Wicked Sweet

by Merrell, Mar'ce

  “Did you hear me?” Annelise’s voice takes on that little girl whiney sound.

  “What?”

  “Get in.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got an appointment.”

  She frowns. Motions me over. I move to the curb only because I want this finished, I need to get on with my life. “I had to, like, do some things, and I needed a car.” She tells me how she hates walking so she told the dealership guy that her dad wanted her to test drive some cars to pick one out for grad next year. Of course the sales guy was, like, all over it, she says, knowing, after all, that Annelise’s dad is the rich tourism guy. “Don’t I look hot?”

  I can’t stop myself. “You can get some shade if you put the top up.” I say this with a straight face and, of course, because Annelise is a bit dim, she thinks I’m serious.

  “I don’t mean that kind of hot.”

  I shrug my shoulders and start walking back the way I came from, to knock her off my trail.

  “Wait. Wait.” She beckons me with her Hollywood wave. “Hey, I have this problem that I wouldn’t even have if it weren’t for your best friend Jillian.” When she leans forward her cleavage mocks me. “Doesn’t she know that Parker is totally out of her league?”

  I wonder if I could be any more disconnected than I feel right now; like there’s a new set of rules that I wasn’t smart enough to study up on. “And that’s your problem because?”

  “I’ve got Will after me. Will. He thinks I left him a cake at that stupid party that I wasn’t even invited to! I need Jillian to let go of Parker. I want my boyfriend back. We’re perfect for each other.”

  She’s watching my face so I try to make it frozen like hers. I’m sure my smile isn’t nearly as cute. I don’t even wear lip gloss. So Parker is in her league and Will isn’t, but he’d like to be.

  It pisses me off that Will thinks Annelise made him that cake; she’s maybe a nail-painting master, but not a cake baker. At least not a cake like that. But of course its specialness was lost on Will. “What did he say about the cake? What flavor was it? Was it anything special?”

  “I don’t know what kind of cake it was! That doesn’t even matter. It was chocolate, I think.”

  “Did you tell him you didn’t bake it?”

  “He didn’t believe me! He thinks I’m playing hard to get. Not that me baking a cake is impossible! I bake cakes all the time. I get the box of Supermoist Triple Chocolate, that’s the best. And the Whipped Fluffy White frosting in the little tub. But why would I bake Will a cake? Honestly, he’s delusioned.”

  “Delusional.”

  “Whatev.”

  She’s right. He has a hard time seeing reality. Which means that even when he tastes my Vampire Vanilla Cupcakes, he might not believe I made that chocolate cake. He might not care that I know about the man challenge. My revenge might not be sweet. It will simply be another embarrassment. Unless …

  “So I think I get it. You don’t want Will after you?”

  “OMG no!” She digs in her purse for lip gloss. “Will over Parker? That’s like a fake Chanel classic flap bag over the real thing.”

  “An imposter.” Like processed instead of homemade.

  “Exactly.”

  “And you want me to help you get Parker back.”

  “Yes! Geez, Chantal, for the smartest girl in the class, you are pretty dense. You know what I’m saying? Get in my car. We need to talk.”

  I hesitate. Maybe Annelise can help me get my revenge on Will. But my plan could work too well. She might end up on Parker’s front line again and Jillian would be benched. But who could blame me? I just want Will to know the wounds of rejection.

  I cross in front of the car, open the passenger’s door and slide onto the leather seat. The door closes, solid, behind me. “I have an idea,” I say. “You can make Parker jealous …” I wait for her to catch on, “by …”

  “By what?”

  “By flirting with Will. Let Will think you’re all into him.”

  I lean back against the seat, and catch myself in the side mirror. I look cool. The bright pink headband and my light pink T-shirt are happy against the background of the yellow convertible with white interior, Audrey Hepburn with a few more pounds and a whole lot more hair. I’ve never felt cool before and I always thought I wasn’t missing out. Maybe a girl with brains exudes more cool when she develops a talent for the art of baking.

  Annelise’s smile has faded. “Why are you helping me?”

  I am not stupid. I can’t tell Annelise that she’s part of my plan to set Will up. She’s only in this for herself. Better to give her a simple reason. “I want my best friend back.”

  “I totally get that.” Annelise reaches over to me and puts her hand on my arm. “I always thought you were a stuck-up snob. But actually, you know how to keep it real.”

  I am charmed by her sudden … genuineness. At least for a few seconds. Before I can get too comfortable she shatters my illusions.

  “But … uh … maybe you should get out of my car before someone, like, figures out we’re teaming up. I’m not gonna tell anyone about this conversation, you know.”

  “Right.” I’m reluctant to get out of the car because my practiced politeness is pushing me to thank Annelise for this encounter, to tell her that my whole day has just gone from bright to brighter. I end up saying, “Have a nice day,” as I wave to her from my spot on the sidewalk.

  Now that Annelise has gotten what she wants from me she reaches for the radio and turns it on. Pink sings, Annelise presses the gas pedal. The car moves forward half a block before it lurches to a stop. She turns around and shouts back at me. “Chantal. You’ve got to ditch those capri pants—they cut you off in the middle of the calf. Wrong, girl, wrong. And the shoes, go for sleek and sporty. Those shoes are for running. Only. They were never intended as streetwear.”

  “Uh … thanks.” I wave weakly at her.

  “Style is for everyone!” She drives far enough away that I know she won’t be stopping to insult my hair or my skin. I can’t believe I didn’t say anything back. Nerdy is a style category. They don’t make capri pants for short legs.

  Cars pass. RVs follow. And dogs go by. And people at the end of dogs’ leashes. And kids on bikes. And skateboards. And the ice cream truck. And I stand, my cream cheese frosting melting. This is my last chance to back out. If I don’t go to Will’s house, I can hope that Annelise leads him on and his heart is broken. If I go to Will’s house I can make sure the job is done right.

  I read that Nigella was often nervous about filming her TV show. “I need to be frightened of things,” she said. “I hate it, but I must need it, because it’s what I do.”

  Thank you Nigella, you’re brilliant. I’m meant to be the girl who moves bravely forward despite the threat of panic attacks. It may not be the first cake or the second, but for sure by the third my plan will have Will cradled in its sugar-coated claws.

  Will thinks Annelise baked him a cake? Well, she’s about to bake him some more. That’s what he’ll think anyway, with cards saying, From your secret admirer.

  As their deliciousness grows, so, too, will his expectations. When the secret admirer cakes no longer arrive and he realizes that he has been publicly dumped by a secret admirer—who by the way, is definitely not Annelise—his humiliation will be more acute than a burst appendix.

  This is the easy part of the plan. The hard part: I have to go to Will’s house to create a distraction. Right back where we started: a summer project.

  Will

  This Charming Man.

  The Smiths. Snap. Johnny Marr’s guitar and Steven Morrissey’s vocals on “This Charming Man” find the sweet spot on my playlist. The guitar forces me to sit back from the screen and stop. My brain connects with sound. Parker calls The Smiths intellectual pop. For shizzle. I know it works. Especially today. At this moment.

  I am This Charming Man. Annelise is making my world glow all kinds of groovy-ass colors. The girl is all in. She left me a c
ake. A cake! And it even tasted great. Okay, so she tried to deny it. That’s just one of those girl games. Parker has told me all about how Annelise brings you close and pushes you away until you can’t stand it anymore. And I intend to play the game right back at her. The how of this hasn’t come to me yet, but it will. I am the master planner.

  I lean back in my chair, let the music flood my veins. This is where it’s at. It’s all good.

  I’m interrupted by a knock on my door. Must be my mother. The Ogre never knocks.

  “Will. Turn that down. Please.” Another knock. “I need to talk to you.”

  I start out polite with my mother. I try hard to like her, even when I think she’s weak and I wish she’d get a new haircut and wear something other than those hideous mom jeans and track pants. She sits in my desk chair and I shift to my bed. When she says, “Your dad’s been talking to me,” I know I want the conversation to end. “He says you need to get a job. And, before you interrupt me, I don’t think it’s a bad idea.” She reaches out to pat my leg and I push farther away. “What about the hardware store? Maybe they’d take you back on for a few weeks?”

  “I don’t want to work for them.” She doesn’t know that Del’s Hardware is the reason I won’t be getting a job. Anywhere. Last summer the guys at Del’s treated me like I was a dumb kid moving lumber from one place to another. I guess that’s why I started sticky fingering things. I kept the stash under my bed, tools mostly—a cordless drill, a set of wrenches, screwdrivers, some knives. After a few weeks, I was shopping for the future and I yanked a coffeemaker. The boss called me into his office three days later and I left my nerd apron behind. I told my mom they laid me off.

  “Mom. I can’t get a job, not this summer. You said it yourself, high school is the best time of your life and it’s almost over. Remember, you met Dad in the summer and if he’d been working and you’d been working, well …” I would never have been born.

  “He wanted to work, though, Will. But his father made him stay home to take care of his brother.” And that didn’t work out too well; Uncle Bob ended up in jail for armed robbery—holding up tourists at the KOA campsite. “He wants you to stay out of trouble.”

  “This is my last summer. Everyone is at the lake, every day, and I want to be there, too.” I know it’s bullshit, and probably lame, but I say it anyway. “I deserve what you and Dad had, at least.” It could work. It’s got potential.

  “Will. Honey.” She’s got those pity eyes like I’m a UNICEF commercial kid. “You have to get a job if you’re going to take girls out on dates.”

  “Mom. We’re not having this conversation.” Before I can tell her my personal life is just that, personal, the doorbell interrupts us.

  I’m chewing at the dead skin at the edges of my thumb nail, having bitten all of my nails down to the quick, when my mother appears at my door again. “You’ve got company.” My mother’s wearing her fancy apron. Bad sign. She couldn’t say no to whoever came to the door.

  Now, she’ll want me to get rid of the intruder. “Mom. I’ll give you ten dollars to buy the Girl Scout cookies or make a donation to the bible pushers. I’m busy.” I reach for my headphones.

  “It’s Chantal,” Mom whispers. She smiles.

  “Chantal?” I stand up too fast, knock the keyboard off my desk. What the hell? I check my look in the mirror. Out of habit. That’s all.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? You know, her dad is the nicest man. And she’s sweet.”

  “Mom. Stop. This isn’t what you think it is.”

  The smile on her face caves. I hate like hell that I’m as much a disappointment as my dad. I wish I could tell her that I am reaching beyond my potential and Annelise, not Chantal, is part of that. Instead, I wrap my arm around my mother’s shoulder, squish her in toward me, and her head lays soft against my shoulder. “I wanted to tell you, Mom. I didn’t know she was coming over.”

  Stunned. If I looked into the mirror I’d see a stupid grin plastered on my face. Only my mom would believe I’m happy to be seeing the girl who puked in my mouth.

  “Big summer plans, Mom.” I know this is what my mother has wanted all along, for me to meet her expectations of a limited life. A girl like Chantal. A job. This town. Grandkids. Money has never been as important to her as family. “Chantal and me, we’ve been hanging out.”

  Chantal

  Blindness.

  If you walked into my house, you would find rooms that adhered to these rules of successful decorating: furniture placed in conversational groupings, a selection of black-and-white photographs, and shelves with height-diverse objects in odd numbered clumps. If a person’s surroundings say a lot about them, you could say my family is cool and calculating, or cautious and orderly. Jillian’s house, with its last-chance-before-the-trash-bin furniture, chaotic patterned curtains made from Indian saris, and wall colors at the extreme ends of the spectrum, could reveal the disorganized and impulsive or represent spontaneity and a love for the quirky.

  I expected Will’s house to echo his stubbornness, his disregard for social conventions. From outside appearances, it’s the last stop before assisted living, a plain bungalow with an arthritic foundation. Inside, I expected overstuffed and floral, a chaotic combination of spoon collections, beer cans, and sticky flypaper strips hanging from the ceiling.

  When Mrs. Donovan opened the door and hurried me inside, I stopped and stared at the coordinating fabrics without a rose or hydrangea in sight. The walls with chocolate brown and quiet blue accents whispered sophistication. I wondered if Will’s mom watched the same decorating shows that I did. And the smell of vanilla and sugar! Maybe she had a chef-crush on Nigella, too. Sure a pile of supermarket magazines staggered across the sofa, and under the coffee table a stack of high-cleavage romance novels stumbled, but those details were small leaks from Mrs. Donovan’s personality, as if she couldn’t be completely confined by the rules.

  “Chantal.” She offered me a chair. “I’m taking some scones out of the oven. You’d like some tea, then?” We knew each other from volunteering at the food bank, one of those social responsibility things my dad insisted on. I’d never seen Will there, though. “I’ve got a lovely Earl Grey with lavender.”

  “Great. Great.” Now I was going to eat her baking while perpetrating my fraud? I wondered if my guilt was flushing red on my cheeks. “Lovely.”

  While I waited for her to return I recalculated my assumptions. Mrs. Donovan, from lonely and forlorn to lovely and happy. Will, from sullen and callous to … Honestly, I was stuck.

  Scones arrived on a delicate plate, and a teacup on a saucer. As we talked I thought about how Mrs. Donovan resembled Nigella. She had dark hair that with a little product could end up in waves.

  I sipped my tea and answered her questions about school and my summer and my parents, almost embarrassed at how much she seemed to like me. And how she wanted me to like her.

  Mrs. Donovan had returned from the kitchen wearing a black-and-white paisley apron over her faded jeans and stretched sweatshirt. And she’d combed her hair, slipped on some lipstick in a too-pink color … still, her smile was real.

  She didn’t know that her son was out to get me. Love is blind.

  She finished the last bite of her scone. “So … you have some plans with Will then?”

  I proceeded with caution. “Will’s friend Parker and my best friend Jillian are dating, so we’ve ended up … uh … spending time together.” Her delight nearly broke my heart.

  “I guess I should tell Will you’re here, then, shouldn’t I?” She got up from her chair and set her empty teacup aside.

  “Um … sure. Thanks, Mrs. Donovan.”

  Like the ingredients of a cake set out on my counter, I have to believe that I have the necessary ingredients to become a convincing imposter. I can think fast, I’m motivated, and I’m not willing to accept defeat.

  “Uh … Chantal … uh … great to see you.” Will walks into the living room, his hands in his jean pockets a
nd shoulders slouched. If this is great to see you I wonder what the opposite would be.

  “Was I early?” I say. “Didn’t you say ten thirty?” I can’t keep the shaking out of my voice. Lies do not come easy for me.

  Will looks uneasily at me and then at his mom. “Oh … um … I was listening to music. And I lost track of time. No. This is perfect.” He sits in the nearest chair to mine. “Perfect.” Will, though, is smooth and clearly practiced at lying.

  We smile at each other and take turns looking toward the doorway at his mother. When she senses the awkwardness she retreats. “Oh … I’m going to do the dishes in the kitchen. Just holler if you need anything. Tea. Scones. Lunch.”

  Will waits until she’s gone. He smiles. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  And in that second, or maybe half-second, the way it happens in books and movies, I know the color drains from my face. I can’t do this. I want to come out with a quick response, something clever, but I don’t. Didn’t I have a plan? What was it again? Crud.

  “Seriously, Chantal.” Will’s intensity unsettles me further. “Not that I’m complaining or anything. It’s just …” Will listens for kitchen noise, reassurance that his mother is occupied. “Why are you here?”

  “I … um … want …” It’s action time. Action. Action. “I want to do a summer project.”

  “A what?”

  I explain how Jillian and I have always had a summer project and how, now that she’s with Parker, there’s a good chance that there won’t be one. “I like to have a purpose for the summer.”

  “So you want me to hang out with you all summer and, like, bake cookies for the day-camp kids?”

  “What?” Bake cookies? Uh-oh.

  “Well, isn’t that a summer project?”

  “Oh. Yeah. No. I didn’t mean that just you and me would do the summer project. I meant that we could do a summer project. You and me and Parker and Jillian.”