by Katie Cross
Mira bustled around her pearlescent Cadillac and shut the passenger door behind me. The moment I smelled buttercream frosting in the air, my blood froze.
Frosting?
“Ah, Mira?”
“Yes?”
“What’s that smell?”
“Frosting!”
Frosting. My archnemesis. The dessert topping that could have been an entire food group in my childhood. The saccharine scent lay thick as humidity and twice as sweet. Was that cream cheese frosting? My nose was like a bloodhound when it came to sugar. Scratch that.
A frosting hound.
“I’ve got the pillows!” Mira said, her voice a bit high. “Let’s head inside.”
“Head inside where?”
“What?”
“Mira…”
A two-story brick building stretched in front of us, complete with a wooden sign painted with bright white letters. The Frosting Cottage. Without being told, I knew that’s where I’d be working. Felt it deep in my frosting-loving bones.
“This. This is your friend’s business? The Frosting Cottage?”
She gulped, forcing a smile. “Yes! Isn’t it adorable?”
Visions of 265 pounds of unhappiness floated through my mind. Adorable, I thought. Hardly. Sugar and I could not be friends. I couldn’t trust myself around any temptations. Months had passed since my last sugar splurge, but I still dreamed of cupcakes at night. Whenever Mom dove into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, which was almost every night, I had to lock myself in my room.
I definitely shouldn’t be here.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I screeched.
She sucked her bottom lip through her teeth. “Ah … because Bitsy told me that you’d say no, and I really needed you to help.”
I scowled. Bitsy’s habit of being right really got on my nerves. “I thought you weren’t in her pocket like everyone else.”
Mira rolled her eyes. “All of us are in Bitsy’s pocket, and none of us really want to get out of it. You know it.”
“But—”
“You can’t eat the food, Rachelle. We have to sell it. Does that help?”
“You said organizing and paperwork. You said this would be a desk job!”
Her finger twitched back and forth. “No, no, honey. I said that we’d help organizing and sorting. That’s what we’ll be doing! I mean, you’ll be organizing cupcakes and sorting the right color of frosting onto them. It’s the same thing!”
“No, it’s not!”
“The cupcakes aren’t going to eat you.”
That wasn’t my worry.
“Mira, I—”
“You’ll mostly just be frosting and decorating cupcakes. Sometimes I help her with the macarons, but they’re more delicate than dew on a hot petal. Have you ever piped frosting before? Never mind. I’ll teach you all that. Come on now. Stop standing out here with your mouth open catching flies, all right?”
A pit opened up in my stomach. Cupcakes. Macarons. Frosting. Bakery.
The inner fat girl who always screamed at me woke up at the first sniff of sugar. I tried to stuff her back with visions of long runs and working out, but she wouldn’t be controlled. If I lost control, I couldn’t run this off. There was no Plan B here. Except for staying at home with Mom, which seemed far worse.
“Fine,” I snapped. “But only because I’m desperate and so are you.”
Mira beamed. “C’mon, sugar. It’s adorable inside, and it’s only ten days. Temporary help, that’s it. I’ll introduce you to my friend, Sophia. She owns the place.”
A glass-paned wooden door groaned when Mira shoved through it. Open, sparkling windows soared all the way to the second floor, spilling beams of sunlight onto a small collection of tables that lined the wall. Maybe Sophia lived on the third floor above the bakery. Wouldn’t that be a nightmare? To live above the source of the ways I’d been fat my whole life?
I shuddered and pressed inside after Mira.
The tinkle of a bell rang on the door as it wheezed shut. As expected, the delicate scent of spun sugar and warm yeast hit me like a wall. Or, perhaps, my past. My mouth watered for a cinnamon roll. I envisioned myself crossing the marathon finish line. Cinnamon rolls wouldn’t get me there. Well, not having them now, anyway.
“Hello?” a voice called. “Mira, is that you?”
“Just me, honey!”
A middle-aged woman popped into view, cheeks dusted with flour. Her eyes smiled from beneath the brim of a black hat that perfectly matched her locks of ebony hair.
“Are you Rachelle?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Welcome!” She waved flour-coated hands. “I’m Sophia. Can’t tell you what it means to have your help while Mira’s gone for the week.” She beckoned me through a door next to the main display. “Come on back. I have everything set up for Mira to start teaching you.”
Mira shot me a glance that I ignored, then motioned me ahead of her. We passed a sprawling wooden counter with a glass display. Eclairs, puffy cinnamon rolls, hot cross buns, and petit fours lined the inside.
My stomach growled.
Above the counter, a blackboard menu decorated with colored chalk displayed the prices and names of different soups. I tried to breathe through my nose but swore I could still taste the sweetness. My crutches thudded on the worn wooden floor. Behind the counter, the prep area was visible. Gleaming metallic counters, tub-sized sinks with hanging spigots, and barrels of flour, sugar, and colored frosting awaited. Naked cupcakes filled three racks at least five feet tall. I passed through a doorway next to the display and into the prep room.
“Here it is,” Sophia said, hands spread. “This is where the magic happens. Sorry I can’t show you around right now, but I’m meeting with a bride in ten minutes. Can you teach Rachelle how to frost the cupcakes, Mira?”
“Of course.”
“Four containers of frosting on the counter. I’ve frosted a plate just to show you the designs that I want. Tips are in the drawer! Mira, if you’ll teach her how to ring a customer up, that would be great too. Thanks.”
Sophia smiled again and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. Her smile was warm, the kind that expanded into the laugh lines around her eyes. She was lithe and thin, with lean arms and thin shoulders, like a runner. Definitely a runner. I relaxed. Proof that one could work in a place like this without weighing 265 pounds. Besides, it was just for ten days, anyway. The money could buy my final pair of running shoes. Or cover next month’s student-loan payment.
Mira motioned to two chairs near one of the tables in the middle of the prep room.
“That’s where you’ll sit.”
“Thanks.”
While I settled into the chair and lifted my ankle—which had already started to ache after riding in the car—Mira fluffed the pillows underneath my foot. She passed me a bottle of hand sanitizer.
“Keep this close. We’ll wash our hands a lot.”
“Do I have to wear gloves?”
Mira shrugged and tossed me a black hat with the words Frosting is in my Blood written in a bold white font. “Don’t think so, but you do have to wear a hat.”
“Oh. Am I supposed to have a food handler’s permit?”
“Nah. Sophia does. That counts, doesn’t it? I’ll grab the piping tips and bags.”
While Mira pulled a huge bowl of frosting from the fridge and gathered white bags with small, metallic tips, I finished my study of the bakery. The smell of cake lingered in the air, along with an occasional wave of heat from the ovens lining the wall on the other side. Two massive fridges gleamed like they’d been recently cleaned. The wooden floor was well cared for, glossy even. A gentle tang of cleaner drifted through the air.
Impressive.
Mira passed me a chubby bag filled with bright purple frosting. She pointed to the plate of decorated cupcakes a few feet away. “See the spiral one?”
“Yep.”
A cupcake with a jagged frosting pattern, swirled into a mou
ntain-like pitch, sat at the edge of the plate. On the top stood an electric pink star flanked by a spray of sprinkles. Definitely would have been the first one I went for with a mound of frosting that high.
“That’s what you’ll do with this bag. Here, I’ll show you. It’s all in the wrist, honey. Take it from a Southerner.”
For not doing this every day, Mira had surprising dexterity. She taught me how to hold the bag, control the speed of frosting with my hand, and swirl it around from the top with my wrist.
“How often do you help?” I asked, accepting the frosting bag. “You’re really good at this.”
“Every day recently. I’m getting the hang of it. It’s actually not so hard after a while.”
“Maybe you should work for her.”
“Can’t. I still have to run the sewing shop!”
“Oh. Right.”
“Besides.” She shifted on her feet, her nose wrinkled. “All this work is killing my feet. I can hardly sleep at night. Not to mention the five pounds I’ve already gained!”
I frowned, and she paled.
“B-but that’s just me and my Pepsi, you know. Nothing to do with working here, of course!”
My gaze tapered. “You’re off Pepsi.”
“New bag!” She snatched the purple one from my hand. “Here, I’ll fill it back up while you grab a cupcake.”
Thanks to the high chair, the table sat at my elbow, making it easy to reach over and grab a cupcake. I stared at it in apprehension.
You, I wanted to say. You are the reason I was 265 pounds. Your villainous butter and sugar are the reason I hated myself but acted like I loved who I was. I didn’t. I hated being fat. I hated taking up space. I hated not being perfect. You are the reason I was unhappy.
“It isn’t going to bite you, you know.” Mira stared at me, eyebrows high on her forehead.
“Right. Of course. Just, ah, planning my course of attack.”
The frosting raced out when I first squeezed the tube, resulting in an awkward blob on top of the cupcake. I tilted my head to the side.
Mira laughed. “Don’t worry. Set that aside and try another one.”
The second came out painfully slowly, which made it easier, even though the design still ended up wildly lopsided. Mira chortled and slid a small box of candy stars my way, followed by a shaker of glitter.
“Push the weird top over and put the star on. It’ll be fine.”
Although it still looked lopsided, I obeyed and set it back on the tray. My third attempt resulted in a too-wide circle that eventually collapsed in the middle. Once I finished, I leaned back with a heavy sigh. Who knew food art could be so difficult?
The fourth came out almost normal looking, except for a straight line on one side instead of a curve. Once I set the star on top and dribbled some sprinkles, I nodded. Not too bad.
“Well done,” Mira said. “Now do it 142 more times.”
I stifled a groan.
“What are all these for?”
“Not sure. A wedding, maybe?”
“Huh.”
“Sophia had more cupcake orders than she could handle alone. Then her assistant Kate ended up going into labor three months early. She’s hospitalized for the rest of her pregnancy, with no plans to return. Sophia can’t afford to turn down the cupcake orders, which is when I stepped in to help.”
“Ah.”
“These bulk orders keep the business running.” Mira lowered her voice, her eyes darting to the front of the store. “I don’t think she’s earning enough on bakery goods to cover rent. Her cinnamon rolls do okay, but it’s her wedding cakes that most people buy. She’s only one woman. If she doesn’t pick up more foot traffic, she may have to close.”
My eyes flitted around. “It’s a cute place.”
“I know. But that doesn’t sell eclairs.”
We fell into an easy silence. Mira hummed as she worked. Easy music trilled in the background. All things considered, it was a nice place. Or perhaps I was just ecstatic to get out of the house.
By lunchtime, my wrists ached, and the bones in my butt hurt from sitting in the hard chair. One at a time–sometimes painstakingly slowly when I had to learn a new design—Mira and I worked through hundreds of cupcakes. Sophia bustled in and out, talking to herself under her breath, darting from the fridge to the sink to the freezer and back. Brides shuffled past us in the background every now and then. All in all, this wouldn’t be the worst temporary job.
If I could just keep the old Rachelle in check.
Chapter 3
Too Far
“The swelling is looking better than I expected,” Dr. Martinez said the next day. “Especially for less than a week out.”
She tilted her head to the side, regarding the black-and-blue skin that swelled along the ankle. Just looking at it, so swollen and discolored, made me sick. How could it ever heal in time?
No, I thought. I will do this marathon. It will heal in time.
“I’ve been keeping it elevated like a religion.”
She straightened up. “Good. It shows. We can cut back on some of the pain pills if you can handle it.”
“Sure.”
Bitsy stood near the door, her hands folded in front of her, wearing a pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Dr. Martinez probed around my toes.
“I’d like you to stay on the anti-inflammatories for now. Keep that swelling moving down the right direction.”
“Since it’s doing so well, does that mean I’ll be able to start running soon?”
Bitsy tilted her head back and rolled her eyes. Dr. Martinez peered at me over the top of her glasses and blinked once. The awkward silence that followed answered my question. I bit my bottom lip.
“You’re kidding, right?” Dr. Martinez asked.
“Er … no?”
“You’re not even ready for weight bearing.”
“Right, but give it a few days?”
“No.”
My heart sank. “How long will this take?”
“Impossible to say, but keep all weight off it for the next week at least. Keep it elevated and iced too. We’ll start working on toe-touch weight bearing once I feel you’re ready to handle it, but we’re probably weeks away from that.”
“Toe-touch weight bearing?”
“That means you only touch your big toe to the ground.”
“That’s nothing!”
“Exactly.”
“But—”
She held up a hand, her lips pinched. “Trust me, Rachelle. The more conservative we are right now, the better for you. Do you want a long-term injury?”
“No.”
“Then listen to my medical expertise.” She jabbed a finger toward my ankle. “That’s an intense Grade 3 sprain that I don’t want to exacerbate. If you stick with this, you’ll heal faster. If you don’t, you may never run a marathon at all.”
My mouth snapped closed again. Of course she was right. I nodded once. Although I was determined to run the marathon, I wasn’t about to sabotage any chance I had. Across the room, Bitsy peered at me with a lowered brow and intent gaze. I acted like I hadn’t noticed. My reckoning with her would come in the car. I could already feel it building.
“All right,” I said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll keep doing what I’m doing.”
Dr. Martinez headed toward the door, a finger held straight up. “I’ll see you in one week, Rachelle.”
The door closed behind her with a resounding thud. For some reason, I felt as if she’d taken me with it.
Bitsy’s voice broke the strained silence that pervaded the car once we left the doctor’s office.
“You’re lucky it’s healing so well.”
I sighed, ready to get this over with.
“I know.”
Houses flashed by us, her Honda’s engine whirring with an obnoxiously loud purr. She tapped the steering wheel with her thumb—the radio didn’t work—and pursed her lips. I sank deeper into my seat.
The steady sile
nce continued for several minutes before I couldn’t stand it anymore. I licked my lips and said, “Thanks for taking me. I know this isn’t convenient for you. I appreciate your help. All of it.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
I swallowed. “Why not?”
She moved into the left lane instead of the right. My eyes narrowed as she drove through the green light rather than taking the turn toward the trailer park.
“Uh … where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to Janine.”
“Janine?”
“My therapist.”
My body stiffened. “What?”
“You need to talk to a professional.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I don’t need to talk to a therapist.”
“We all need a therapist, Rachelle. You have unresolved issues.”
“Bitsy, I sprained my ankle. I’m not crazy.”
“Are you saying I’m crazy because I had counseling?”
“No.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I-I’m just saying I don’t need it. I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong with me.”
The words came out like bad fruitcake. Even as I said them, I knew they weren’t true. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. What could be wrong with me pursuing my goals related to health and happiness? Nothing.
At least, I didn’t think so.
“Nothing is wrong?” she asked. “Let’s talk about your abandonment issues because of your father.”
“Whoa!”
“Or the fact that you lost the weight of a whole person and still aren’t happy.”
“Hey, I—”
“You can say that everything at home, in your life, and at your job is just peachy, Rachelle?”
“I don’t have a job anymore,” I snapped.
“Exactly!”
I’d expected a confrontation, but this had gotten out of control too quickly. I dug my fingertips into the thinning seat beneath me and let out a long breath. “That’s not fair. You’ve pushed me too far.”
Bitsy met my glare without fear. “No,” she said quietly. “I’m the one that’s finally pushing you at all. You have issues, Rachelle. Your exercise and search for love in the wrong places has gotten out of control. I’m the only one saying what needs to be said. Finally. Probably about twenty years too late.”