100 Days of Cake

by Shari Goldhagen

  For once, I feel good.

  DAY 63

  Enchanted Black Forest Cake

  Elle wants to go to the theater tonight to see a new documentary all about the evils of commercial farming. Remembering Dr. Brooks joking that I needed to get out and see a movie with friends, I actually laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Elle asks, but I just shrug. We are not going to get into the whole Dr. B. thing again.

  I try to convince her that we should see this new cheesy rom-com with one of the women from Scandal instead. It wouldn’t normally be my thing, but the Hot Tub Time Machine guy from Say Anything . . . is the male lead, and it would be fun to tell Dr. B. about it at our next session.

  Finally we decide to see both movies and make a night of it.

  “We can sneak into the second movie after the first, like we used to,” Elle offers.

  “Definitely.” When we were in junior high, we used to do that all the time, and it feels good to think of doing it again, like the old Molly is back in business.

  Elle drives (with AC!). At the theater we get cherry Slurpees and a giant tub of popcorn that probably has a week’s worth of calories, then we pump the weird liquid butter on top of that.

  We buy tickets to the seven forty-five A Bridesmaid, Always and plan to sneak into the ten p.m. showing of E-I-E-I No, but Elle is trying to convince me that it might be better to see the depressing doc first. “That way we can totally veg out with the rom-com afterward.”

  “I don’t know,” I counter. “The times work out much better if we see the farming thing second.” This is true; also, we might be tired and just bail on the documentary entirely, but I keep that part to myself.

  As we’re debating this, one of the theaters lets out, and a wave of people, all squinting in the light and excitedly talking about some action flick, swell toward us.

  Smack in the middle of the group is Alex . . . and my sister.

  They’re not with Chris or Meredith Hoffman or any of the other people they were with the last time I saw them together. It’s very clearly only the two of them . . . at the movies . . . on a Friday night . . . standing so close, their arms are almost touching. Alex leans down so she can tell him something in his ear over the noise of the crowd, and he smiles and nods.

  My brain starts doing these rationalization gymnastics. Maybe they came separately and ran into each other? Maybe he’s trying to recruit her to do something for his band? Maybe he’s . . . Maybe she’s . . .

  No, maybe nothing.

  They are on a date. The datiest date that ever was. The kind of date Dr. Brooks went on in high school when he got to second base during Say Anything . . . .

  My sister and Alex are on a date.

  Elle sees it too and gives me this super-pained look. I pull her arm, and we duck behind the condiments cart so Alex and V won’t see us as they walk past.

  “So it’s V he’s been sneaking off with!” Elle announces like some sort of Captain Obvious. “Wow.”

  I want to shrug it off, like I did when I thought he might be seeing Meredith, but I can’t—I can hardly move. It’s like someone scooped out my chest with a melon baller, just this horrible empty ache.

  “That’s sooo not right.” Elle is getting all riled up like she usually does when someone with an SUV throws a plastic water bottle out the car window. “I’m going to give them a piece of my mind.”

  She’s about to charge over, but I hold her hand and shake my head. What good would it do? What could it possibly change? I’ll just be that pathetic little depressed girl crying in front of everyone again.

  “But how could they do that to you?” she asks.

  I shrug. I don’t want to open my mouth, because if I do, I will just scream and I might not be able to stop.

  “Should we get out of here?” Elle asks, and I nod.

  We don’t say a word the entire ride home. Some dumb Taylor Swift song comes on the radio, but we don’t bother to change it.

  Fuck, I am a Taylor Swift song!

  There’s a guy who loves hanging out with me, and I love hanging out with him. I was too stupid and scared to take it to the next level. And now he’s dating the head cheerleader. (V’s not on the cheerleading squad per se, but she did mention something about wanting to audition for the dance team next year.)

  She’s the pretty, fun girl he deserves; she even has my eyes.

  “Do you want me to come in?” Elle asks when she pulls in front of the model home with its completely non-model family. “I could eat whatever cake your mom made today?”

  I shake my head. Elle clearly wants to say something, maybe how she knew I liked Alex all along and should have said yes when he asked me out, even if he was kind of kidding. Maybe how my sister is a horrible vapid boyfriend snatcher and everything that is wrong with America. Maybe just that she really wants to try Mom’s Enchanted Black Forest Cake.

  But she really is a good friend, so she doesn’t say any of that, just squeezes my shoulder and tells me to call her later if I need to talk.

  DAY 65

  Honey Honeydew Cake (with Optional Walnuts)

  There’s this episode of Golden Girls where Dorothy is so annoyed with her ex-husband that she begs Blanche to go out with him, which Blanche reluctantly agrees to do. But then Blanche and Stan have this amazing time and want to see each other again, and Dorothy is hurt and furious and betrayed.

  Not completely the same as what’s going on with me and V and Alex (okay, it’s actually not the same at all), but when I’m slumped on the family room couch watching a Golden Girls marathon and the episode comes on, I find myself really identifying with Dorothy and wanting to smack Blanche in her flirty little face. How could she do that to someone who is supposed to be like a sister to her?

  It’s been two days since Elle and I saw V and Alex at the movies, and I’ve successfully avoided my sister entirely. To be fair, it’s not all that unusual, and if I weren’t so stomach-churningly angry at her, I’d probably feel really crappy about the fact that apparently it’s completely normal for us not to interact for whole days now. She’s been out doing something all morning—maybe a coffee date with Alex?

  In my pocket my cell phone dings that I’ve got a new text message—Alex asking where I am and if I’m okay, and I realize that I was supposed to be at FishTopia a half hour ago.

  Instead of writing back that he is a jackass or that maybe he should ask Veronica if she wants to work there instead, I shoot Elle a note asking her to text Alex that I have the flu and he has to handle FishTopia on his own today. Don’t say anything about Friday!! I add.

  A few seconds later another message from Alex: Elle says u r sick. Anything I can do?

  The rage bubbles back up in my throat. He doesn’t get to do this—act all sweet and normal and into me when he’s sneaking off with my sister.

  NO, I write back.

  Want me to come by l8r, I can bring lo mein?

  I start to type out a message saying I doubt his girlfriend would like that, but think better of it and just write NO again.

  OK, feel better. :)

  Seriously, how can he pull this aw-shucks-nice-guy shit when he failed to mention that he’s dating my sister? MY FREAKING SISTER!

  The emoji pushes me over the edge, and I hurl the phone across the room. It hits one of the decorative “accent pillows” on the other side of the sectional, which isn’t particularly satisfying.

  I can’t wait to tell Dr. Brooks that he was right, that Alex is completely immature and I shouldn’t have wasted a single thought on him.

  But as much as I want to hate Alex, V is the one I’m furious at. I’ll admit that maybe, maybe I did a subpar job of conveying my feelings to Alex—like, I can’t even really understand them myself—so I almost understand him.

  But WTF, V? Even if she’s got her Jaclyn’s Attic friends and we don’t watch sitcoms in bed with Mom anymore, she still had to know how important Alex is (was) to me. I talk about him constantly. Even Mom keeps aski
ng when she’s going to meet him. The last time I checked, V isn’t deaf; she had to know. So why? Why my Alex? Veronica is the girl that everyone wants, the breathtaking breezy girl who could have anyone in the world. Why did she have to take the one guy who was important to me? Because I didn’t lie to Mom about her being drunk? That’s some pretty serious payback.

  And then she lies to me about it. (Okay, a lie of omission, but still.) Instead of doing the mature thing and letting me know, she says nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Nope, she sat through family meals and car rides and shared mornings getting ready with me in the bathroom and kept mum. She let me go on and on about Alex and FishTopia without saying a single thing.

  I squeeze the Admissions Ace! stress ball so tight that something pops, and sand spills out down my arm.

  Seven episodes later the front door swings open and I hear V go into the kitchen. She comes into the living room with today’s cake—something made in a Bundt pan—napkins, and a knife.

  “Mom must be getting better; this one looks pretty good.” She puts it on the coffee table and glances at the TV. “Golden Girls. Cool.”

  In my throat, that cold rage bubbles, and I’m on my feet snapping off the TV before she can even sit down. I start out of the room, but she blocks my path with this wide-legged stance, hands on her hips like Wonder Woman.

  “Is there a reason you’re not speaking to me, or is this just more of the big bad depression bullshit that we’re all supposed to give you a pass on?”

  Narrowing my eyes, I give her the most disgusted look I can muster.

  “Really? You’re not gonna say anything?” Her infamous ultra-hard eye roll. “No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Well, that’s certainly not your problem, is it?” The level of venom in my voice is impressive. “You’ve got plenty of boyfriends, don’t you?”

  “What are you even talking about?” V looks genuinely confused. “I’m dating one guy, not that you EVER bother to ask me about anything in my life.”

  “I saw you at the movie theater with Alex on Friday night!”

  A flicker of surprise dances across her face, like I’ve caught her and she feels bad, but then she just shrugs. “So what’s the BFD? I’m allowed to hang out with people.”

  “The BFD is . . .”

  I want to scream that Alex is my friend, that kidding around with him at FishTopia is our thing. That I know I’m a moron and my reasons for not going out with him may not have made sense to her, but as my sister she should have at least tried to understand that. That’s what sisters do. I used to know when she was upset about screwing up on a math test or not getting picked for a solo in modern dance class, and she should know things like that about me. At the very least she shouldn’t have started seeing Alex behind my back. But it’s all mixed up in my head. And I have this nagging realization that if I really wanted Alex to be happy with a pretty, great girl who could make him laugh, then shouldn’t I be happy that he’s with V?

  “Alex is too old for you!” I finally manage, but it sounds really dumb even in my own head.

  “Really, Molly? You dated T.J. when he was a senior and you were a sophomore—not that it matters.” V seems like the older sister, a million years older than me, certainly old enough to date a boy a few grades ahead of her.

  “And we all know how well THAT worked out!” I say.

  “Just admit it. You blew Alex off a million times, and now you only care because you THINK I’m dating him—”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Then, what? You were just playing hard-to-get for two years? Word of advice, Mol, guys hate a cock tease—”

  “Well, that must be why you’re so well loooved. You only cock please, don’t you . . . you . . . you selfish little slut.”

  Okay, a low blow.

  “I’m the selfish one?”

  “Selfish” is what she’s upset about?

  “Are you even listening to yourself . . .” V’s voice trails off into a squeak; her cheeks scrunch into her eyes and she gets all purple. She goes from seeming like the older sister to looking super-young, like when she was a little kid and used to follow me and Elle around. Sometimes she couldn’t do some of the stuff we did—keep the Hula-Hoop spinning, balance on the handrail of Elle’s deck—and she’d get so frustrated, just like she looks now. “Everyone in your entire freaking orbit has to tiptoe around you so you don’t break. No one can talk about anything going on in their lives—good or bad—because it might upset Molly. Mom’s baking a fucking cake every day for Molly. But I’m the selfish one? Why don’t you do us all a favor and just off yourself right now so we can get on with our lives!”

  The phrase somehow echoes throughout our sunken model-home family room, reverberating from upgraded plush carpeting to the upgraded recessed lighting domes in the ceiling.

  Yep, my own little sister advised me to kill myself.

  V seems to realize the weight of that too, and something in her face changes.

  “Molly, wait. I’m—”

  No way am I going to stand here and listen to her apologize. Because no way am I going to forgive her. Not for any of it.

  Swooping down, I grab the cake from the table and bolt past V up the stairs. She follows, calling my name, but I’ve always been faster than her, even if I haven’t exercised since quitting the swim team. She’s just making it to the landing by the time I slam and lock my bedroom door.

  “Molly.” Out-of-breath V pounds on the door. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Go away!”

  “I’m not even da—”

  Still shaking, I slide earbuds in and crank up the music on my phone, and V and all her apologies go away.

  Playing the songs that Dr. B. told me about, I take a few deep breathes and try to calm down.

  After the entire four minutes and three seconds of “Hunger Strike,” my bedroom door is still shifting slightly. V must be talking and knocking.

  “Go away,” I say again, my words all weird in my head over the music.

  In all the time I’ve been the big blue bummer, I’ve never once thought about killing myself. Not in any real way, at least. Sometimes, when I’m really low, I kind of wonder what it would be like to not be here anymore. To sort of melt into the bed and blend with the Egyptian cotton of the sheets. Or maybe to become a permanent member of the studio audience of an old sitcom—just watch and laugh and be amused by a life I’m not a part of, a life that is always neatly wrapped up in half-hour increments.

  But I’ve never wanted to actively end things—never considered shoveling down a handful of the painkillers I have left from getting my wisdom teeth removed freshman year, or slicing a zigzag into my wrists in the bathtub. I know that Mom keeps a handgun locked in a metal box in her closet, but I’ve never thought about going to get it.

  In junior high, there was a kid on the Maxwell swim team who did that. “Blew his brains out” was how we all described it, and some of the boys talked about all the blood and gray matter and what it must have looked like when his dad found him. I think it was a way to deal with how freaked out we all were.

  Does V really think I would do something like that? Does that worry her? I’ve never considered how much all this might have sucked for her, too.

  It still doesn’t give her the right to date my Alex or tell me to kill myself.

  The cake is actually really good, by far Mom’s best concoction. Not too sweet, with a pinch of salt, and the melon is almost refreshing.

  An envelope from V’s fancy stationary set pokes under the upgraded door, but I don’t even bother picking it up.

  Even after I’m disgustingly full, I finish off the cake, not leaving even the smallest piece for my sister.

  DAY 67

  Razzle-Dazzle Cake with Funfetti Frosting

  As much as I’ve been dreading going back to the store and seeing Alex, I have to admit that FishTopia is looking awesome. He finished the cleaning and painting, and he swapped out the horrible fluorescen
t lighting with much softer bulbs.

  Plus, he redid the labels on all of the fish tanks! Charlie never really had a system for that. Some tanks had half-peeled-off stickers from a million years ago—so you ended up with things like antic Blue Ta and Candy C e Cor, kind of like a fish Wheel of Fortune puzzle. Others had names written in black Sharpie (most of it smeared) on pieces of masking tape, and then there were the tanks of “mystery fish” that weren’t labeled at all. We always had to invent prices on the rare occasions when anybody bought some of those. But now every tank has a typed label with the specimen’s name and price, plus basic information or some trivia—The humpback grouper is an ambush predator feeding mostly on small fishes and crustaceans. Blackcap basslets are territorial and don’t accept other members of the same species, so keep only one in a single aquarium. It’s really cool, like something that you might see at an honest-to-goodness aquarium. It must have taken Alex forever to do all of those. It’s almost enough to make me forget that he’s been stepping out with my sister behind my back.

  I’m so enthralled with everything, I don’t even notice when Alex and JoJo come up behind me until Alex nudges me with his shoulder and asks what I think.

  “Wow, this is amazeballs!” I say, and really mean it.

  “Thanks.” Alex smiles.

  “Your boy has been a machine.” JoJo seems genuinely proud, even if she does think that we’ll all make more money if this place goes diner. “He even conned me into helping.”

  “Yeah, Jo knows a ton of random fish trivia.”

  JoJo looks slightly embarrassed about something for the first time since I met her. “You know, all the Jeopardy! with that A-hat Alex Trebek.” Grabbing her purse, she announces she’s “audi,” and leaves me and Alex alone.

  “So, um,” he says. “V mentioned that you saw us at the movies the other night—”

  Yeah, his FishTopia work is almost enough to make me forget about Friday, but almost isn’t cutting it. Just hearing him say “us” in the context of him and Veronica makes me want to throw up in my mouth.