Wicked Sweet

by Merrell, Mar'ce

  That’s not my mother’s voice. I jerk my head up. Crud. It’s Will.

  “What are you doing here?” I move to the space between the door and the wall, cut off the view to the inside.

  “You’re … uh … cute like that. Bed head. Uh … can I come in?” He moves a step closer and I smell beer on his breath.

  “No.” I change my voice to a whisper. “My parents are asleep. They’ll freak. What do you want?” I have got to get rid of him.

  “Tuesday night. There’s this thing for my dad. A party. And I’m taking you. I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”

  “No.” I say it because it’s the first word that comes to my mind. No. He’s too … invasive … and I think … unsafe. It’s all I can do to even stand at the door.

  “What do you mean, no? We have a deal. You’re my fake-girlfriend.”

  “No.”

  “You want me to put the kibosh on the summer project?”

  “Like you could do that.”

  “I could.” Maybe he’s watched a whole lot of intimidation tactics in cop shows or terrorist movies or something, but it’s the way he stares at me, convincing.

  “You can’t force me to go. And you showed up here without calling, that’s against the rules.”

  He considers me. I see his jaw clench. I don’t cave in, but I feel goose bumps orange-peeling my arms.

  I remind myself that every school year since the seventh grade I have created a path from the beginning of my school day to the end that ensures I will avoid Will. He is dangerous. Dangerous.

  When he finally speaks, his voice is different, a little less commanding. “Just … just come for my mom, okay? That’s the only reason I’m going, for her. She likes you.”

  I remember: but I have a plan. He can’t hurt me.

  “I’m drunk. I have no pride.”

  Even though my stomach is in knots, I agree. I can do this. “Okay. Tuesday night.”

  He smiles and with that smile I know I’ve been had. It’s the same smile he put on the night of the party right before he attacked me with that kiss and his tongue. Disgusting. But this time it will be different. This time I’m in charge.

  I fight the lump in my throat as he tells me among other things to wear a dress, and mascara and lip gloss, and sandals. At least we’ll be in a public place. And what could go wrong at the Moose Hall with his mother and his dad both at the table? My one assertion, “I’ll meet you there,” comes at the end of Will’s instructions. I close the door and lock it behind me before he can dispute it. Then I turn my back to the door and scrunch down to the floor, until I am a tightly held ball of doubt.

  What am I doing? This will be the second date of my lifetime. Again, with the person I dislike the most.

  I wonder how I should spend my last night of freedom. Correction: my last few hours, since my mother will arrive at ten tomorrow morning.

  Nigella, what would you do?

  Follow your heart, darling, and waste not another promising minute. Worry is an emotion you can easily live without.

  It’s either foolishness or courage that propels me off the floor twenty minutes later and guides me to the pile of baking implements and ingredients. I carry them to the garage and settle them into the trunk of my dad’s SUV. I set the I Like Him, I Like Him A Lot Cake on the floor of the passenger’s seat. The keys, found in my dad’s desk drawer, jingle merrily. Or maybe they jingle a bad omen. Either way, I start the ignition, press the garage door opener, and put the car in reverse.

  I’ve driven my dad’s car five times as practice for my driving test, which I haven’t taken yet. So, technically, what I am doing is illegal. I back out six feet and press the button to close the garage door. I shoulder check before I ease out of the driveway, push on the brakes, and shift the car into drive. My dad would say that at this second I’m definitely at the line between right and wrong. My mother would say I crossed the line just thinking about driving my dad’s car. However, at 1:27 A.M. with less than nine hours before her arrival, I need to make the best use of my remaining minutes. My plan is to stick to the less traveled roads, to drive just under the speed limit, and to keep the vehicle going in a straight line at all times, except when I have to turn. If I get stopped, I’ll tell the police officer it’s an emergency. And it is. Without space to bake, I will be forced to revert to the old me.

  Chantal

  The Final Delivery.

  I make four turns, stop at five stop signs, cross one highway, and navigate through two stoplight-controlled intersections. Other drivers honk at me four times and six vehicles pass me. I give them lots of room. I drive mostly on the shoulder of the road. I know this is attention-getting driving, but my fear of oncoming traffic keeps me away from the middle of the lane. Fortunately our town policemen are probably monitoring the last of the Friday night cruisers, not driving along Third Street where they could easily spot a girl without a license. I park in the driveway of the little house my dad uses for his office. I unlock the back door, walk through what used to be the mudroom for the railway men who lived here when the house was built.

  In the tiny kitchen, I find the one-door refrigerator. I add my buttermilk and unsalted butter to the empty shelves. The KitchenAid barely fits under the sink but the flour and sugar fill up the empty cupboards. The baking pans are next and as I search for a place to hide them, I remember there’s an oven here. I touch the dial for the oven, the dial for the temperature. A month ago, I wouldn’t even have noticed this appliance. I pull out the drawer underneath and set my nine-inch round, eight-inch round, and Bundt pans on top of the broiler pan. I only remembered a microwave here, but maybe that’s because all I’ve ever eaten here is popcorn, after school. I doubt the real oven even works, but I turn a burneron, and twist the oven dial to 350 degrees.

  “If you can resist this,” Nigella said in one of her cooking shows, “you do not deserve to eat.” She was talking about fried chicken, but I know Nigella. She’d say I can love cake more than chicken. She’d say I can love whatever I want.

  I imagine the KitchenAid on one end of the small counter, leaving just enough space for a decorating station. The air above the burner is hot and inside the oven my hand definitely feels warmth. But my mother wouldn’t let me bake here any more than she would at home. It’s a matter of principle she’d say. Only yours, only yours. I turn the stove and oven off. It’s nearly 2 A.M. and I’ve still got to deliver a cake and clean up the kitchen back at my house. I need to focus on my first plan instead of dreaming up a new one.

  I wear black for the delivery. I am in my dad’s car on Third Street, ten blocks from the home of Lauren, my next cake messenger, when I see what I least expect: a ball cap I recognize, a flip of hair that is only his. He’s walking to his car a block ahead of me on the right-hand side. I have seconds to react. I crank the wheel right at the intersection, but I forget to press the brakes, and the speed and the panic combines and two wheels of Dad’s car are riding on the curb and I’m headed for a bush. A big bush with, crud, don’t let it be true, a telephone pole on the other side of it. I slam on the brakes and the bumper hits something, but I can’t stop to look; what if Mitch heard the noise, what if he’s walking toward me. I find the R on the shifter and I press the gas pedal enough that I roll back. In D for drive, I manage to get off the curb and I’m driving forward. At the end of the block, I take a left. At the end of that block, I take a left. I pull over to the side of the road. I remember the cake. It survived the incident (I can’t admit it was an accident) although the frosting on one side is going to need some repair work. I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here. This was my final delivery and instead of feeling victorious and calm, I’m panicked. I turn right and try to recalculate how I’m going to get to Lauren’s house. That’s when I see Mitch’s car up ahead.

  The only way to explain my next choice is to point out that in my perfectionist brain, I try to find a way to compensate whenever something goes wrong. For example, if I miss three q
uestions on a math test, I’ll not only correct my mistakes, but ask the teacher for extra credit to make up for my less than 100 percent. Tonight my extra credit is Mitch.

  I think about what would happen if he knew I was the Cake Princess. Would all that radio love he sends out for her transform into long, meaningful looks? Or my first real date? I’m so focused on my daydream, I’ve almost forgotten my near crash. I follow him at a safe distance all the way to his house, a trip that takes me through town and up into the subdivision near the ski hill. He parks in his driveway. I drive up two blocks and park on the street. My adrenaline-fueled panic has turned into an anticipation that flutters in my stomach. I get out of Dad’s car, walk around to the passenger’s side, and rescue my cake. I repair the frosting on the side of I Like Him, I Like Him A Lot Cake with my fingertips and start sneaking my way to Mitch’s front door with the cake.

  His street is at the edge of town where the houses emerge from the forest, their wide lawns plonked with rock fountains. It’s too far out for streetlights, so tiny lanterns sprinkle the paths from driveways to front doors. The inky darkness out here nearly blinds me. I’m not afraid of the dark, but I’m terrified of what lives in the dark: bears, coyotes, cougars. Mostly. As I approach Mitch’s house I hear his car door opening, closing, feet on driveway.

  I move deeper through the shadows until I reach the edge of his yard. The porch light is off. I step lightly on spongy grass to the door. I could set the cake down, put the cardboard box over it, and dash in the darkness. I could be home in ten minutes. I set the cake down with the secret admirer note attached, cover it with the cardboard box, and sneak across the street to a black spot in the neighbor’s yard, where I can … what? Spy on Mitch.

  A light shines in an upstairs room. It’s got to be Mitch’s bedroom. The curtains drift in and out of the open window. I sit on the grass beside a massive rock fountain and wait—a slightly troubling moment of unrequited like.

  Come close to the window.

  His shadow moves, arms stretch up and out. His shirt flies past the window. His shadow bends.

  A pair of jeans is next. The curtains get in the way, then, clear.

  The shadow moves. Oh God, it’s not a shadow. It’s him, his naked back and his white boxers. Right in front of the open window. I hold my hand over my mouth to keep all sounds from leaking.

  And he’s dancing. Dancing? His knees dip, he moves side to side.

  Well, he is in drama, right? Maybe all actor boys dance by themselves at 2 A.M.

  And his right arm is moving up and down. Repeatedly. In rhythm.

  No. Oh. No.

  Oh. God. He’s going to face me. Well, not his face, but his … I hold my breath, squeeze my eyes shut. And then force them open.

  God.

  It’s a guitar. I breathe again, all in one rush.

  He’s playing Guitar Hero.

  In his boxers.

  I watch as he spins around and strain to hear the song he’s playing, but now I see he’s wearing headphones. I could probably call his name and the neighbors would come out running before Mitch would hear me. If I threw rocks at his window, I’d have to break the glass to get him to notice. But I want him to notice.

  Jillian

  The Morning.

  The boys are waiting in the van, the towels and picnic lunches, hockey sticks and nets already packed. The Hat Trick in the backseat read comic books my grandfather sent them years ago, when they were still too young to read. The Double Minor has the Dr. Seuss books that used to be mine and baby Ollie chews on the corner of Good Night, Moon. I added the reading material at the last minute, when I remembered that good sisters make sure their brothers read.

  Parker arrives at the passenger’s side door wearing the same smile he had on yesterday, as if nothing has changed.

  “The heat must have gotten to me last night,” he says as he pulls the seat belt across his chest. “I was out cold by nine thirty P.M. How about you?”

  “Same,” I tell him. “Right after the boys were asleep, the night was over.” I concentrate on the road, driving.

  “Yeah, I woke up in this fog, thinking I was supposed to call or something last night.”

  “I don’t remember that.” Now, I allow myself an eye exchange that forces me to look away.

  “No? Okay.”

  I know the reason I’m lying is to protect the boys. I suspect Parker is trying to protect himself. It’s disappointing, I think, like when my mother says she’s going to take me shopping in the city and leave the boys with a babysitter, but it doesn’t happen.

  Parker

  The Unbearable Morning.

  I know I screwed up last night and I’m kicking myself for not being up front with Jillian. But I got there and she was already in the van. And the boys were in there, all kumbaya on the reading, and I knew if I said anything, we might end up in a fight and if that happened I’d feel even worse. And I can make this up to Jillian, anyway. She will know, by my unselfish actions, that I put the boys and her first.

  When we pull into the parking lot, I’m out first and I’ve got all the kids rallied around me before Jillian can say a word. I’ve got baby Ollie in one arm, I carry the cooler that’s so heavy it’s like it’s full of rocks, and the Double Minor trek right on my heels. I’m in a full sweat by the time we reach the tree at the top of the hill.

  “Oh, hey Parker!” It’s Annelise. She’s just arrived and she looks, as my brother would say, like a cool drink of water. I’ve always liked her smile. “Can I hold the baby … uh … Ollie for you?”

  I look back. Jillian must still be in the parking lot organizing the Hat Trick. If Annelise took Ollie and kept an eye on the Double Minor I could run down and help. “Come here Ollie.” She reaches out and takes him from me before I can say no. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I love kids. We know how to have fun!” I think it’s a bit strange that she’s there so early and without any of her friends, but right now I’ve got some ass kissing to do.

  I am halfway down the hill when I meet up with Jillian. I take the bundle of towels from her and she thanks me and continues on, carrying the orange cones. I think it’s all going to be okay. We get within sighting distance of baby Ollie, who is gnawing on Annelise’s cell phone, and things change. Jillian walks fiercely. The Hat Trick start acting up, trying to hit each other with the hockey sticks. And I trip over an old guy tanning his wrinkles.

  I reach the blanket just after Jillian and I’m ready to run interference when she says, “I’ll go set up the cones for the drills.” She leaves before I have a chance to do the right thing. Anything right. I follow her, pulling the Double Minor and the Hat Trick along with me.

  An hour later the sun is baking us all, especially me and my sick stomach. The kids run their drills, knocking down cone after cone. Jillian tells them they can have a sixty-second water break. She keeps her eye on the timing watch.

  “Jillian,” I say. “Let’s see if Will’s cake is here. It’ll be a good break.”

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  “I think that’s what the boys want to do.” I point at them. They’re on their stomachs, chests heaving, their hair plastered to their heads.

  “You know, Parker.” She targets me with her look. “What’s the point, really? So we’re going to have a hockey tournament in a couple of weeks. So what? It’s not going to change their lives if they play hockey. We raise a little bit of money. So what? What if it’s not worth all this work? I didn’t realize I was signing up for hockey bootcamp.”

  My stomach is on fire. I need Gatorade, or milk, or pink medicine. “I don’t know how you can even question this. This is about putting effort into something bigger than us. We can make a difference, Jillian.”

  “No offense, but you sound like Chantal.”

  I thought Chantal was her best friend. “Grass roots. And we’re starting with your brothers. The kids are going to benefit the most from this. I guarantee it.” I do, don’t I? This is about them, isn’
t it?

  I convince her that the kids need a real break and we need to join the others, because I have a plan that is going to make this hockey tournament the event of the summer.

  I’m the first guy to witness the scene at the blanket, but I wish like hell I wasn’t. I wonder when my punishment will end. Annelise has been babysitting Ollie who appears to be wearing a T-shirt of hers. It’s pink and she’s got it sort of belted below his baby stomach so that really, he appears to be wearing a dress. This is a minor issue. His hair, usually curly, sticks out from his head in dozens of ponytails. His lips, even from here, shine in bright red lip gloss. His eyes are blue and pink rainbows. His cheeks glow orange-red. And then it comes to me, a way to save my fate. “Oh, look,” I say. “Annelise has dressed Ollie up as …”

  “Her identical baby sister …” Jillian says.

  “I was going to say a clown.”

  “But my joke was better.” She punches my shoulder. I realize it’s the first time she’s touched me, purposefully, since this morning.

  “You’re not mad?”

  “At Annelise’s makeover?” She shakes her head.

  “No, at me.”

  “Not about this.” And she walks ahead of me. I watch how she strides with confidence, purpose. We make a good team, Jillian and I. I need to tell her that.

  By the time I get to the blanket, Jillian has taken baby Ollie to the bathroom to get cleaned up, leaving me to referee her brothers. They are digging into the cooler, and soon I figure out why.

  Will sits up from his tanning position. He keeps telling us he’s saving his energy for the massive hours he’ll have to clock at the tournament. “No cake today. I’ve been telling everyone I have no idea who this girl is or if a cake is going to come at all, but they don’t believe me. Some rumor got started that I know who the secret admirer is … As if that would make sense.”