by Gaby Triana
Just then, who should be standing smack in our way, as we’re about to turn the corner? In front of everyone and not embarrassed in any way to be a senior talking to a sophomore? “Rosie! Cake girl…girl with cake.” He dazzles me with his white, perfect teeth and slouchy, cool eyes.
“Ugh,” Alexandre mutters.
“Hi, Caleb,” I breathe-say. Such golden-flecked eyes he has.
He taps my shoulder, TOUCHING ME. “You need me this weekend, right?”
I do very much need you, Caleb. “Yes,” I whisper.
Wendy Rivera, model senior (literally a model for a school uniform company), sidles up to Caleb, texting while she waits for him to be done talking to me. Alexandre smirks, waiting for the encounter to be over, too. Is it too much to ask for that I sometimes have Caleb to myself?
“Okay, good. So Sunday. What time?” Caleb asks, all normal, pretending he has no feelings for me whatsoever. Ha! What an actor.
“Twelve,” Alexandre cuts in. “The festivities begin at twelve.”
Caleb stares at Alex. “I’m taking the cake,” Caleb confirms, in case Alex is considering stealing his cake scraps.
“Yes. Yes, you are.” Alexandre rolls his eyes.
I’m not sure exactly what’s happening between these two, or why Caleb is reaching around my body, or leaning into me ever so suggestively, but I almost feel like they’re fighting over me.
“What are you doing?” I ask breathlessly.
“Your hands are full, so I’m helping you. Here you go.” He slides something into my back jeans’ pocket, like I did with him the other day at my house. I do believe we are having a moment. “Your money from Friday’s cake. Fifty bucks.”
Air rushes into my lungs. “Right. Thank you, uh…”
“Caleb,” Alexandre helps me.
“Caleb.”
“No problem.” My future husband smiles in that brotherly way he’s so good at faking. If only he would kiss me in front of everyone and declare what we both know to be true—that we are soul mates. Instead, he eyes Alexandre again, points two fingers at him, and in another swirl of Casablanca fog, Caleb is gone.
“He’s in love with me,” I say. “I knew he’d come around.”
“Neanderthal,” Alex mutters.
“I know, he’s great, isn’t he?”
“For a Neanderthal, you mean?”
“It’s tough because he can’t show it, being a senior and all. He can’t openly show his love for sophomores. You know how it is. Right?” I ask, but Alexandre has turned down another hallway and literally left the building. “Alex?”
“Rose? Where you going?”
“To Papa’s for a bit.” I pause at the door. “To say hi.”
“You’ve been over there to say hi a lot this last week. Everything okay?”
“I like hanging with him.” Must…escape.
She nods, and maybe I’m wrong, but she seems a little jealous. “That’s fine. I only wanted to tell you, I’m proud of you for the way you’ve been studying. You’re keeping your end of the bargain.”
There is no bargain. She forbade me from baking in this house ever again. How is that a bargain? “Thanks,” I say. It’s easier than arguing. “I mean, you were right. School comes first. I can always bake later?” Fake smile. Anything so she’ll let me go.
“Yes, that’s right.” She nods with a surprised look, like she can’t believe I’m being so mature. “Well, tell Papa I’ll be there soon. Been working on a listing that’s taking all my time.”
“I told him. No worries.” Now that I’ve moved Operation Bake Anyway into Papa’s place, it’s best if she never, ever comes to visit him. Especially since I’m using Nana’s baking stuff.
“Oh, and you look pretty today, Rose. By the way.” She smiles. “I like your thing.”
I touch my pinned-up hair wrapped in a pink bandana. I can’t wear Nana’s apron for the first time without officially rocking the vintage baker look, can I? “Thanks.” I smile back. I don’t know what she’s up to using kindness and all, but whatever it is, I refuse to fall for it.
Parking my bike outside the townhouse, I grab my portable speaker out of the basket and ring the doorbell. It’s hotter than holy hell, and my legs are killing me from all this biking. Need. Water. Open. Door. Papa. Please. I ring again. A moment later, his raspy voice scratches through the door. “Put the nickel in…”
“Waterrrrr,” I choke.
Two locks scrape open, and the smell of burning herbs hits me. Standing there is my alpha male grandfather, wearing tights. The kind little girls wear to ballet. Light blue tights, so his hairy legs can be seen underneath the nylon. He wears shorts over them and a T-shirt bearing an illustrated muscleman’s chest. My eyeballs feel pain.
“Come in. Kitchen’s all yours.” He rushes off without waiting for me.
“Uh…what are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m doing yoga.”
I take hesitant steps into the house, as I’m very, very afraid of what I’ll find this time. I see he’s not alone. There’s a girl in her early twenties, judging from her tight butt in gray yoga pants, stretching in downward dog right there on the rug. On a small table are two aromatherapy candles, as the sound of ocean waves plays from somewhere.
Papa assumes the same position next to the girl, but it takes him a minute, since he has to drop one knee down first, then the other knee, then position his hands slowly, then stick his feet out. The girl holds her position tightly the whole time. “Rose, say hi to Tiffany, my yoga instructor.”
Seriously? “Hey, uh…Tiffany.”
Tiffany peeks out from under her boobs. “Hi.” From her voice and face, I’m right. She’s in her twenties. Please Universe, I’m begging you, please do not let me find these two doing anything other than yoga. Please. If you have any sympathy for me at all, you will hear my prayer.
I absorb the scene one last time then enter the kitchen, pausing to shake off the visual horrors behind me. The kitchen radiates with light from my countertop KitchenAid mixers, gleaming and ready. Everything is perfect. Papa even took out the butter and eggs to thaw like I asked him to. Nana’s apron hangs on the wall like a proud badge of honor.
I draw in a deep breath.
I select my 1940’s music playlist. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it right. I pour myself a tall glass of water, down it in seconds, then refill it. I take out my two square pans, stacking them on the counter, imagining Alex’s sister’s birthday cake.
Grab your coat, and get your hat, Ella Fitzgerald sings through the speakers, leave your worries on the doorstep… That, dear Ella, is what I intend to do.
Nana’s rolling pin, whisks, and spatulas all come out. I set the oven to 350 and clasp my hands. Rose Zapata, Head Cake Diva, reporting for duty!
“You ready?” I ask the beige-green-red apron on the wall. So silly, talking to a garment. I pluck it off and slip it over my head. I’m about to tie it when I remember that Papa needs to do this part. Just as I’m about to ask him, I see him standing at the kitchen entrance.
He hobbles over. “Turn around.” I turn, and he pulls on the straps, tying a perfect bow, then salutes me. “Go do your thing, Miss Rosie. And don’t forget the words.” He raises his caterpillar eyebrows at me.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Once I hear his and Tiffany’s voices in the living room, I face the kitchen, imagining a million things—Caleb admiring my pinup hairdo and apron, my mother repenting her sins and begging forgiveness for her irrationality, a studio audience at the Food Network cheering my arrival onto the set…
Here goes nothing. “Through layered cakes and whipping cream…bring the Cakespell onto me,” I say slowly.
Nana sifts into my mind—how alike we are, how I’m trying to channel her today. How she loved this process like I do. How that love went into everything she ever made. How I need to do the same. Because that’s the only way to Do Life Right.
I start by peeling two, one-pound bricks of
unsalted butter from their wrappers, throwing them into a mixer, adding two cups of sugar, and aerating it all together. Add one big band number from my speaker, one memory of the Alex-Caleb stare-down from school today, and we have ourselves another work-time daydream…
Early December—1941.
Hawaii.
Life is easy as pie. I rented out a corner of this bar’s kitchen to make a wedding cake for an American bride and groom stationed here in Pearl Harbor. Everything is going beautifully. The tiers are stacked, and I’m piping on a grape leaf design in white-over-white buttercream. The bride will cry tears of happiness when she sees her cake. I’m becoming quite the world-renowned cake artist.
All that’s left is the border.
Just then, out in the bar, there’s commotion. The sound of chairs scuffling on a wooden floor rips me out of my zone. Setting down my piping bag, I head to the door to take a peek out the circular window. Sergeant Caleb Anthony, a cutie in his uniform, yells at a private hoisting a chair over his head. “Put it down!” He looks ready to bite the head off another knife-wielding private. Sergeant Caleb turns to the knife guy and orders, “Put down that knife.”
The private hesitates but doesn’t relinquish the knife. Instead, he lunges toward my handsome sergeant, and Caleb whirls around, grabs a beer bottle, and smashes the end of it on the table’s edge. Holding up the jagged edge, he growls, “Okay, fatso, if it’s a killin’ you want…come on!”
“Fatso” is Alexandre, even though one can hardly call that bit of gut a belly. When Alexandre doesn’t move, Caleb warns, “Well, come on,” beckoning with his fingers.
Alexandre waits a long second. Is he going to retaliate? That would not be wise, for Sergeant Caleb is as agile as he is handsome. Finally, he reconsiders and slowly moves his arm to one side, tossing the knife to the ground. Satisfied, Caleb kicks it all the way to my kitchen door, and it stops at my sexy, open-toed heel.
Caleb sneers. “I told you, you won’t be delivering Rose’s cake today. That’s my job.”
Sergeant Caleb and Private Alexandre glare at each other, until one by one, the rest of the privates all return to their pre-bar-fight actions of downing beer and throwing darts.
I spin around, hand at my pounding heart. What must a girl do to keep these boys from killing each other over my cake scraps? Jeepers! There’s enough for everyone! I raise one perfectly-arched eyebrow. Though I do love a man in uniform willing to die for them.
Five
On Saturday, I let the layers of Alexandre’s sister’s cake rest.
People think baking is so easy, but there are mad skills involved. Decorating requires patience. Layers need to settle after baking. Steam needs to escape before the cake cools completely. Otherwise, you might cover them in fondant, and before you know it, butterflies are sagging into ponds of melted grass.
But now it’s Sunday and time for my favorite part—putting on all the final touches. Today’s cake is shaped like a gift box, complete with fondant ribbon and glittery gum-paste bow on top. I make a fondant card that reads: Happy 21st Birthday, Kristen.
Sabrina sits at her laptop, window-shopping on BettiePageClothing.com. “What about this?” She turns the screen around, showing me a sailor dress. I grimace. “Hmm. Okay, then what about this? It’s a pencil dress.”
“Would look better on an actual pencil,” I respond. “Don’t they have something that would look sexy on a, you know, full-figured gal?” I ask, painting the cake with shimmer dust, wishing I had a professional airbrush. It’s time to start saving for one.
“You’ll have to look for yourself. Are you planning on wearing these to school?”
“I’d like to, if no one will make fun of me.”
“Who cares?”
“I care. The last thing I need is people laughing at me, creating emotional scars to stay with me a lifetime.” I love Sabrina, but she has no clue what non-goddesses go through.
“Yes, but this is the aesthetic you wanted. Own it, sister!”
“Own it, sister?”
“Yes, you know, make it yours. Be confident.”
I drop a shoulder. “That’s easy for you to say. You have black hair, blue eyes, and perfect tatas. You’re Wonder Woman. I’m Princess Poundcake, with golden-brown hair, brown eyes, and thighs of butter.”
Sabs laughs. Because she knows it’s true. “Stop. What guy wouldn’t love a woman who bakes? My future husband will end up at your kitchen table while I’m eating whole foods. We need to bring out your inner goddess is all.”
“I’m good with that. Let’s keep it simple, for starters, okay?”
“I’m just saying…” She turns the screen around one more time to show me a hot red A-line that would make any girl of any size look holy hot in Havana. “This would make Caleb’s head turn. Eh?”
“Eh.”
If only. Yes, he seemed interested in me at school the other day, but I’m not sure if it was because of me or my cake. If only he would give me a clear sign, I’d know for sure that he likes me.
The doorbell rings. “Places, everybody!” Sabrina runs for the door.
“Places!” I lean on the counter in my pensive, arteeste mode.
The door opens. “Oh, hey, Caleb,” Sabrina says. She walks away from him, like he’s soooo boring. He closes the door himself.
I can tell he was hoping for a more celebrated welcome. I can also tell he brushed his hair and used gel. For moi? “Hey, cake girls.” He strolls into the kitchen toward us. “Cool place. I like all the old stuff. Is this the new headquarters?”
“S.O.L.,” I say, as butterflies crash against my stomach lining.
“Ish out of luck?” Caleb cocks his head.
“Secret Operation Location. For the O.B.A.”
“Okay, you’ve lost me.”
“Operation Bake Anyway. This is my grandfather’s house,” I explain.
“Is he here? I’ve never met Papa Zapata.”
“Milkovich. My mom’s dad. And no, he’s out.” Doing God knows what. With God knows who.
“Here’s some leftovers for you,” I say, pushing my blue plastic bowl toward him. Chocolate cake with chocolate hazelnut filling. Then I remember—Cakespell, Nana making people fall in love with her cake. Hmm…
So, if Caleb eats these scraps, will he fall for me? Is that how it works? Or only when I recite the spell?
“Wow, that looks amazing, Rosie, but actually, my stomach’s kind of hurting.” He holds his belly in that fake sick way. “I’m just going to go deliver it, if that’s okay.”
“Oh. Sure, of course.”
He said no to my cake. That’s a first. Maybe he doesn’t like chocolate? Well, if he’s not going to eat it, then I’ll have some. I reach for a piece…
Sabrina narrows her eyes at me. I immediately drop the piece of cake. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you reject Rose’s cake, Caleb. You must really be sick.”
“Yeah, my stomach’s like, whoa. Can you guys come with me just to make sure I don’t get a stomach cramp?”
The thought of Caleb getting sick while driving, and my cake sliding and breaking in the car shivers my timbers.
Sabrina eyes me hard. I eye her hard. We eye each other very fiercely. “Rose?” Sabrina says in that tone. “Why don’t you go with Caleb?”
Me and Caleb alone in his car? I dry my sweaty hands on the dish towel hanging out of Nana’s apron pocket. “But I need to clean up this mess.”
Sabrina, using only brain waves and eyeball gymnastics, attempts to blow up my head. “I’ll clean up. You accompany Caleb. You know, to make sure the cake is okay?”
Caleb glances at me under his hair. He doesn’t seem to want me going with him from the way he’s wincing. “Uh,” I say.
“Great!” Sabrina pops up from her seat and grabs a sponge. “I’ll see you guys later. This kitchen will be spotless by the time you get back.”
“Then I guess I’m leaving,” I mutter. This is it. I’m about to ride with Caleb. In a car. Here I go.
Sabrina gives me a thumb’s up. Her work here is done.
Caleb silently walks to the dinette and lifts the cake. I really want him to try a piece of my chocolate hazelnut, but he’s already in motion carrying the thing off to his car. I hang the apron back on the hook, grabbing the emergency repair kit.
“Is the car’s A/C running?” I grab the bowl of scraps and follow him out.
“Cold as ice.”
Sabrina’s eyes question me again. Why are you taking the cake bowl?
Experiment, Sabs, experiment.
In the car, Caleb drives while I sit in the hatchback, babysitting the cake. It’s not tall and doesn’t need stabilizing, but I’m too nervous to bring myself to sit in the front seat with Caleb.
He’s quiet on the drive to Sammy’s Restaurant. I don’t know what to say. I guess I could start with sympathy. “You feeling okay?”
“Not really.”
I stare into the bowl of cake scraps I brought with me. How do I get him to eat those without begging? Maybe I should just wait until the next cake.
“Stomach aches can really suck,” I offer.
“Yeah. That and a few other things,” he mumbles. Maybe I’m way off, but it sounds like something is on his mind.
“Anything I can help you with?” I ask. “I’m actually a really good listener. You know. Since I barely talk.” I laugh, but my stomach hurts.
His eyes flash me in his rearview mirror. Something weighs on his mind. “It’s just—ah, you know what? Another time, Rosie.”
Another time? It’s just—ah? Is he trying to tell me he likes me? Because that would be so nerve-wracking and wondrous all at the same time.
We pull into the Sammy’s parking and stop at the door. I imagine that we’re delivering a real wedding cake together to a real wedding in a real delivery van.