100 Days of Cake

by Shari Goldhagen

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  For my family

  DAY 12

  Cherry Berry Bundt Cake

  It’s been summer break for four hours, and Alex McDermott and I are already on our third Golden Girls rerun and our second container of house special lo mein.

  Sitting cross-legged on the counter at FishTopia Saltwater Fish & Supplies, we’re staring at the ancient TV above the register, passing the carton of noodles between us, and basking in the thin wave of air from the oscillating fan that blows our direction every few seconds.

  “Molly, you’re hogging all the good air.” Alex scoots closer to me, near enough that our shorts and thighs are practically touching, and I’m thankful I was motivated enough to shave my legs this morning; some days it’s a stretch.

  “Shouldn’t you be sweeping or something?” I nudge his shoulder with mine, and he rolls his eyes. Since the place opened two years ago, I don’t think anyone has ever taken the broom out of the supply closet in the back, much less attempted to use it. The handful of customers who come in never complain, and the owner, Charlie, pops in only once a week to do inventory and drop off our checks.

  “If Chuck graces us with his presence, I’ll point out that he’s violating just about a thousand labor laws for not having AC in this place.” Alex gives this cute crooked smile, and a dimple pops into his cheek. “Seriously, this cannot be good for the fish.”

  Like me, Alex is a junior (technically we’re seniors now, I guess), but he goes to Maxwell—Coral Cove’s other high school, across town. When we started working here after school and on weekends, I wasn’t sure we’d have much in common. He’s in a band, and there was this steady stream of girls with inky dyed hair and Hot Topic graphic T-shirts who used to come in here and flirt with him. But it turns out Golden Girls and take-out noodles are some kind of universal language; Alex and I were fast friends from the first time we stumbled upon an episode and he said Betty White was the bomb.

  We’ve seen this episode at least four times in the past six months alone. It’s the one where Blanche, Rose, Sophia, and Dorothy put on a production of Henny Penny at an elementary school, and they’re all wearing these ridiculous leotards and feather headpieces. Knowing when the jokes are coming only makes it funnier; sometimes I crack up just seeing Rose on screen.

  In my perfect world I’d spend the rest of the day (maybe the rest of the summer; maybe the rest of my life) right here at FishTopia just like this . . . but in the pocket of my cutoffs, my cell phone rings.

  “Your wife again?” Alex asks, and I scrunch up my face in mock annoyance, but it is the third time Elle has called in the past ninety minutes, and Elle and I have been best friends since kindergarten, which is a lot longer than either of our parents were married, if you think about it that way.

  I wander into an aisle of clown fish and guppies for moderate privacy.

  “Hey.”

  “Mrs. Kamp next door can watch Jimmy, so that’s taken care of.” Elle picks up the conversation in pretty much the exact spot where we left off half an hour ago, when she was trying to find a babysitter for her little brother. She’s still trying to convince me to be her wing woman at Chris Partridge’s end-of-the-year party tonight. I don’t want to go any more than I did the last time she called.

  “Come on, Mol. How often do we even get invited to stuff like this?”

  Ah, never. It’s not like Coral Cove High is a John Hughes film, where you never talk to people outside your clique, but Elle and I have always spent most of our time with the other dorks in advanced classes and on the swim team (before I quit), while Chris plays baseball and is the president of our class; there’s just not a lot of overlap. So it was doubly weird this afternoon when Elle and I were emptying out all the crumpled notebook paper and stray pen caps from our locker, and Chris sauntered over and specifically invited us. “Bring whoever you want,” he said, “friends, family.” I thought that Elle’s head might explode. She’s had a crush on Chris since he offered her a Life Saver one time in study hall freshman year.

  “Chris probably just invited the entire class or something,” I say.

  “See, everyone will be there; we have to go.”

  That makes the prospect even less appealing. I haven’t been to a single anything party since my massive freak-out at the divisionals meet a year ago. A ginormous party with everyone talking about senior year and college and who’s getting engaged and all that other BS seems a horrible place to dive back into the CCH social scene. But . . .

  Even though I’m reasonably sure Chris and Elle never spoke again after the Life Saver incident (technically I don’t think he actually spoke to her then, just kind of held out the pack and grunted), it would still be pretty crappy if I didn’t go with her.

  “I promise I won’t say anything if people aren’t recycling,” Elle says, which is a big deal for her. Then she threatens to invoke BFF law—this modified version of the Girl Scout Law we came up with way back when we were in Brownies. “Pleeeeeeease.”

  “Will you drive?” I ask, and I can almost see her weighing the environmental damage of using the old gas-guzzling Jeep Cherokee her dad gave her, against the off chance that Chris might go all High School Musical and fall in love with her.

  “Can we do windows instead of AC?” she asks.

  “Elle, it’s one hundred thousand degrees out!” Technically 103, but it has been that way for three days, which is ridiculous even for central Florida.

  “Fine, we’ll turn it on low. I’ll pick you up at the store in an hour.”

  “Deal.”

  When I hang up and turn around, Alex is standing at the opening of the aisle, staring at me like I’ve grown additional heads. Automatically my hand goes to the mouse-poop-colored frizz on my head; with this humidity it’s more of a lost cause than usual. My mom—who wouldn’t hesitate to tell you she owns the most successful hair salon in Coral Cove and the surrounding areas—would be horrified.

  “What?” I ask defensively.

  “Sorry, I was totally eavesdropping, but were you guys talking about Chris Partridge’s thing tonight?”

  Hesitantly, I nod.

  “Dude, Chris and I have been buddies since Little League.” Alex is nodding excitedly. “How did I not know you guys were friends?”

  “More like acquaintances.” I shrug. More like nothing.

  “But you’re going?”

  “For a little. . . . You?”

  I probably see Alex more than any human being on the planet who doesn’t physically live in my house (and honestly, more than I’ve seen my sister lately), but we only ever hang out at FishTopia. Sometimes he suggests we go grab dinner or coffee or he’ll ask if I want to see some show, but I can never tell if he’s serious or not or if it would be a date-date or not, and then I start thinking about those Hot Topic girls and all the weird stuff that’s been going on with me this past year, and it gets hard to breathe. So I always kind of brush him off. It’s safe to be with him here—like our own little aquarium.

  But maybe it would be okay if we saw each other at this party? Then there’d be at least one person other than Elle who I know I like. Although, it’s already a little screwed up, since Alex thinks I’m all buddy-buddy with Chris.

  “I’ve got band practice after we close up here.” Alex is still talking. “But I’ll come after that.” He takes his phon
e from his pocket and unlocks the screen. “Gimme your digits, and I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.”

  Reciting my phone number, I have this flash to winter sophomore year when T. J. Cranston asked for my number after swim practice; suddenly my stomach feels all oily.

  “Cool,” I say. I have no idea if this is actually cool. All I know is, I’m nervous enough that it’s hard to follow the rest of the Golden Girls episode.

  In her ancient Jeep Cherokee, Elle pulls up in front of the store and honks. She refuses to enter FishTopia, because she thinks it’s a prison for marine life or something. I push off the counter, gather my backpack, and throw my container of lo mein into the garbage. Alex waves to Elle through the store window. They’ve never actually met, but Alex has heard me tell enough stories that he could probably write a dissertation on Elle Lovell.

  “So I guess maybe I’ll see you tonight?” I say.

  “Definitely.” Alex holds the door open for me, and the little bell that alerts us to new customers dings. “Let me help you with your bike.”

  “I got—” I start, but then I just nod, and he follows me into the soupy air that is Coral Cove this summer. Motioning for Elle to pop the rear door, I unlock Old Montee—this green Murray Monterey Beach cruiser that my mom used to ride around when she was growing up here—from a handicap-parking sign. Alex hoists it over his shoulder and slides it into the back of the Jeep. Even though I’m still pretty twisty about tonight, I take a minute to appreciate just how easily he lifted my bike. Alex is a little on the short and slender side, and I had no idea he was that strong. . . . Duly noted.

  In the driver’s seat, Elle spins around and introduces herself, her dishwater-blond curls still in springy ringlets, despite the heat and lack of animal-tested or ozone-destroying hair products. “And I’m guessing you’re Alex.”

  “Guilty as charged.” He gives that crooked grin again. “Nice to finally meet you.”

  “Same. You need a ride?”

  “Naw, I got a car.” Alex gestures toward his Ford Fiesta with the rusted undercarriage. “But it looks like I’ll be seeing you girls later tonight at Chris’s.”

  Elle shoots me this laser-focused What’s-going-on? eyebrow lift.

  “Yeah, it turns out Alex and Chris go way back,” I offer.

  “Sweet,” Elle says, even though she doesn’t normally say things like “sweet.”

  Alex says he’ll text me when he’s en route, and goes back inside to finish closing up. I barely make it into the passenger seat (the AC is totally not on, BTW) before Elle is bombarding me with questions about how Alex knows Chris and why I never told her.

  “I swear I had no idea until today.”

  “Are you excited he’s coming? He’s so cute,” she says. “And I kept telling you he was into you.”

  This is true. Despite having never actually met Alex—that whole not-entering-the-store thing—Elle has long been convinced that Alex and I are destined to get married and have a million babies and live happily ever after. I guess I do talk about him a lot.

  “I don’t know.” I bunch my shoulders. “It’s weird.”

  “It’ll be fine, and your mom will be thrilled you’re finally going out again.”

  “True.”

  We’ve never been to Chris’s house, but we know where it is. There are only thirty-two thousand people in Coral Cove (up seven thousand souls from a decade ago, before J&J Plumbing moved its headquarters here), so you pretty much know all the subdivisions and who lives where. His place is only a few streets down from the model home where my mom and sister and I moved a few years ago.

  The street is packed with the cars of kids from school. Half of them are new and shiny sixteenth-birthday presents, the other half hand-me-downs from parents and even grandparents—that’s new/old Coral Cove for you. My mom has promised me “any car within reason” if I’m ever motivated enough to sign up for driver’s ed; I’m probably the only seventeen-year-old in the entire county without a license.

  We park and follow the line of cars to a big new house (Chris’s dad is J&J corporate), and we make it to the driveway before I start wondering if maybe I should have put on something other than my summer uniform of cutoffs and a tank top, or if I should have at least put on a fresh tank top instead of just keeping on the one that I’ve been sweating in all freaking day.

  Elle is wearing one of her oatmeal-colored shapeless cotton T-shirts and a pair of drapey pants that cost a lot because they’re made without any of the bad chemicals and don’t exploit cheap labor. There are probably hip eco-chic models wearing them all over San Fran, but Elle weighs ninety-eight pounds soaking wet, so the getup just looks frumpy on her. Obviously too late to say anything now.

  Since the bright blue door is wide open, Elle and I exchange shrugs, let ourselves in, and follow the music out to the backyard.

  I guess I was expecting some crazy TV party scene, but honestly it doesn’t look all that different from the swim team parties Elle and I used to go to back when I did stuff like that. There’s a bunch of people from our class clumped around deck chairs or sitting by the inexplicably drained swimming pool. On a folding table there are plastic containers of cold cuts and a pink bucket of beer and soda cans, as well as an enormous punch bowl. A few of the girls are wearing slightly dressier tank tops, but Elle and I don’t look horrifically out of place.

  Meredith Hoffman—a cheerleader from my sophomore year health class—is giving off this first-lady vibe, scurrying around straightening the table and adjusting plastic cups. I wonder if she and Chris are dating, wonder if Elle has picked up on that.

  Seeing us, Meredith gives a little wave. “Hey, ladies!”

  We nod back.

  “You’ve got to try this punch,” she says, ladling out two glasses. “It’s a sacred recipe from Chris’s brother’s FSU frat.”

  The color of a flamingo, it smells like pure gasoline. It must also be about ninety proof, because I feel totally loopy from one swallow. To be fair, even when I did used to go to parties, I was never a big drinker. Elle starts coughing on her first sip and mumbles something about not being able to drive home.

  Informing us that she has already “broken the seal,” Meredith jogs off to the bathroom.

  Gina and Tina, these freckled identical twins from our AP English class (the only advanced class I was able to keep this year), are sitting on the diving board with their feet hanging over the empty pool. So maybe the entire school was invited. Elle leads us toward them, and within minutes they’re all talking about the summer reading list and whether they’re going to take the SATs again in the fall—as if we hadn’t gotten out of school less than six hours ago.

  “A scholarship is my only shot at paying for Columbia, so I’ve got to,” Elle is saying.

  We were supposed to take the test at the same time in May, but I had such a panic attack that not even the Xanax helped. My mom and Elle ended up suggesting that I just wait until the fall.

  Gina or Tina is saying something about applying early decision somewhere. These are the conversations that make me want to gnaw my arm off. “Are you thinking FSU or UF?” “You’re going into the army even though your dad was a navy man?” “Did you plan out every minute of the rest of your life already?” Vomit.

  I’m just staring into the pool. Generally I haven’t been a big fan of pools ADF (After my Divisionals Freak-out, which was a year ago), but the missing water makes it much less intimidating. The bottom is painted this nice blue that’s probably supposed to look like the ocean.

  “Your dad went there, right, Mol?” Elle asks.

  “Wha?”

  “Your dad went to the University of Miami, didn’t he?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “He was always talking about how this one biology professor changed his life.” Other than the Miami part, I don’t know if any of this is true. My dad died when I was three, and sometimes I just make stuff up because I don’t remember, which is weird and sad, but at least all conversations don�
��t come to a screeching halt the way they do when you say you have no memories of your own father.

  “Yeah, I’m definitely doing early decision,” Gina says, as if someone asked a question; someone probably did.

  Eventually Gina and Tina go get more chips, and Chris Partridge catches my eye and starts jogging over. Since we’ve hung out all of never, it’s surprising that he looks so completely psyched to see us.

  “Molly, Elle.” He nods. “Thanks for coming to chez casa.”

  Elle might burst into a million happy bits because he remembered her name. She doesn’t even mention that he just welcomed us to his “house, house.”

  “Thanks for asking us,” I say, and hold up my still-full glass. “Awesome punch.”

  “Yeah, it’s from my brother’s fraternity. He could get banned for life for sharing it.”

  “His secret is safe with me,” I say.

  Elle stands there like someone hit her pause button, and I can see Chris kind of looking off to my right.

  “So, got any big summer plans?” I ask, because it’s my duty as a wing woman, not because I want to get into another discussion about SAT prep.

  “Well, the pool should be fixed by the end of the week.” Chris gestures to the big empty hole. “Total bummer it wasn’t ready for tonight, but we’ll definitely get that going.”

  “If you want an alternative to chlorine, they have natural enzymes you can use to keep it clean.” Elle finally says something, albeit a completely face-palm-worthy something.

  “Huh?” Chris looks genuinely confused.

  “An alternative that’s a little more earth friendly . . .” Elle trails off, as absolutely none of this is registering for Chris. “Is the bathroom this way?” she practically squeaks and points to the house, like the bathroom would be any other place. “Whoa, I had a lot of punch.”

  And then she darts off.

  Does a good wing woman run after her, or stay behind and explain why she’s acting like a total spaz?