by Gaby Triana
Papa studies me a long time, like he’s trying to figure out whether or not to say something. Finally, a certain peace comes over him. He’s decided. “Go inside my closet.”
“What?”
“Get up and go to my closet,” he repeats. “There’s a trunk in the corner, under the dry-cleaned suits. It’s brown. It has your Nana’s kitchen things. Baking pans, whisks, all that stuff. You may as well have them. Go.”
“For serious?” How cool is this? I thought those things were long gone! “I didn’t know you had her baking stuff, Papa. Why didn’t you give them to me before?”
“Believe me, I wanted to. But when we moved from the old house, your mother put it all in a pile to give away, and I rescued the damned stuff. She doesn’t know I hid it all. She didn’t want you to have it.”
“But why?”
He says nothing. Just stares straight ahead.
“Is Nana’s apron there? The one with the little cherries?”
He smiles faintly. “Yes.”
“Yay!”
“But Rose…”
“Yeah?”
“Promise me you won’t tell your mother. She’ll take it all away. She wasn’t a fan of your grandmother’s…” He searches his mind for the right word, but all he can come up with is, “baking.”
“Papa, please. You know I won’t. But what’s the big deal with me baking anyway?”
He leans back in his seat. “Just open the box.” I jump up without finishing my soup. But the moment I rush past him, he grips my arm then softens it into a gentle hand hold. “Not a word about this to anyone. Hear me? No one.”
Three
The second I run to his room, he snaps out of a trance. “Stay out of my middle drawer!”
I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.
An adventure! In my grandpa’s closet! I reach his room and pause at the door. If the rest of his new townhouse is modern and sterile, Papa’s bedroom is the antithesis.
His furniture is the same dark wood bedroom set he and Nana had in the old house. The varnish has faded in spots. In others, hearts and initials are etched in. Pics of Nana and the family adorn the dressers—my great-grandparents, him and Nana as youngsters, pics of my mom and uncles as babies, some in black and white, some in old, faded color like real Instagram filters. Papa’s shoes are perfectly lined up along the wall. Tied to a full-standing mirror is a purple-yellow scarf.
The closet door is slightly open.
Inside, treasure awaits, and I’m Indiana Jones.
For a minute, this isn’t my grandfather’s bedroom. It’s a cave rife with dangerous traps, ones that, if I’m not careful where I step, certain death will overcome me. I take slow steps…closer…closer. I see my prize in my mind’s eye, a golden statuette, gleaming under a single, solitary beam of light.
I’m almost there.
I hop over stepping stones, reaching the closet and flicking on the light, knowing the entire closet’s contents might crumble at any moment if I’m not careful.
There it is—only it’s not a golden statuette. It’s a brown trunk, the kind with brass accents. I’ve never seen it before. I love it! I part his dry-cleaning hanging in the closet and kneel on the carpeting before the trunk. Why didn’t he tell me about this before? Vintage baking tools? I would’ve killed to have these before. He knows Santa never brought me that Easy-Bake Oven I asked for every year when I was little.
He knows!
I slide aside a brass button, and a little latch pops up. Slowly, I hoist up the trunk’s lid, trying to keep it from crashing down on my fingers. I almost expect a flood of golden light or evil apparitions to come fluttering out. The lid creaks when it reaches a certain point then holds itself up.
I peek inside.
Whoa—STUFF.
A brown paper bag contains discolored, cloth piping bags. In a rectangular plastic box with clear lid are a million metal piping tips—star tips, basket-weave tips, shell border tips, old school buttercream tools. Two old rolling pins, the wood suuuper smooth, like they’ve seen a lot of action in their lifetime. Cupcake trays, six muffins each, a small yellow box full of copper impression cookie cutters. Christmas tree shapes, Santa shapes, star shapes, you name it.
I pull it all out of the trunk, scattering stuff around me. But where’s the big ticket item? After a few more sturdy whisks, wooden spoons, heavy glass bowl, and seen-better-days spatulas, I find a neat package at the bottom of the trunk wrapped in crinkly yellow tissue paper. Gently, I pull it out, feeling its lightness.
I close my eyes, envisioning the apron before I even unwrap it.
Beige with light green ruffle trim and tiny embroidered cherries, front pocket divided into two sections with green stitching all around. I was four when I last saw this. I’ll never forget it—it was always eye-level with me.
Carefully, I unfold the tissue.
As soon as I lift up the edge, the little whisks and red cherries emblazoned in my memory come to life. Tears come. Suddenly, she wafts into my mind, like the sweet scent of banana streusel muffins. Nana stands at the counter, spooning batter into a tin. She doesn’t speak. Just smiles, as I wait for the goodies in the oven to finish baking, so I can sink my baby teeth into them.
It’s a dream.
I wipe my eyes and hold up the apron. Yep, this is the one. It even has the same yellow stain in the bottom right corner. A piece of my family’s history right here. I definitely see myself wearing this with my blond hair done just right—a 1940’s pinup girl. But I can’t do it. I mean, who am I to wear my grandmother’s legendary apron?
I run out of the closet but screech to a halt when I spot myself in the full-length mirror, holding the heirloom. Another photo of Nana—Gloria Lovelace Milkovich—stares at me, tucked into the inside edge where the wooden frame meets glass. My reflection and the photo meet in one place. In the pic, she’s wearing this very apron, smiling at me from the kitchen sink, like she knows I found it.
“Thanks, Nana. I’ll keep it safe.”
Papa’s voice startles me from the doorway. “Put it on, Gloria.”
I whip around.
“Rose,” he corrects with a laugh. “Put the apron on, Rose.”
I shrug. “I don’t know if I should. I feel like I should encase it in glass or something.”
“Don’t be silly.” He edges closer. “She would’ve wanted you to wear it. Go ahead, try it on.”
I lift the top straps, already tied together, up over my head. I must be taller than my grandmother was, because the chest area is a bit high. Keeping everything nice and straight, I draw the straps behind my back to make a perfect bow like she used to do. “I suck at this.”
My grandfather flip-flops behind me to help. “You suck at nothing.”
“How did she always get it so perfect?” I ask.
His nimble fingers work the straps. “I tied it for her.”
“You did?”
He pushes and pulls, making the perfect bow. It was him all those years? A tug and then, ta-da. “There.”
What I see astonishes me. I never thought of this before, but if I do my hair differently—holy wow—I do look just like her! Taller, thicker maybe, but in the face, we’re like twins.
“Amazing.” Papa stares at me, eyes glossy. “Now, say what I say. Make sure you repeat it just like this…”
I watch him in the mirror. “What am I going to say?”
“Through layered cakes and whipping cream, bring the Cakespell onto me.”
“What the heck?” I recoil like a wounded snake.
“Just repeat it: through layered cakes and whipping cream, bring the Cakespell onto me.”
“Cake spell? What the heck is that, Papa?”
“Not a cake spell…Cakespell…all together. Say it, Rose.”
“But it sounds too much like double, double, toil and trouble.”
Something in his face tells me I need to quit cracking jokes. This is serious stuff. These were Nana’s words while wearing Nana’s ap
ron. “Nothing bad is going to happen. Just say it.”
“Fine.” I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Here goes nothing. “Through layered cakes and…what was it?” One eye opens at him.
“Whipping cream.”
“Whipping cream…”
“Bring the Cakespell onto me.”
“Bring the Cakespell onto me.” Nothing happens. No magic sparkles, no great gust of wind blowing through the house signaling the arrival of Nana’s so-called magic. Nothing.
“Again. All together.”
Clearing my throat, I prepare to repeat the words. I feel stupid. “Through layered cakes and whipping cream, bring the Cakespell onto me.” Papa’s eyes are big and expectant. I hate to disappoint him. “What’s supposed to happen?”
He gaze is lost, like his brain took a trip somewhere over the rainbow and has forgotten to come back.
“Papa? I’m still the same boring ol’ Rose. No magical goddess of sweet temptation here.”
His shoulders sag, and I feel terrible for letting him down. I hate to say it, but whatever magic my grandmother had, it’s not in me. It was inside of her. “I’m heading out for a walk. Keep saying it. Every time you put that apron on, repeat the phrase.”
“Okay.” I feel sad for him. Did he think I would somehow bring back Nana?
“Say it like you mean it. Through layered cakes and whipping cream, bring the Cakespell onto me. Got it?”
“Got it. It’s right here.” I point to my forehead. “In my noggin.”
“Good girl. Keep saying it. Through layered cakes and whipping cream…” He turns and leaves the bedroom. “Bring the Cakespell onto me.” A moment later, his keys jingle. He’s headed out the front door.
Is this dementia? God, I hope not. I can’t think of losing my grandfather so soon, but what the heck was that all about? Taking off the apron, I get ready to go home and face Lovely Mother, and that’s when I see it—sewn inside of the front pocket of Nana’s apron where nobody would see it—a pentagram.
On Sunday morning, I bike over to Papa’s to finish unpacking. He’s emptied two whole kitchen cabinets just for me. I have fun putting all of mine and Nana’s stuff exactly where I want it. My 6-quart mixer here, my 4.5-quart next to it, my tools over there. At home, LM never let me keep things on the counter in plain view.
But Papa doesn’t care. Because Papa is the BEST.
Nana’s apron hangs on the wall next to the key hook like a trophy on a shelf. I stare at it a while before heading over to it. I haven’t stopped thinking about the symbol sewn into it or what it could mean. I always thought a pentagram meant something evil, but when I looked it up online, everything I read said it’s an old pagan symbol meaning air, fire, water, earth, and spirit. The circle around the star means a force holding us all together.
But why did Nana have it?
Did Papa really mean it when he said she was a witch? Or did Nana sew that symbol inside her apron as an inside joke between her and her husband? Either way, it’s mine now, and I can’t wait to wear it again. In fact, this whole kitchen is now my secret lair and la-bora-tory—my Secret Operation Location!
Just try and stop me, Lovely Mother. Just try!
My face hurts from all the evil smiling.
Something catches my attention at the kitchen window. I rush the counter and look out. My grandfather, sweaty and dirty, lies flat on the grass next to the flower garden he’s been working on. Someone leans over him. I sprint out the side door into the hot sun toward him, throwing myself on the grass. “Papa! Are you okay?”
Oh, my God. Is he dead?
But then, his head lifts, and the person with him is a woman in her forties or fifties, and they’re both staring at me like I’m crazy. My heart jumps into my throat. “Is it the heat? What happened?” I grab his hand. Warm. Very warm.
“What’s wrong, Rose?” Papa asks, confused. This is terrible. Just terrible. And—wait. Why is he wearing lipstick?
“Nothing. I—” I register the looks on his and the woman’s faces, and they’re both shocked and amused. “I thought you were hurt. I…”
“Everything’s fine, honey,” the woman tells me. She has dirt across her forehead and a little on her nose, and she’s wearing gardening gloves. He’s fine. He did not faint in the heat.
“Rose, this is Yasmine. She helps me with the garden.” Yasmine is pretty for being middle-aged. Brown hair, brown eyes. Luminous smile.
“Helping you,” I repeat, panting. “With the garden.”
“Yes.” Papa exchanges a secretive smile with Yasmine. They turn into each other, suppressing a laugh. A good laugh, at my expense.
I get it now.
“Sorry.” I stand, brushing off my shorts. “I thought…wow…so…this is embarrassing.” And weird, to see him rolling in the hay, kissing someone other than my grandmother. I guess he’s completely moved on.
“It’s okay, Rose.” He holds back a chuckle.
I look around. At flowers and such. “I’ll leave you two to, uh, help each other.”
Papa and Yasmine both break into full laughter, then my grandfather gets to his knees to stand. I hold him by the arm, while he holds Yasmine by the arm too, and then we all sort of stand there looking at each other awkwardly, hands at our hips.
“I’m sorry, Rose. We should’ve waited ‘til you were gone,” Papa says.
“No…” I hold up a hand. “No need. Just carry on. I have to go home and finish my math project anyway.” I turn around to leave. Old people making out. So embarrassing.
“Rose, don’t.”
“It’s fine, Papa, seriously. I have to go anyway.” I smile, so he can see that, as awkward as this moment had been, I really was about to leave when he fake-collapsed on the lawn to snog his girlfriend.
“Are you all set up then?”
“Yup. I’ll be back next weekend to work on my next cake.” I wanted to ask him about the pentagram, but since he hasn’t mentioned it, I feel like it’s something I’m not supposed to know. Plus, I can’t now that Yasmine is with us.
“You’ve been practicing the thing I told you to practice, right?” Papa raises his furry eyebrows at me.
“Ah, yes. The thing.” The Cakespell chant. Through awkward looks and kissing Yasmine, my grandfather is embarrass-sing. That one. “Bye, nice meeting you,” I tell Papa’s gardening partner, wondering why, why, for the love of God, would she want to kiss my wrinkled grandfather?
I get the hell out of that place, run to my bike, and pedal as fast as my feet can take me home. Is this what I’ll have to deal with every time I come here? Man, the sacrifices. It almost makes me not want to bake at all.
Almost.
Four
Welcome to Coral Cove High—the place that babysits me when I’m not baking, where I spend my time not understanding math, not understanding science, and not understanding English.
So, what do I do? Sketch wedding cakes all day while teachers aren’t looking. That’s where the big money is, where I’ll one day be, when baby shower cakes are no longer my practicing ground. I’m finishing up a sketch of a topsy-turvy, four-tiered cake with a stenciled lattice design and old-school roses when the guy sitting next to me leans in to look at it. I cover it with my arms and drop my head over them.
“Hello, private,” I mutter.
He shrugs like he doesn’t care anyway.
“Your report on Beowulf is due Friday, ladies and gentlemen. Please do not leave it for Thursday night, as your lack of effort will be evident in your writing,” Mr. Sherman-Sperm-Man tells us, tucking an escaped corner of his nerdy shirt back into his jeans.
The bell rings, and we filter out of Sperm-Man’s class.
On the way to 3rd period Ge-sucketry, I swerve past Dr. O’Dell barking at her secretary who stares at her with sad mascara eyes. “Yes, I did, Ms. Gale. I asked you to call the region five times. I was hoping one of those times would’ve stuck.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll call right now.” Ms. Gale shu
ffles down the hall, shaking her head. I feel sorry for her. Dr. O’Dell must be having a crap-tastic day.
Moving past a flock of perfect-bodied dancers in slinky costume, Alexandre tries catching up to me. He doesn’t ogle the girls like other guys in the hallway do, which is quite refreshing. “There you are, mademoiselle. You running from a slew of zombies?”
“Who says ‘slew?’”
“Rose, a whole macrocosm of vocabulary words awaits you. Jesus, slow the hell down.”
“I’m not even walking fast.”
“But I’m carrying all this to Benton’s class.” He holds up a box of old keyboards, computer speakers, cables, and whatever else computer geeks like to carry around for no apparent reason.
“What’s it for?”
“Philanthropy. I’m donating it to her classroom then fixing up the school’s website after school. Hey, after that debacle at your house with your mom, are you still making my sister’s birthday cake this weekend? My mom thinks you are.”
“Yes, I found a loophole.”
“Awesome. Can I come by on Saturday to watch you? If you don’t mind, that is. I’ve always wanted to see how you make one of your cakes.”
“Alex, no offense, but I don’t like when people watch me in progress. I only like showing off the final product.” I feel bad saying no to him, but the creative process is messy. Things don’t look nice in the middle, only at the end.
“You let Sabrina watch.”
“Sabrina’s like a sister. I’ve known her since first grade.”
“I can be your sister. And you’ve known me since second grade. You hurt me, Rose. Really, you do.”
“Stop.” I shoulder-bump him.
“Your hair looks lovely, by the way,” he says.
This morning, I lifted my hair up on one side and stuck a white rose comb-thing there to keep it up. I smile at him. “Thanks for noticing.”
“Hard not to.” He gives me a shy smile before adjusting the box of stuff in his arms.
You know…sometimes, I get the impression that Alexandre actually like-likes me, but it can’t be. First off, we’ve never known him to like any girl in all these years. Second, he doesn’t talk like your typical boy, and third, he never stares at boobs, like every boy at this school does, so he can’t possibly be straight. I should probably ask him one day, but I honestly don’t care one way or another. To me, he’s just Alexandre.