by Gaby Triana
Eight
Just my luck that Sabrina was there to see that, because the rest of the afternoon, she’s all, “You could totally win, Rose. You HAVE to show that Wendy chick who’s boss!” And even more stomach-clenching, “This is your chance to show everyone what you can do!”
I love Sabrina’s enthusiasm when supporting me, but she needs to cut it out. I can’t go before the whole school to do anything. I’m nervous enough as is. I tell her so, but she gets annoyed with me. Too bad. I have my vision about how the world will find out about my skills, and it’s this—
My new cake shop will be all pink with brown and white accents inside. My new wooden floors will be freshly installed, and Sabrina and Alexandre will help me set up the last of my display cases, full of the most delicious variety of cupcakes the world has ever seen. The doors will be closed, and we will look at each other with sparkles in our eyes. Finally, the clock will strike 9 AM, and it will be time to let the world into…my brand new bakery.
Until that day arrives, I work in seclusion.
No cupcakes contest for me.
On Saturday, I’m back at the Secret Operation Location, not only because I want to try a new peanut butter and chocolate cake recipe I came up with, but because the Devil from Hell Itself is at my mom’s house, thanks to the broken A/C unit.
“These units nowadays break at the drop of a hat,” Papa says from his cold kitchen. “They don’t build anything to last anymore.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mom sweat so much.” I make the mistake of glancing at him and noticing that today he is wearing purple tights, shorts, and a tank top that shows off his flabby arms. I force my eyes back on the eggs I’m cracking.
“I don’t think I’ve seen your mom…period.” He moves the toaster oven and bread basket back to where he likes them on his countertop. “Hopefully, I’ll get to see her before I leave this planet.”
“Papa, don’t say things like that.”
“Why? It’s true. We all check out of Hotel California.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry. I forget you’re young and impressionable.”
“Can you tie my bow, please?” I hold my apron straps out for him. “Where did you come from just now anyway? You look sporty.”
He scuttles behind me to swiftly tie my bow. “Zumba.”
I whirl around. “Excuse me?”
Pressing a hand flat to his stomach and another one in the air, my grandfather…salsas. “Sí señorita.”
“Let me guess. So you can check out the hot girls.”
“So they can check out me. Bored housewives need eye candy too.” He chuckles.
“Right.” Why am I not surprised? I pry off the mental image of my grandfather twerking to the delight of sweaty women. “Papa, can you sit down a minute? I have to ask you a few things.”
“Alrighty.” He sits, and despite his youthful fervor a moment ago, collapses into his chair, laying his head on his arm. “Oof, I’m tired.”
I pause the baking spree to sit opposite my grandpa, lowering Billie Holiday’s pained croon for a minute. “Papa?”
“Rose?”
We engage in an eyebrow war. “I have Cakespell questions.”
He inhales sharply and releases it yoga-like. “I can’t talk about this.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s supposed to be a secret.”
“But it’s not anymore. You already told me about it, and now I have to understand this power you gave me.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yes, someone is getting married, and just yesterday, the teachers were all crushing on each other.”
He smacks the table. “I knew it! What does crushing mean?”
“They like each other.”
“Ha! You have it, Rose. You have the gift. It’ll be easier if we just go over the rules, then if you still have questions, you can ask them after, and then—”
“Wait, what? You didn’t tell me there were rules. What rules, Papa?”
“Why tell you if there was no reason to?” He shrugs. “We weren’t sure you had the talent, but now we know. It’s inside you. Not exactly rules. I mean, we did spend forty years noticing patterns, not that they always worked, but here’s what we observed during that time. Let’s call it a manifesto.” He sits up straight and folds his hands.
“Okay…” I sit up straight and fold my hands, too.
“Number one—”
“Hold on!” I pluck a pen and grab a napkin, ready to write. “Shouldn’t you and Nana have written these down or something?”
“They’re all here.” He points to his head.
“Yeah, but…”
Papa clasps his hands together on the table. “Number one—if they try giving your cake to someone who’s already in love with someone else, it doesn’t work. There’s no use trying to break up a couple in love. It’s just immoral. And impossible.”
And casting love spells isn’t? “Good to know. What else?”
“Two—the closer in proximity they are, the better. Nana’s cousin tried shipping a box of cookies to Mick Jagger once, but he never did come begging for her hand in marriage, and neither did his manager.”
“What about his roadies?” I raise my eyebrow.
“You are a quick one, Rose. A story for another day. Next…”
I snort-laugh. “Okay, so celebrities and long distance loves are out of the question. And the closer they are to you, the better chance you have of the spell working.”
“Correct-a-mundo. Number three—the baker cannot be the giver.”
I stare at the mixing bowl containing the batter I’ve started for Caleb. “Are you serious?”
“Damn, I should’ve told you before.” He snaps his fingers in quick succession. “Didn’t think of it. Well, it didn’t work for Nana. Then again, she was already in love with me, and who could blame her?”
“I can’t make the Cakespell work for me?”
“At least I don’t think she ever tried it on anyone else.”
He’s not listening. He’s reviewing his life while I sit here devastated that I can’t make magic happen for myself.
I want to reach out and touch his face but lay my hand on top of his instead. “Of course Nana didn’t try it on anyone else but you, Papa. She already had the perfect man. You don’t regret anything, do you?”
He thinks a moment, eyelids batting. “No.”
“See?”
“Listen to me, Rose. The thing is, you want someone to fall in love with you for who you are, not because you gave them cake. Spellwork is fun for others, temporary fun, but not you. Remember that—not you.”
“Temporary fun?”
“Yes, Cakespell gets the ball rolling. That’s it. Like Cupid’s arrow gets the attention of the recipient. But you have to do the rest. Nothing lasts forever. The rest is up to the couple.”
I hear what he’s saying, I just can’t believe that I can’t use it myself. There goes my experimentation with Caleb. This explains why he hasn’t fallen for me. “So you’re telling me that everyone else gets to use the spell except me. That’s not fair.”
He flips up his hands. “It’s the curse of the matchmaker.”
This sucks. I don’t want this power anymore.
He must see the devastation on my face, because he says, “Rose, there’s nothing to stop the person you’ve got your sights on from giving the cake to you.” He winks. “Got it?”
Ohhh….. “Got it.” I smile.
“Number…what number are we on?”
“Four.”
“Five! Pay attention, Rose. Whoever gives your cake away only has one shot.” He holds up his finger again. “One. They use their shot, it’s done, over. They can’t be a giver twice to the same person.”
“Good, or I’d be baking forever.”
He taps the table. “Like your mother was.”
I freeze my pencil point right on the paper
and slowly lift my eyelids. “What?”
He stops tapping. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you did. You said like my mother was. My mother baked?”
“I meant your grandmother.”
He’s lying, and I intend to get to the bottom of this. Maybe not this very second. After all, I know not to probe Papa too much for the same reason he doesn’t ask many questions of me. It’s mutual respect. But I will get back to that. I yank my narrowed glare away. “Go on.”
He clears his throat. “And finally. Rule six—there are no rules.”
I set my pencil down. Well, that was a complete waste of time. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Watch your language, young lady. The rules are subject to change whenever the Cakespell God-durned feels like it, that’s what I mean. I told you, Rose, sometimes things didn’t always work. Since even before Nana.”
“Before? This talent has been passed down even before Nana?”
“As far as I know, your great-grandmother was the original svakha.”
“The original what-ka?”
“Svakha, matchmaker. Your grandmother’s side of the family used this word to not use witch, so nobody would accuse them of evildoing. Of course, witchcraft is nothing more than focusing your energies to manifest a desired result, a lot like praying. But many people didn’t understand that at the time. Still don’t.”
“So I come from a line of svakhas?”
“Yes. Nana’s grandmother was a kitchen witch, a matchmaker. Her mother had it, and now you.”
“Papa? You’re skipping someone. What about my mother?” I drum the table with my fingertips.
He cringes, runs a hand through his hair, finishes with a finger whirl. “Let’s just say not everyone was born with the talent. Katherine found that out the hard way.”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “So she did bake. I knew it!” That’s why she sometimes understands the negative side of baking, like not making enough money, all the time spent cleaning, or customers not appreciating you. “Why didn’t anybody tell me this?”
“She’s not proud of it like you are. Oh, your mother baked alright. For a long time. But that’s not my story to tell. It’s hers.”
Nine
When your two best friends grab you by the arms and march you into the principal’s office, there’s not much you can do. That’s what Sabrina and Alexandre try to do when they push me up to Ms. Gale and proclaim they’ve captured the “cupcake girl.”
Ms. Gale tilts her head at me like observing an angry caged animal.
I huff and fold my arms over my chest.
She picks up her phone, mutters briefly, then hangs up again. “Excuse me,” she says, scooting past my so-called “friends.” Gesturing for me to follow her, she ushers me into Dr. O’Dell’s office where the white-lacquered 80’s furniture reminds me of just how long this woman has been principal.
Alexandre and Sabrina both smile at me, as I walk past them. I return the sentiment with a finger salute of my own.
“Good morning…” Dr. O’Dell swivels in her chair and glances at her Post-It note. “Rose Zapata.” She rises out of her chair to shake hands with me. She’s maybe seventy years old, six feet tall, and wears a khaki business suit with a shimmery blue shirt that’s too tight at the boobs and stomach, so a bunch of holes show in between the buttons. “Our resident baker! How exciting, how exciting. Sit down, please.”
There’s a ball in my throat. “I didn’t want to be known. My friends forced me.”
“That’s what friends are for, to help us overcome our fears. I want to tell you that I have been eating cupcakes a long time. A long time, Rose, and those were by far the tastiest ones I’ve ever had.” She gestures for me to sit down.
“Glad you enjoyed them.” I turn around to leave.
“Come back. Please, have a seat. We did enjoy them very much. Which is why we want youuuu to participaaate in our school’s baking contest!” Her hands form a little steeple.
Fine, I’ll sit. But I won’t talk.
“It’ll be great! There I was, wracking my brain for new fundraising ideas, when poof! Your cupcake appeared on my desk. I sank my teeth into that delicious treat and thought, ‘My goodness, do I have a great idea!’ A contest!” She smacks her forehead. “And I told Ms. Gale, ‘we’ll call it Battle of the Bakers!’ How do you like it?”
I hate it. I imagine the entire student body laughing at me, while I work to create magic under pressure. They’ll laugh and make fat jokes and no. “I don’t want to do it.”
“Oh, come on. It’ll be fantastic! Students baking for a chance to win…uh, something, I don’t know what yet…but it’ll be great! We’ll invite the whole school, community, the media—”
“I don’t want to do it.”
“We’ll take lots of photos, make a big event out of it. Everybody loves a bake sale!”
“Time out.” I make a T with my hands. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I don’t want to do this.”
Her shoulders droop. “Why ever not?”
“I just don’t. Those cupcakes were a total fluke. Don’t get me wrong, I might want to be famous one day, but right now—I can’t even look at myself in the mirror much less get the attention of the whole school, Dr. O’Dell. Besides, my mom doesn’t let me bake. I made those in secret.”
“Why doesn’t she let you bake?”
“It’s a long story.”
She sighs. “You don’t have to participate, I suppose. But it’s already decided. We’re moving forward with the fundraiser.” She sounds more like a school administrator now and less like a car salesman. “We need one for FTE week. October 12th. Attendance booster, so the school gets its allotted money.”
Ah. The truth always comes out. I feel so used.
“Will you do it? We’ll have a panel of judges, but take student votes, too.”
Which means popularity contest, and there’s no way I can ever win a popularity contest. “I don’t think so.”
“I see. So you’re going to let Wendy Rivera take what’s rightfully yours?” She eyes me in that way adults do when they want you to stop being a dumbass and start fighting for yourself.
Wendy Rivera’s brownies couldn’t pass for mulch chips. I bought one at an Art Club bake sale last year. Still, I don’t have time for—
“Hell, let’s throw in a cash reward too.” She smiles sneakily.
Cash? New airbrush?
“Rose?”
“I’m listening. How much?”
She opens her drawer and pulls out a piece of paper already written up that reads, Battle of the Bakers Entry Form. She turns it and sets it in front of me with a pen. “Let’s say a $250 AMEX card. I’ll find someone in the community to donate it. Come on, Rose. They really were delicious cupcakes. Say you’ll participate.”
It could be worse. I could be seated opposite LM telling me that domestic arts are dead, and my talents are a waste of time. At least someone wants me to bake. It would make Papa proud. It would piss LM off.
“You might just nab the attention of someone special.” Dr. O’Dell’s eyebrows do a little dance. “There’s always someone special.” She smiles.
Caleb might finally see me as more than a little girl. A woman, a winner, a force to be reckoned with.
I pick up the pen.
Corner Bakery. I bring Sabrina and Alexandre with me this time. There are things to be said that cannot be said at home around LM’s bionic hearing. Sabrina and I discuss the ramifications of entering Battle of the Bakers, as she looks up a photo of Wendy Rivera to show Alexandre since he swears he’s never seen her before.
“How can you be the only guy on the planet who’s never seen her, Alex? She’s a model!” Sabrina shoves a photo of Wendy in his face. “This one! Her!”
Alex examines the pic. “She looks like an albatross.”
I giggle.
“Seriously?” Sabrina turns her phone back around to make sure they’re looking at the same g
irl. “She’s just tall. But you can’t deny that she’s pretty, though not as pretty as you, Rose.”
“Mmm hmm.” Alex nods my way. “But does anyone ever listen to me? Noooo…”
I smack his arm. “When did you ever say that? And who cares about looks anyway? This is a baking challenge.”
Alex whirls his laptop around. “Et voilà! How do you like it?” On the school’s homepage, replacing Dr. O’Dell’s message seeking the mystery delivery person is a photo of me with a caption that reads: FOUND, Mystery Cupcake Diva, Rose Zapata!
It’s a candid pic of me the day I wore my rose hair clip. Did Alexandre take that without me knowing? “You didn’t.”
“What, you don’t like it?” His eyebrows droop. “I love that pic.”
“I never approved that photo.”
“I know, that’s why I like it. You’re being yourself. Not posing or anything. What’s wrong, Rose?”
“Ugh.” I drop my head into my hands. “I’m not ready for this. You know how I feel about public attention.” I cover my face. Already starting to feel the pressure.
“Too late. Dr. O’Dell asked me to do it. Keep reading.”
I scroll down and read a whole paragraph about myself. How I’m in 10th grade, a classic movie and music buff, how I taught myself to bake and decorate entirely from watching YouTube videos. And lastly, how my cakes have inspired a marriage proposal and the “love is in the air” effect here among the teachers last week. Am I the new Cupid? It ends with:
To see how Rose can help you, email her at [email protected].
“The new Cupid?” I cry. “Rosie, the Baker? Oh my God, Alex, what are you doing?”
“Like Rosie, the Riveter? You like all that 40’s World War II stuff. Come on, it’s awesome. N’est-ce pas?”
“Well, yes-pas, but we don’t actually have proof that my cake had anything to do with those occurrences. It’s just a coincidence.” Even though I’m pretty sure my family’s magical legacy had something to do with it.
“Nobody has to know that. Though it’d be mysterious, wouldn’t it?”