My mom bought me a bike the summer after fourth grade and I was at Parker’s house from after breakfast to dinnertime, hiding out from my father, otherwise known as the Ogre. Parker’s mom said I was like brother number five. Becoming blood brothers in the lean-to fort we made in the woods near his house was awesome but expected. The man challenges? Superlative.
Picture it. There we were, blood dripping off our palms because I cut way deeper than I needed to, and I’m saying, “We can’t become blood brothers until we have a quest. Like the knights at the roundtable. Or Blackbeard’s pirates.”
“I think this is bleeding too much,” Parker says. I swear his bottom lip was quivering.
“We have to have a quest.”
We veto ideas of being superheroes or detectives or anything to do with pet sitting. But the more blood we lose, and the more gnats that hover, the more creative we get. It’s Parker (I hate to admit it), who comes up with the idea.
Parker, squeezing his forearm because he’d learned about tourniquets in Boy Scouts, says, “Challenges. Kind of like Boy Scout badges, but harder.”
I was all in. There was nothing I loved more than proving I was good at something. Our two rules:
1. We each had to complete the same challenge, so you couldn’t make up something disgusting that you didn’t want to do yourself.
2. When one of us completed a challenge, the other person had seventy-two hours to complete it or they admitted defeat.
And here we are, the end of our junior year, the last summer of challenges. Stats: thirty-nine completions, zero defeats. When we were applying to universities a few months ago we agreed that the challenges would have to end at graduation. Parker never said it but I knew he was thinking he’d end up at university for sure. It’s not a done deal for me. I need scholarships. I know I need a plan, but I don’t want to screw up my last summer of freedom. I want to have fun.
“Will. Will.” My dad shouts. Jesus. What does he want? It’s nearly the frickin’ middle of the night. He doesn’t comprehend that just because he’s heading off to work, doesn’t mean the neighbors want to be awake, or Mom, or me. He’s a boil on the ass of society, my dad.
“Will.” The door flies open, hits the wall behind it. I don’t move. His voice pierces the room, but I hear it in dulled tones, a selective deafness I’ve acquired. “Your mother told you to take out the garbage. You think I want to come home to stinking garbage? Or a bear picking through it? You think I’m going to let you go out on Saturday night or do you think I’ll be making sure your lazy ass needs to stay home and think about responsibility? When I was your age I was on full-time as a brakeman and you can’t even take out the goddamn garbage.”
I stare. This is his motivational technique? Work hard so you can be like me. Like I would ever wear a filthy baseball hat pulled way back on my receding hairline. Or striped train overalls bulging at the middle like a pregnant woman’s. “I’ll take it out.” I log off the computer, slip my feet into my sandals.
“And tomorrow you’ll mow the lawn right. I don’t want to have to clean up your mess.”
“Yeah.” I stand. I wait for him to clear the doorway and again for him to go into the bathroom so he can’t criticize me for carrying the bags wrong or setting them down in a bad spot or breathing incorrectly—in and out instead of out and then in. I drop the garbage, but when I walk in the door he’s waiting for me.
“For Christ’s sake. You think the neighbors want to see you in your underwear?”
I look down at my plaid boxer shorts. “I don’t think they care.”
“That’s it. Enough of the smart mouth. You’re in for the weekend. Don’t even think about going out.”
“Okay.” I turn away.
My mom pretends there’s no problem and stays out of trouble’s way. I get what I want without anyone knowing. I’ll be at the party Saturday night. I’ve got a challenge to complete.
Chantal
Spectator Sport.
I have always had a love/hate relationship with Saturday mornings. I love them because I don’t have to go to school. I hate them because I’m at home. I wake to the crash of the smoothie machine pulverizing ice cubes, fruit, yogurt, protein powder, and whatever vitamin trends my mother has discovered. Minutes later I’m called to drink the “best start to the weekend” no matter what time I went to bed the night before. Then, the list is presented. Management of the details, Dad tells me when I complain, is part of what keeps your mother happy. We’re a family, he adds, so we all pitch in, but I notice he puts his initials on more of the chores and duties than either Mom or me.
My mother lists the day’s goals and objectives as I sip at my strawberry and grass-flavored smoothie. I tune out until she gets to the part, “Chantal, I’d like you to join us on our run.”
“Run?” She knows I hate to sweat.
“Yes. Your father and I are concerned about your lack of exercise.”
“That’s not what I said,” Dad interrupts. “I said I thought exercise was always a good thing. But I added that Chantal should have some say in what kind of exercise—”
“Right. Anyway Chantal, I’m … concerned. I’ve noticed that your clothes from last year are … well, the seams are pulling a bit. I mean … do they feel a little tight?”
“Are you trying to tell me I’m getting fat? You know what that does to a teenage girl’s self-esteem, right?”
“No. Not. At. All. I’m trying to promote health. Body awareness. Running is good for your heart and your mood. Studies have shown that endorphins you get from running benefit you in all kinds of ways.” She turns and I see how her backside fits perfectly in her exercise pants. My dad’s got a deflated tire around his waist, something my mom points out when he makes popcorn after dinner. Shouldn’t Mom have a bulge or two? Could she be having surgeries on the sly?
“I’m with Dad on this one. I’ll pick my own exercise.” I see my dad smile as he leans over to tie his running shoes.
“Fine.” My mom hands me a sheet of paper. “But make sure you plan for thirty minutes a day. We’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’m training for a half-marathon.”
“Have fun.” I rinse out my smoothie glass and put it in the dishwasher. The only way I’d run a half-marathon was if something was chasing me.
My list requires that I clean my bedroom and bathroom, sort through my summer clothes and create three piles labeled: I Will Wear It, I Might Want To Wear This Someday, and I Will Not Wear This. Didn’t I just do this at Jillian’s? But that was different, this is just one closet.
I have to find some way to cope with the party and the fact that my mother thinks I’m turning into a chub. So … I spend the next half-hour on YouTube with Nigella. Within four videos I find my inspiration.
Nigella: Chocolate and cheesecake are the two things vying for the top spot in the dessert hall of fame.
Impressive. And I like to impress.
I make a list of ingredients. I bike to the grocery store, which is the exercise I chose. There’s a difference. And because it’s so efficient, I should have enough time to make the cake while they’re running.
My laptop is on the kitchen counter. Nigella fills the screen. I thwack the graham crackers into submission, hitting a large plastic bag of them with a rolling pin. I add cocoa and butter to the bag and thwack it some more. It’s not until a spray of crumbs hits the floor that I realize there’s a hole in the bag. Doesn’t extreme heat kill floor germs? My feet crunch. The rescued crumbs form a crust in the springform pan. I press play.
“The second part: the luscious chocolately custardy interior.” It’s not until I get the packages of cream cheese into the bowl and try to stir them with the wooden spoon that I realize cheesecake must have been invented after electric mixers. Nigella explains that roomtemperature cream cheese is essential. How could I have missed that the first seven times I watched the video?
It takes three minutes on low power to get the cream cheese gooey enough to stir. And parts o
f each block are a bit on the melting side. But it’s not like I can start over. And I’m not a quitter. My arm muscles burn as I add sugar, cornstarch, vanilla, and three eggs plus three more yolks. Does this count as exercise, too? I add sour cream. I stir. Stir. Stir. I look at the clock. It’s taken me over an hour. I hope they’re going for a latte after their run. The lumps are impossible to get smooth and I know Nigella’s is perfect and mine is not. I move on.
The chocolate infusion begins with some cocoa dissolved in hot water and a huge pool of melted bittersweet chocolate. I add both ingredients to the cheesecake mixture.
Nigella tells me to fold it patiently and dreamily. I close my eyes and stir. “Sooner or later,” she says, “everything gives way to chocolate.” I stir and stir and when I open my eyes I realize that my stirring has caused a whirlpool and that the bowl is not large enough to contain it. The chocolate cheesecake filling, though perfectly matching Nigella’s in color and consistency, runs along the countertop, drips onto the floor, pools with the abandoned crumbs.
I salvage what I can and pour the rest onto the crumb crust. My cheesecake will definitely be shorter than Nigella’s, but it will still make a major statement at the party.
I’m so afraid of making another mistake that I play and rewind the next steps several times, wasting precious minutes of time. Finally, I wrap the pan with aluminum foil, set the pan in my mother’s deep rectangle dish, add boiling water to halfway up the sides of the cheesecake pan, and set it in the oven. I shut the oven door.
Nigella shows me how to add a Jackson Pollock–inspired chocolate drizzle when the cake has cooled. “A thing of beauty is a joy forever I’m told,” she says.
I stare through the oven door feeling hopeful. At least if the party is a failure, I’ll have the joy of a cheesecake.
“Chantal. What is going on?” My mother stands next to the refrigerator. Drenched in sweat and breathing hard, she clenches her jaw.
“You look hot. Are you okay?”
“I came back for water.”
I reach into the cupboard, take out a glass, and hold it out to her. She doesn’t take it, only stands and stares at the mess on the counters, the licked-clean spoon, the baking cheesecake. She doesn’t see joy in this kitchen.
“I’ll clean it all up. And I paid for all the ingredients myself. And I’m going to bike. An hour a day. Minimum.”
“Who is going to eat that?”
“What?” I wish my dad were here to talk some sense into her.
“You can’t use my kitchen to make desserts.”
“Fine.”
I carry the cheesecake as if I’m bearing the ring pillow up the aisle of a church. Jillian meets me when I’m a block from Mia’s house. She points to my chocolate joy. “You didn’t make that, did you?”
“What?” I spent all afternoon on this and suffered my mother’s weirdness for nothing?
“We’re going low-key here, Chantal.”
I guess now that Parker’s hot for her she’s the authority on teen-specific social faux pas. “It’s a cake, not a molecular model of caffeine.”
“It’s like this, Chantal. When we are ourselves in dork mode, they translate that as we are trying too hard for them to like us. They think that we want them to think we’re cool.” Clearly she’s done her research.
“But we don’t care if they think we’re cool, do we?”
“Not really. No.”
“But we’re going to the party.”
“Exactly. So we need to blend in.” Even with her firmness, she is still being my friend. I can respect that. Still … there’s another side to this argument.
“You don’t think that they might enjoy spending time with two people who aren’t exactly like them? And for the record, the cake is a charity buy. From the Girl Scouts.”
“It’s about balance. We want to fit in. Mostly fit in. And bringing a Girl Scout cake is okay. Just smush up the middle a bit. So it’s not perfect.” She puts her arm around me. I hope she can’t tell that I’m disappointed. I wanted people to know I baked it. That’s something special about me that people should know. That I am just learning about myself.
“I comprehend.”
The partygoers are hungry. They gather in clusters of hair extensions and drugstore cologne and they feast on (I can’t put it any less bluntly) Jillian and me. Evidently, the best dessert is watching Jillian and me play Cranium. They underestimated our ability to kick Parker’s and Will’s butts to the couch, and they howl and hoot at our every right answer.
Me as a star performer: I mime putting on my big shoes, fixing my bow between my big ears, holding my long tail.
Horton the Elephant, Will yells.
Lady Gaga! That from Parker.
Jillian’s answer is the only one that counts. Minnie Mouse.
And we’re not just great at charades. Jillian can spell words backward—gnilleps. And I know the answer to: The day that Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly, and the Big Bopper were killed in a plane crash is also referred to as what?
As I say with confidence glowing for the win, “The day the music died,” Jillian high-fives me. The girls on the sidelines cheer.
I’m not saying I totally love being under their microscopes … but when I excel, I can handle a few spectators. If they’d tried to make us dance, they would have gotten what they really expected, a from-the-box yellow cake.
Will and Parker react as if they’re each listening to the same music, but feel the beat differently. Parker occasionally drapes his arm around Jillian. Will punches me in the shoulder with his fist while he holds up his camera phone and takes a picture. So, Parker wants to look adoringly in Jillian’s eyes and Will wants to take a picture of me with him as if he was part of team Chantal instead of defeated by us.
Maybe Will has grown since middle school and he regrets the humiliation he dumped on me. Maybe Will sort of likes me and he’ll get nicer and everything will be fine.
My cake is relegated to the back of the dessert table, but I can’t move it front and center or make a place card with a snazzy name like Chocolate Infusion Craving. It’s got to remain a secret, just like my ninth-grade crush.
Jillian
Party Paranoia.
Parker is the most attentive date I could imagine. And in spite of the Cranium geekiness, Chantal is the best friend of my dreams right now, oh, except for the group visit to the bathroom. I think she thought the last pieces of the chocolate cheesecake she snagged for each of us on the way would keep me busy.
I wait for her outside the bathroom door, locked in place by the crush of people in the hallway. The Girl Scouts make a delicious cake, even if it doesn’t look so great. It’s tart and sweet in perfect proportions. I eat the last bite and wipe away crumbs. As I apply my lip gloss I notice that my hand is shaking. What’s taking Chantal so long? I’m not the one who panics in this friendship, but I’m finding it hard to breathe when I’m not next to Parker.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m failing to integrate. I’m the girl Parker brought instead of Annelise, the girl who’s never been at their parties, the girl who has only finished half of a vodka cooler while girls all around her are at the stumbling stage. Culture shock fades, I try to reassure myself, they’ll get used to Chantal and me and we’ll get used to them.
“That bitch doesn’t know who she’s messing with.” I hear Annelise’s voice and I keep my head down. “Board games? That boy needs booty and I’m sure Little Miss Brain can’t compete with me.” Oh. My head throbs. What am I doing? What is taking Chantal so long? I tap the bathroom door. We need to go. I look down at my jeans from the sale rack, and my secondhand T-shirt that’s tight like everyone else’s but isn’t a great color. I’m pretending I’m ready for the next step, and everyone must see through it.
“Jillian.” It’s Parker. “I was looking for you.” He checks to see if anyone is listening, but they’re all shouting over the music at each other. “I … um … can we go somewhere quiet?”
&nb
sp; I can’t think straight. I know I’m supposed to stay at the door, but I don’t want to hear Annelise again or, worse, run into her. I’m not too sure about going with Parker, either. I allow myself to be led away, through the kitchen, to a doorway. Oh. Please don’t let this be a bedroom.
Will
The Competitive Edge.
I see her standing alone for the first time all night and I plan my final move. I weave through the crowd, my focus on the damsel in distress and the final photo challenge. Hip-hop plays. I am in the flow.
“Chantal.” I set my hand in the small of her back. “Looking for Mr. Right?”
She tenses up, moves away. “Have you seen Jillian?”
“No. And it was a joke. The Mr. Right. Never mind.” I follow her through the hallway, the living room, and the kitchen. We stop by the food table. She stands on her tiptoes, trying to spot Jillian in the party surf. I suggest maybe Jillian’s in the backyard.
“Let’s take a cupcake outside and look for her.” Cupcake must be the magic word because Chantal heads for the back door. We leave the air-conditioning and the heat makes me sweat instantly. I use the bottom of my T-shirt to wipe off my top lip.
Chantal scans the perimeter and gives up. She leans against the wall, her arms crossed. At least she’s not a moving target.
“You kicked ass at Cranium,” I say. “A total outwit and outplay performance.”
“Thanks.” Her arms drop, but she still looks uncomfortable. “It was fun.”
“You had fun?” I try my biggest smile on her, tilt my head like she’s a puppy.
“Yeah. Mostly.” She looks at me and away.
“Oh … I didn’t really think you were Horton the Elephant. I don’t know why I get like that. Embarrassed, I guess. You know what they say. A guy torturing you means he really likes you.”
“Yeah?” She’s totally not buying it, but at least she’s looking at me.
This is as perfect a moment as any. I fumble with one hand to set my phone on the camera function. I’m about to reach for her face, pull her into me.
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