapter Four FASHION DISASTER

  Chapter Five ALL ALONE

  Chapter Six THE FLYER

  Chapter Seven BREAK A LEG

  Chapter Eight MYSTERY SOLVED

  Chapter Nine CENTER STAGE

  Chapter Ten SWEET SUCCESS

  Chapter Eleven LUNCH BUNCH

  Chapter Twelve MUSICAL CHAIRS

  Chapter Thirteen WE NEED TO TALK

  Chapter Fourteen COSTUME CATASTROPHE

  Chapter Fifteen FIRST BLUSH

  Chapter Sixteen A HAPPY SURPRISE

  Chapter Seventeen READY OR NOT

  Chapter Eighteen YES TO THE DRESS?

  Chapter Nineteen IT’S SHOW TIME!

  Chapter Twenty PLUM PERFECT

  Chapter One

  THE SECRET

  The fall air, cool and breezy with a tinge of winter bite, tickles my skin as Kiara and I burst out of Dolce. Stomachs heaving and hands wrapped around our warm drinks, we try to steady ourselves as we navigate Southfield’s infamous sidewalks, cracked and broken from the roots of the now red and yellow maple trees above. But between all our laughter and those stupid platform shoes we’re both wearing, it isn’t easy. First Kiara’s ankle goes, then mine.

  “Watch those drinks!” Kiara says. “Don’t let them spill!”

  “I won’t,” I say. “Who needs ankles when you’ve got salted caramel steamers?”

  “Not me,” says Kiara, eyes twinkling in the afternoon sun. “I’d take salted caramel any day.”

  We hold on to each other as we leap over another crack, joking the whole time. It’s been a long day of school—seventh-grade days feel so much longer than sixth, with all their worksheets and lecturing and writing—and it feels good to be out in the cool air, listening to Kiara tell her stories. The sun is shining, my homework load is light, and we’re almost at DIY Club, my favorite place to be. What could be better? I breathe in deep, savoring the wafting smell of our sweet drinks as we reach the crosswalk on Main Street.

  “So, ready to finish your bag today?” I ask, envisioning our almost-completed DIY projects. “I’m think-ing mine could be a good addition to JKDesigns.”

  “Oh yeah, definitely,” she says.

  Whenever we’re not talking about school or DIY club or her crush Carter, we’re often discussing JKDesigns, the Etsy shop we’re planning to launch during winter break. Just mentioning the shop usually gets us talking for hours about our dream of becoming big fashion design stars, famous before we turn thirteen. But today when I mention it, Kiara looks tired.

  “Hey, everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, sure,” she says. “It’s just . . .”

  She pauses as the crossing guard, Mike, holds out his hand, stopping us at the corner. Usually Kiara likes to tease him about one of the million sports teams he’s obsessed with, but today she remains quiet. Worried, I shoot him a smile, hoping he knows we’re not mad at him. He smiles back as we walk across.

  Once we reach the other side, Kiara starts again. “So, well, you know, there is this one thing I’ve been meaning to tell you. I was actually gonna wait until tomorrow, but since you’re talking about JKDesigns and this is our last fall DIY class, I probably should let you know . . .”

  “What?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink. It’s not like Kiara to keep secrets. Especially about something big. “What’s going on?”

  Kiara, cheeks still flushed from laughing, bites down on her lip.

  “Well . . . It’s just that I’m not sure I’m gonna do DIY club this winter,” she says. “I was thinking of trying out for basketball instead.”

  I force myself to swallow.

  “Basketball . . . Really? Whoa. That’s cool,” I say, trying to sound natural. Like my best friend hasn’t just dropped a bomb of a secret she’s been withholding for who-knows-how-long.

  Kiara looks away, letting her long brown hair dance across her freckled face. She’s gripping her salted caramel steamer tight, and I wonder if she remembers the day we created the drink last summer after trying every flavor combination in the shop. Steamed milk, caramel sauce, dark salted chocolate syrup, and a sprinkling of coconut, all blended together. The coconut had been Kiara’s finishing touch. I’m still convinced it was that final flourish that made the drink worthy of a place on the permanent menu, though Kiara insists it has more to do with how often we order it. Either way, I’ve always been proud to see our drink etched out in pink chalk.

  I wonder how often we’ll be ordering them if Kiara makes the team. How much time does basketball take?

  Kiara turns to me and smiles, looking at me for the first time since breaking her news. “Mom says I should get involved in something new, and I have always liked shooting hoops with my brother. So I thought basketball might be fun. Especially since rumor has it you-know-who is trying out for the boys’ team,” she says with a wink.

  Of course. Carter. I should’ve known that boy would be behind this. Not that I can blame her—Kiara isn’t the only girl obsessed with his mischievous smile—though besides that grin he’s always seemed a little average to me. I’d like to think a guy worth crushing on would have something to him that was just, well, a little more special.

  But I’m also the girl who hasn’t had a crush since Connor O’Neil in fourth grade. Back then, he had this awesome mop of blond hair and was learning how to play the guitar and used to turn around and stare at me like I was someone he wanted to get to know. I was too shy to talk to him, but after a while I started to like him. But then as soon as I did, he ratted out me and Kiara for passing notes. Guess that’s what all the staring was about. After that, I pretty much swore off boys. Meaning, I’m not exactly one to offer advice on the topic.

  So even though I worry that Carter is a bit boring for someone as fun and talented as my best friend, what can I do but hope he likes Kiara back? Maybe basketball will be just her ticket. That is, if Kiara makes the team.
Which shouldn’t be too hard, seeing as ever since we turned twelve she’s shot up like a beanpole, leaving me a good six inches behind.

  “Hey, you know, you should try out too, Jas,” Kiara says, interrupting my thoughts.

  But I just shake my head. “Thanks, but I don’t think basketball’s for me.”

  “Yeah, I get it,” she says, not even trying to change my mind.

  Though really, it’d be weird if she did. Measuring in at five feet, I seem to have inherited my height from the Colombian side of the family—none of the women in Mom’s family are taller than five-foot-three. So even if I were interested, it would be pretty tough for me to make the team.

  And that’s probably for the better. I’ve got enough going on already with DIY club. Taught by Ms. Chloe, one of Mom’s Pinterest-obsessed friends who designs and sells clothing, it’s a class for kids interested in all things design. We’ve created beaded necklaces and earrings, hair accessories, and more. My favorite classes are the ones related to fashion design. In the past couple years, I’ve gone from not knowing how to thread a needle to designing my own bags, and I hope to move on to clothing soon. I love the whole process—the design sketching, then the fabric selection, the sewing, and the finish work. Each time I create something new I feel like I’ve climbed a mountain. Which is why I can’t wait to launch JKDesigns with Kiara. I’m hoping that through our Etsy shop, I’ll be able to build a portfolio that will one day get me into a fashion design program for college.

  I smile, envisioning the products we’ve already decided on for the shop. Kiara’s going to have a section with these cool wire hair accessories she’s great at making, and I’m going to sew a line of Jasmine-original tote bags that will have lots of inside pockets and this cool outside stitching in contrasting colors. I’m hoping they’ll be popular, given that Southfield is a beach town, right on the beautiful Connecticut coast. Yet my real dream is to one day sell custom clothes, just as soon as I can perfect my skills at turning my sketches into actual sewing patterns. So far I haven’t been able to design anything requiring an actual waistline, but every night I spend at least an hour trying. Hopefully, soon I’ll get one right and be selling my own designs.

  I take another sip of salted caramel steamer and think of the bag waiting for me in the second-story studio above Hank’s Dry Cleaning. All day I’ve been thinking about the little iridescent beads I’m going to stitch onto the perimeter of the top flap. Ms. Chloe spent the entire last class teaching me the technique, and I’ve been practicing at home all week. Last night I even stitched an entire row of beads without stopping. This was the news I was going to share with Kiara before she brought up the basketball thing.

  “Maybe you’ll have time for DIY club and basketball,” I say, my mood rebounding as I think of the beads. “Or at least meet a lot more customers for JKDesigns!”

  “Yeah, I don’t know if I’ll make the classes, but I’ll definitely be talking up JKDesigns,” Kiara says.

  I nod, relieved. Maybe basketball will turn out to be a good thing. An opportunity to spread the news about our shop.

  “When are the tryouts, anyway?” I ask.

  “They start tomorrow. For three days. So I guess I’ll know by the end of the week.”

  “Wow. That’s fast.”

  “I know,” she says.

  We walk the rest of the stairs in silence. I focus on the climb until I can smell the cinnamon and clove oils Ms. Chloe burns to “help the creative juices flow.” I breathe them in through my nose, hoping the scents will relax me. Miraculously, it works. By the time we reach the bright orange and teal walls of the studio, I’m ready to sew.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” Ms. Chloe says as we enter.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Chloe,” we say. We walk by a table of sixth graders before claiming our usual spot in the back.

  “All right, now that you’re all here, is everyone ready to finish those bags today?” she asks.

  “Definitely,” says Kiara, shedding her coat. “Though I think I may need a little help using the machine. I kind of messed up last time.”

  Kiara holds up her bag, pointing out the imperfections. She’s never been big into sewing, and I can tell she’s antsy to finish.

  “Of course!” says Ms. Chloe. She whisks Kiara off to one of the sewing machines, pausing just long enough to flick on the radio as she passes by.

  And then for the next hour everything is perfect. With the music flowing, I relax, letting myself sing along to the Top 40 as my stitches become tighter, the beads even straighter than I was able to get last night. I can’t wait to use this at school, I think, happy to have an excuse to retire my practical, yet very boring, purple backpack I’ve had since I was ten. The bag I’m making today isn’t a tote, but a messenger bag, and a perfect copy of one I saw online for hundreds of dollars—but with my own spin on the decoration. I’m hoping someday I’ll be able to sell one like it on our shop site.

  “This is looking phenomenal,” Ms. Chloe says, surprising me from behind. “You’re a real natural at this, Jasmine. Truly, you have such an eye.”

  I look down and smile. “Thanks, Ms. Chloe.”

  “No, thank you. I can’t wait to buy one of your Jasmine originals,” she says with a wink.

  By the time class ends, I’m just a few touches away from finishing and wish I could stay another hour. But dinner at home is always at six, so lingering isn’t an option. I grab my coat and give Kiara’s hand a quick squeeze as we head toward the staircase.

  “Well, that was fun,” Kiara says as we reach the street. “I just can’t believe today might’ve been my last class.”

  “Wow. That’s right,” I say, and for a second I start to worry all over again.

  But Kiara snaps me out of it. “By the way,” she says, “I totally forgot to ask you about your latest pattern. Any update?”

  I smile as I picture the pinned-together fabric scraps I’ve assembled on the dress form—really just a secondhand mannequin Mom found for me in a thrift store—in my closet.

  “Not much new,” I say as we cross Main Street and begin the short walk to our neighborhood. “Still working on it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get it soon,” she says.

  “We’ll see,” I say. “It can’t end up worse than the micro dresses.”

  We erupt into laughter as we think of the matching sundresses I tried to make last summer. They were supposed to have short sleeves and fall to our knees, and I got this pretty Hawaiian print fabric for them. But after pinning the fabric and taking measurements and creating a pattern, I forgot to cut extra fabric for seams. So the sleeves came out too narrow for us to fit our arms in. And the skirt length was way too short—the dresses barely hit our thighs! Talk about a disaster. The only thing I’d been able to save was a little of the fabric, which I used on one of my bags as trim.

  “On second thought, maybe you should just stick with the bags,” says Kiara.

  “Seriously. The patterns sure are easier,” I say.

  And then before I can think about it anymore, we’re at the top of the hill. The spot where we always part ways.

  Kiara extends her hand, breaking me away from my thoughts.

  “Tick tock, tick tock . . . ” she begins.

  “Who’s the coolest on the block?” I say, slapping her hand with mine. Then we entwine our fingers and laugh before completing the secret handshake we’ve been perfecting since the fourth grade.

  “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, girl,” Kiara says with a smile.

  “I’ll be here, ready to go at seven,” I say.

  “Can’t wait! And don’t forget. Friday—sleepover at my place. No matter what,” Kiara says, turning back toward her street.

  After a quick wave, I do the same. Picking up my pace, I zip my coat a little higher, trying to keep out the cold. The evening air is sharper than it was just last week, a sign of the changing season. I think of Kiara’s last words: Friday. Sleepover. No matter what. Their warmth hugs me ti
ght as my cheery yellow house comes into focus. I turn into the driveway and breathe in deep, preparing for the chaos that comes with having two parents, twin brothers, and a live-in grandma. Yet as I reach for the doorknob, I find my mind’s still filled with doubt. Because as great as this basketball thing may turn out to be for Kiara, I can’t quite shake the feeling that everything is about to change.

  Chapter Two

  INVITATION ONLY

  “So wait, what happened again?” I ask, trying to decipher Kiara’s words through her laughter.

  Kiara’s been giggling nonstop ever since I walked over with my sleeping bag to congratulate her on making the team. We’re supposed to be watching a movie, one of our favorite Friday night sleepover activities, but every time we go to start it, Kiara thinks of another story from tryouts. I smile as she sits up and tries to slow her breathing enough to talk, grateful she’s taking the time to fill me in on all I’ve missed.

  “I told you . . . it was Mary Beth. You know, from homeroom last year? Anyway, she forgot her ankle brace yesterday and she has a really weak ankle, so me and Aliyah snuck into the wood shop for her and took some duct tape to wrap her ankle so it wouldn’t twist. And it worked! Last year, she got cut on the second day of tryouts, but this time she made it through. So we decided the tape must’ve been lucky and that she needed to wear it on the third day too. But then after practice when we were helping her take it off, Beatrice came in and was like, ‘you look radioactive in that thing—I bet you could pick up radio stations!’ And we all started laughing. But Mary Beth just shrugged and told her she was going to wrap her ankle in tape again today. And she did! Only this time she brought a little radio to clip onto her sneaker. And, get this, she actually did pick up a few stations! It was ridiculous. You should’ve seen the look on Coach’s face when Mary Beth started playing music during suicides . . .”

  “Wow, that’s crazy,” I say, as Kiara keeps laughing and singing the chorus of some song she played for me earlier. Beatrice’s favorite, she said. I guess it was on repeat during tryouts. I try to laugh too, but somehow, no matter how many stories Kiara tells me, I just can’t seem to. And it’s not that the stories aren’t funny. It’s just that they’re different. Mary Beth, Beatrice, Aliyah. These are girls I only know by name, and up until a few days ago, Kiara didn’t know them either. But it seems like the perils of tryouts have drawn them together.