Cupcake

by Rachel Cohn

  "I am a fantastic dancer!" Dante disputed. "Ask Johnny!"

  Johnny shrugged over the sci-fi/fantasy paperback novel gripping his attention. "Dante's pretty good," he mumbled. The poor boy looked spent from our New Year's Eve celebration at LU_CH_ONE_TE, but the hard-core straight-edge punk won't acknowledge he has a hard time staying awake past ten in the evening--which may offer some spiegazione as to why none of his bands survive.

  "Bella just wants to save herself for Shrimp's last dance," Dante said.

  Vero. Shrimp felt too far away even from a few feet away. I settled for sigh-staring at his beautiful backside standing at the front window, as Shrimp spray-painted the missing LU_CH_ONE_TE letters with the missing N, E and T, graffiti-style.

  The D-Man down in KW was not experiencing the same lover

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  bliss as his sister CC. I knew trouble had found Danny in Key West when I saw his name flash on my cell phone just as I was about to polka Shrimp home and ring in the New Year with him properly.

  I answered, "Danny boy, you gave up the Village on New Year's Eve, so shouldn't you be acting like the Village People down in Key West and not calling your younger sister at one in the morning?"

  "CC," Danny slobbered from his end of the call. "Help me! I'm lost!"

  "Where are you? Should I call the police?"

  "No, I'm in my hotel room. Perfectly safe."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  "The empty Veuve Clicquot bottle beside my bed might be part of the problem?"

  I so wanted to lay some rules down on my drunken brother, but I decided to go the compassionate route instead. "Regret finally fucking caught up with you?" I asked him.

  "YES!" he sputtered, sounding near tears. Then his lips let rip, almost like my caffeinated-polkanated state had roared through the cell phone airwaves and into his inebriated bloodstream. "Ceece, do you understand? Aaron and I got together in high school, we never dated anyone else. I was in a committed relationship from the time I was eighteen. I never got that time of dating other people and finding myself or whatever it is you're supposed to do in your twenties. And then the business went under and everything was a mess

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  and I needed change. I needed to experience new things, new people, independent of Aaron. I let him go. But now I'm getting my shit together again and I want him back, and I don't know what to do. I royally fucked up. I don't deserve him, but I want him back anyway. It's not just that I won't ever do better than Aaron--I know I won't, knew that even when I broke up with him. It's that now I'd never want to have anyone other than Aaron again. And this other guy he's seeing is talking moving in together; he's practically ready to register them at Macy's! Aaron hates Macy's! Anyone who truly loves him knows that Aaron is partial to Bloomies! Stop laughing, that's not an insignificant detail. Ceece, they're making me physically sick! I can't fake this 'just friends' thing with Aaron any longer. What am I supposed to do, sage little sister?"

  "Earn him back," I said. "And call me back when you're sober so I can repeat that advice so's you'll actually remember it."

  If Danny could earn Aaron back, surely I could believe that my holiday vacation love haze with Shrimp had the hope for a happy ending rather than the old stalemate.

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  ***

  THIRTY-TWO

  Yvette Mimieux has been outed as a diva. Diva fault number one:

  She's very ornery about sitting in one place for long periods of time to pose for Shrimp's cereal still-life paintings of her. Diva fault number two: She hates to fly on airplanes.

  Max's sentence for Yvette's diva crimes: Yvette should stay home for the month of January instead of accompanying Max for his annual winter visit with his elderly mother in Sun City, Arizona. Her stay at home would be made possible by Shrimp, who should cat-sit while Max is gone, thus giving Shrimp enough time to convince Yvette to sit still long enough for Shrimp to complete a whole series of cereal paintings in her honor.

  Max held Yvette on his lap, crouching over to kissy-face her as he told her, "Yvette, you minx, you'd better comply since Shrimp is sparing you the airplane trauma and sparing you a month with my

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  mother, who hates you and kicks you when she doesn't think I'm looking. Remember Mommy Dearest, Yvette?" Max turned Yvette so she faced a framed photograph of Max's mother. Yvette miaule 'd her displeasure and jumped off Max's lap, scurrying to her favorite hiding place underneath the piano.

  Shrimp peeked out from behind his easel (belated Christmas present from me), where he sat on Max's piano bench completing the final touches on Yvette's portrait. The artwork consisted of oat and bran cereal glued onto a canvass in cat form, then painted over in Yvette's colors and face, like cerealsy brilliant impressionism as only Shrimp could bring it. Shrimp said, "I don't remember agreeing to this situation?"

  Max and I both proclaimed, "Of course you agree!"

  The whole situation could be like killing two birds with one Shrimp, which Yvette, who hates birds more than Max's mother hates her, could surely appreciate. The cat-sitting gig would allow Shrimp to stay in NYC longer, once Danny returned home and kept me to my promise that Shrimp would only stay at our apartment while Danny was away for the holidays, and it would give Yvette a reprieve from her annual visit with Mommy Dearest. Everybody would win.

  But Shrimp wavered. "I don't know," he said.

  "I'll leave you two lovebirds alone for a few minutes to discuss," Max said. He headed to his bedroom, squealing "Chirp, chirp!" to us before he slammed the bedroom door closed.

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  I sat down on the piano bench next to Shrimp, cozying up to his side and resting my head on his shoulder. "Pretty please?" I pouted. "Don't do that; it's icky," Shrimp said. Honeymoon's over?

  I dropped the pout and called it straight. "I want you to stay. Do you want you to stay?"

  Last night in the dark we both whispered "yes" to the hovered "Has there been anyone else?" question that finally pushed itself out of the closet. We both answered "no" to the follow-up clean break question--"Does it really make a difference?" I don't know which mattered more--our ease of honesty with each other, or that the honest answer honestly didn't matter. Fair is fair. Trust is trust.

  Instead of answering the stay or go question, Shrimp picked pieces of cereal off the canvass. He held up a Cheerio painted ginger, from a spot formerly on Yvette's portrait face. After about a minute of intense Cheerio contemplation, Shrimp announced, "I want to stay." He sealed the deal with a kiss on my neck.

  Book us that honeymoon suite, Max!

  "What made you decide?" I asked.

  "Cereal mandalas."

  "Huh?"

  "I'm going to take this painting apart and do it over. Like a sand mandala."

  "Huh--times two?"

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  Shrimp said, "I'm inspired by the sand mandala philosophy right now, want to apply it to the cereal art. Remember when I went out with Dante to the Tibetan Buddhist place near Union Square? Well, some monks had a sand mandala on exhibition there. What happens is, teams of monks use metal funnels to place grains of dyed sand into these incredibly intricate patterns that are formed into geometric designs symbolic of the universe. You have to see it; you'd be awed. Dante said the mandala represents an imaginary palace that is contemplated during meditation. The monks'll spend days creating a single mandala, and then they have like a spiritual ceremony to celebrate it, and then--you can't believe this part-- WHOOSH, they destroy the masterwork. It's meant to be about the transient nature of existence. Dante said the destruction of the mandala serves to remind one of the impermanence of life. I imagine it's like surfing--wiping out over and over as a metaphor for the meaning of life. Heavy shit. Or sand, as the case may be."

  Not bad for a high school dropout, I'd say. To Shrimp I said, "So the fact of me had nothing to do with your decision to stay?"

  Shrimp laughed, kinda. "Of course it had to do with you. Everything's about you. Obviously." Says the boy
who presented me the sketchbook devoted to Myself. Make up your mind, buddy! "You think I actually understood Dante's sermons on transcendental transience or whatever?"

  My mind was made up. My loverboy was as smart and deep as

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  he is beautiful. "I totally think you do. I think you're intrigued to know more. I think that's pretty fucking cool."

  "I think you know me better than me."

  "That's why I'm me who loves you even though everything's obviously all about me." I pinched his side gently, kinda.

  "Ow," he muttered.

  "Look around this apartment, Shrimp," I said, admiring the movie star magazine photographs, the flags, the art deco furniture, the hot-pink lamps with the velvet tassels hanging down from the lamp shades. Inspiration, everywhere. "You belong here."

  Shrimp pulled me closer to him. "No, you belong here. But I will make good use of the time here." He pulled a stack of business cards from his pants pocket. "I've got all these people who want to hire me for odd jobs. So when I'm not painting Yvette or hanging with you or going off on some meditational daze, at least I can be building up the cash situation until I figure out the next move."

  Thank you, Max, thank you for the month. I know Shrimp and I will figure out the next move by then, and it will be a move in together. I believe!

  Max came back into the living room. "Documents have been drawn up and printed on the computer in my bedroom. Now, Cyd Charisse, if you'll just sign here, you're agreeing to take custody of Yvette Mimieux if my plane crashes...."

  Assuming Danny's plane home doesn't crash, now all I had to

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  do was break it to the Danny diva--the one person who doesn't love Shrimp like everyone loves Dante--that Shrimp would be sticking around longer than expected. Like, maybe permanently without danger of the impermanent nature of transcendental mediation, or meditation, or something.

  Bottom line, that's all about me, me, me: This diva win, win, wins!

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  ***

  THIRTY-THREE

  Hallelujah. As predicted, Danny's vacation was a complete disaster!

  What I could not have predicted was how hard-to-get Aaron would play it. Good on him. He's making Danny earn it.

  Danny cannot recount the tale to me enough, but I love the story, I don't mind. At six in the morning in Danny's rented kitchen space, I barely had the energy to sit upright at the cupcake decorating preparation table, much less engage Danny in conversation myself.

  Even before caffeination Danny could fire into the story full steam ahead and at the same time go about the business of massive cupcake production. "So I got off the phone with you on New Year's Eve and went down to the beach, thinking I'd have a walk or maybe just pass out on the sand. But there was Aaron and what's-his-name, strolling along the surf, hand in hand. Pass me that oven

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  mitt, will you, Dollface? Look at this, yet another exquisite batch of red velvet. Go, us. This process goes so much more efficiently with your help here." I passed Danny the oven mitt and breathed in the aroma of the freshly baked cupcakes. Mmmmm. Waking up. "So I watch Aaron and that other creature for a while; then I panic when I see them stop their stroll. Because the boyfriend was getting down on bended knee, and all of a sudden I had a very bad feeling that was not just about the champagne in my stomach wanting to heave up!"

  "Where was Jerry Lewis?" I always remember to ask.

  "He has a real name, you know. But what's that matter, because I have no idea where he'd gone. He'd already gotten sick of me and my mooning over Aaron by that point in the vacation, and he went out clubbing with some people he'd met at the hotel bar."

  "Good. I love the part where he permanently exits the picture. He used too much hair gel."

  "I know! I never wanted to put my hands around his head when we were kissing! No, Ceece, hold the parchment paper like this, wrap a little tighter--right. You just made what's called a cornet to pipe the filling into this tray of cupcakes. Good job, my most excellent apprentice. So where was I? I know. I'm walking on the beach and I see Aaron and you-know-who ... ,"--here Danny and I both stuck our fingers down our throats and emitted a bleh sound--"and what's gag-me doing but proposing to Aaron! And I'd

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  just had enough. I marched right into that proposal and told Aaron, 'You can't marry that moron, because you belong to me!'"

  My coffee kicked in. "And Aaron said he doesn't belong to anyone, he's his own person!"

  "Right, and gag-me was like, 'Excuse me, Danny, why are you present every time I'm trying to have a moment with my boyfriend?' and I was like, 'Excuse me, but Aaron's not your true love. I am Aaron's true love.'"

  I thumped my fist to my chest and swooned, "And Aaron was like, 'Danny, you're my true love? Still? Really?'"

  "Exactly! Aaron forgot all about gag-me sitting right there on bended knee, under the moonlight and on the beach, proposing to him on New Year's Eve in full cliché mode, with a ring from Tiffany and everything! I mean, how lame is that? I don't know what circles gag-me runs in, but in mine and Aaron's, there is no such thing as a gay engagement ring."

  Aaron did not forget how to take care of his true love. Once Blip left the scene, Aaron rubbed Danny's back during Danny's postdeclaration of love Veuve Clicquot heave, then held his hand as they laid on the beach for the post-spew, pre-sunset pass-out nap that Danny needed.

  But we don't like to discuss the barfing part of the story in front of the cupcakes. "How expensive do you think the ring was? Seriously, how many carats?" I sampled a taste of the frosting that

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  the chest-thumping swoon had caused me to gob on my apron. Outstanding. I've finally mastered making the praline frosting myself, without Danny's help.

  Danny said, "Doesn't matter, because Aaron thought the engagement ring was ridiculous too. And, Aaron chose me." Danny danced a jig in front of the oven. He really ought to feel more compassion for poor Blip's loss, but apparently Blip proposes to every boyfriend he has (that ring has allegedly seen more action than Cinderella's slipper), so I hope the karma gods will look the other way for Danny dancing a jig celebrating his own joy at the expense of Blip's heartbreak.

  I reminded Danny, "Well, not exactly."

  "Drink more coffee, sister. Aaron did choose me. Only he said we had to take it slow this time. No commitments. No spending the night or other indoor sports, as Aaron's treasured Judy Blume would say--at least not as of yet. We'll go on proper dates. Get to know each other all over again. Start fresh."

  "Aaron wants romance! Aaron wants you to unlearn how to take him for granted!"

  Danny grinned at me. "Aaron's getting romance." Since they returned from vacation, Aaron's getting fresh flowers delivered to his apartment doorstep every morning, he's getting Teddy Pendergrass and Luther Vandross baby-making songs dedicated to him on the R & B satellite radio station for the whole world to hear, he's

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  getting Danny wide awake and holding his hand at the ballet--and at the movies, on the subway, strolling through Washington Square Park. He's getting Danny-love loud and proud.

  Aaron's also getting a Commandant who shouldn't be passing judgment on romance clichés, since he himself has turned into positive mush. "Shrimp's staying an extra month in Manhattan, Dollface? Hurrah! Maybe this time he'll grunt more than two words to me and actually let me get to know him."

  Danny grinned so wide I knew the time was ripe for a fresh Shrimp pitch. "Shrimp is all about the romance too," I told Danny. "He's picking me up after breakfast time and taking me for a walk to his favorite place he found in Central Park. The Cali surf boy has never seen so much snow before in his life. We're going to have a picnic in the snow and then Shrimp wants to sketch me standing on the red-yellow bridge, with the white frost and iced-out pond behind me. Doesn't he look scrumptious with that tanned face wearing that harsh Siberia winter hat with the flaps over the ears?"

  Danny ignored my Shrimp pitch. He passed me a cu
pcake decorated like Cartman from South Park, then sang along with the stereo, rendering a verse of "Kyle's Mom Is a Bitch" by bellowing aloud about how "She's a big, fat, fucking bitch!" When Danny finished his rousing chorus, I scolded him like I was Kyle's mom, just without the histrionics. "You're skipping the Shrimp entree. I want you to tell me you like him."

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  "I like him. I don't know him. I've been back from vacation two weeks and he hasn't bothered to spend a minute of time interacting with me other than to compliment me on the cupcake artwork when he comes to pick you up for your playtime between your morning job here and your barista job later in the day. Sounds like Shrimp connected with Johnny and Dante instantly. He's even apartment-sitting for that old crank, Max. So what's wrong with me?"

  I don't know what Shrimp's problem with Danny is. Alone with me, Shrimp couldn't be more attentive. But ask him to join me and Danny for our weekly special Dynasty viewings from the episodes we recorded from the classic soap channel, and Shrimp sits next to me, his arms crossed, not saying a word, staring straight ahead at the TV like he couldn't be more bored. He doesn't draw or join in on the nonstop cackle-chatter Danny and I share. Ask Shrimp to show Danny his Yvette paintings or his new sketchbook of the uptown places--the Cloisters, Harlem, Saint John's cathedral--that Shrimp and I have been exploring because we're on a quest to find truth in the rumor that there's life not just above Fourteenth Street but above Central Park, too, and Shrimp mumbles "Maybe later."

  I had no answer for Danny's question, so I lobbed a different question his way. "Danny, are you going to teach me how to make the naughty cupcakes or not?"

  "Are you kidding? I grew up in Connecticut. I might show the artistry to my kid sister, but teach her how to craft the

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  lasciviousness? No, you'll have to figure it out yourself. The ingredients are right over there." He pointed to the naughty cupcake-decorating table, heaped with bowls of pink frosting, chocolate sprinkles, and whipped cream. "I'm just not that cool. It would be too weird."

  "Then you lured me here under false pretenses. You said you'd teach me."