I haven’t felt this lonely since before Chantal and I met in the third grade. We used to talk every night if we didn’t see each other, even when she went on vacations with her parents, but this summer, well, we’ve been busy. That’s what happens between friends, I think. It’s never happened between us before but it could be that it’s normal. Chantal was afraid this would happen if Parker and I dated, and I wonder if she knew the one who would be loneliest would be me.
And now Keith has all but moved in. Meeting Keith will confirm to Parker that despite his valiant efforts the kids in this family are bound to be screwed up.
I am also limiting my Parker time because I can’t get over the fact that he stood me up. I think about it and my skin starts to itch. Chantal would say I might be allergic to being betrayed. And she might be right.
In my house you accept what you cannot change. That means I’m powerless to get rid of Keith, for one thing. Now that Parker has shown me that he has the potential to let me down, I’ve accepted it, too, but I’m not going to leave myself open. I am not my mother. I will not make the same mistake over and over and over and over. So, I sink.
The ringing phone rescues me. I check the caller ID and discover that Chantal must know even from across town how much I need her right now. After we say hello and tell each other that we are fine, she starts in on her not-so-fine status notes.
“It’s about my mother.” She adds that her mother’s back and that she’s got an issue at work. “She’s been asked to um … attend a work event … but it’s against her principles.”
I wonder why we’re talking about Chantal’s mother’s work, because it is not something we’ve ever talked about, but already I’m feeling relief from the pressure. I ask a clarifying question, “An event at the hospital is against her principles?”
“It’s sort of at the hospital. It’s actually at the Moose Hall but it’s to … uh … celebrate a guy who has always put her down, and other people, too. He’s never been a nice guy. And some people pretended that they liked him because, you know, he had power and he had powerful friends. My mother put up with him but she definitely doesn’t want to go.”
“Your mother is asking for your advice?”
“I know. Weird.” Chantal tells me that the strange behavior began with a rock from Oregon. “She told me it felt right.”
“Not a rock,” I groan. “That’s something my mother would do.”
“She feels that if she doesn’t go, this guy will for sure notice and he might even, you know, try to get back at her.”
“She shouldn’t go.” She’s an adult. She can do whatever she wants.
“Should she call him and tell him she’s not coming? He might talk about her to try to damage other people’s perceptions of her.”
“She could or she couldn’t call. That’s up to her, but she shouldn’t go.” This is all sounding a little too weird from Chantal and I wonder if we are really talking about her mother. “Why hasn’t your mom talked to your dad? He’s the therapist.”
“He’s in Saskatchewan at the Lettuce Loaf.”
Ah. That explains a lot.
“It’s that easy though?” Chantal asks. “Just don’t go?”
“It’s not easy. But you have to live with yourself. And it sucks when you realize you sort of hate yourself for going along.” Surely if Chantal’s mother can refuse to go to a family gathering every summer, she can say no to a retirement party. All this thinking about Chantal’s issues has me practically floating above my mattress. It’s possible that giving good advice is a small substitute for acting responsibly on your own behalf. I hear her sigh and I think that something else is going on. I’m on the edge of asking a probing question when she cuts in.
“Thanks. Um, my mom thanks you and I thank you for her.” I imagine her lying on her twin bed, across from the perfectly matched and made twin bed that’s mine. That’s where I want to be right now. Escaped from confusion central. “We’ve hardly talked,” she says.
“The hockey tournament.” I sigh and, like a submarine, I drop.
“A summer project that’s snowballed. Even Annelise is in.” She pauses. “Are you mad at me about that?” She must be feeling guilty that she was the one who asked my boyfriend’s ex to join the party.
“No. It’s not even an issue.” And because we’re talking about Annelise and not about me I can tell Chantal that all Parker is interested in is the hockey tournament and ensuring my brothers reach their full potential.
“Hockey potential, right? Like, he’s not going to parent-teacher conferences next year?” She laughs and when I laugh, my butt nearly hits the floor. Last year my mother sent me to the elementary school as her “parent representative”; not even Chantal knows that the principal called me into her office the following week and drilled me about what was going on at home. It is possible that once the summer is over, Parker and I could be talking about Travis’s poor spelling and Josh’s temper tantrums at day care. He could be my partner in all of this. And I’m so close, so close to telling Chantal I’m confused but her words come first. “I was wrong about him, Jillian. I want to say this now. I didn’t trust him, but he’s turned out to be a good guy.”
“He really tries to do the right thing,” I say. That’s all. I change the subject, talk about the weather, it’s been hot; the cakes from the Cake Princess, amazing; and, finally, I say I hear Ollie crying. “Good luck with your mom,” I say.
“My mom? Of course. Thanks. Um … for everything.” We say our good-byes even though we both sense that a gust of wind would blow down the carefully constructed bridge between our secrets. And yet, this is enough. She is my best friend, after all, and I know that even though I didn’t tell her my worst fears, if I had she would have listened.
I scramble my way out of the middle of my mattress and pull a pillow and my comforter onto the floor. Tonight I’ll sleep without feeling like I’m suffocating.
Will
The Ten-Pound Tumor.
Inside the Moose Hall, it’s hotter than a firecracker lit at both ends and outside it’s not much better. I’m pacing between the table where my parents wait for my amazing date to arrive and the sidewalk where I watch for the shadow of a dress and heels.
“Your father is so happy,” my mother told me as I helped her with her pearl necklace. “It’s the biggest night of his career and we’re showing off our best.” By career she means my dad’s job as hoghead for the railroad and by our best I guess we’re each wearing new clothes. Though I doubt I could increase the Ogre’s happiness, I couldn’t be more willing to make my mother’s night perfect. I’m carrying around a corsage for Chantal.
I check my phone. It’s now 6:25 P.M. and the polka band is warming up the crowd. A union rep hands out a welcome drink to the adults and a program with the Ogre’s name in bold font. The men call his name and form a handshakes-and-backslaps line. They don’t know him like I do. I see my mother leaving the end of the receiving line, weaving her way through the thinning crowd, lit from behind by minilights. Soon I’ll have to face her worried, disappointed eyes. I’ve already failed her because I’m not standing at the end of the line with the girlfriend that would complete our family portrait. She’s always missed not having a girl. And tonight, it’s looking like she’s out of luck, again.
My phone rings. And I don’t recognize the number. Chantal says a shaky hello. She gets as far as I can’t make it when I cut her off.
“Food poisoning?” I say as my mother reaches my side. “Of course you can’t. Oh … no … that’s fine. Oh, yeah, I understand. Well, take care of yourself. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I slide the phone into the inside pocket of my suit jacket before my mother can hear Chantal’s protests. “She’s sick,” I say.
“Why did she wait until now to call? That doesn’t seem like her.”
“Yeah, well it is. If I’d known she wasn’t going to come, I could have found another date.”
“I told you how important thi
s was.”
“Out of my control.”
“Oh, Will. Your father will be so disappointed.” But it’s my mother’s hopelessness that weighs me down with a ten-pound tumor in my gut.
“I know.” I walk into the Moose Hall, right up to the Ogre and hold out my hand. He can’t refuse it in front of his railroad comrades and I hope my mother sees that I’m trying. The Ogre gives me a strange look but shakes my hand and dismisses me. I stand next to my mother and wait out the last of the straggling partygoers as they head through the receiving line. I know Chantal set me up. The back-out call at the last minute is all the proof anyone would need, but she’ll never know I gave a shit.
We’re at the head table with an empty chair that mocks me all through the pickled vegetables, overcooked meat with horseradish and mashed potatoes, and apple pie. After all I did to help her. This is what I get in return. She’s now officially dropped from my existence. Her loss.
My dad stands up at the podium and dread sticks to my skin like a wet T-shirt. He’s accepting an award for fighting the good union fight, for not backing down under extreme pressure from management, for giving generously to his brotherhood. His speech is excruciatingly boring, not because I’m absent from his remarks, but because he’s talking about hard work and sacrifice. The two words that he attempts to hammer into my head. He also appears to forget his wife. Doesn’t even thank her for her support all these years. My mother shreds a tissue. I snake my headphone into my right ear, turn the volume up high and smile, as the music takes me far away.
Chantal
Fallout.
It’s been a week since I backed out on the date and Will still ignores me. I expected him to get mad. I thought he’d shout and I’d defend myself. I thought I’d hang up, justified. By accident, judging from the sounds of the muffled voices, I witnessed the fallout.
I heard his mother’s voice, “your father will be so disappointed.” And I knew what she didn’t say; I am so disappointed. In you. I couldn’t listen any longer. It’s been bothering me ever since. Except when I remember what he did to me.
Will doesn’t suspect anything. If it weren’t for the daily cake delivery, I probably wouldn’t look in his direction; wouldn’t notice that he’s reached maximum tan, and that he is the king of cool with his sunglasses and a surrounding bevy of fans. I suspect he realizes it’s the cake they come for; because now he strives for creativity and the unexpected in the photo challenges. While I’d hoped they would embarrass him more, his popularity has spiked. This doesn’t upset me. Will is going to do a belly flop from the high dive of his ego someday soon. The cooler he thinks he is, the better. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
You musn’t beat yourself up. You’ ll take all the fun out of it. Nigella’s voice is inside my head again. Instantly I feel sunshine spreading through me even though it’s dark outside. I’m inspired tonight by a cake she made in her “Weekend Wonders” show.
The KitchenAid motor buzzes and the whisk attachment forces air into heavy cream, whips it until it drops in soft peaks. I add eggs and whip them until the color is light and consistent. The sugar is next, followed by the vanilla. I mix only until incorporated. Today’s cake is a repeat, but so popular it deserves a second date, this time with the glamour treatment. Instead of seven-minute frosting, this whipping-cream cake is going to the cake salon for an updo. Honey buttercream with chocolate toffee crunch highlights.
I sift flour, salt, and baking powder in a second bowl and add it to the cream and eggs. I slip my spatula between the back of the bowl and the whipped eggs and cream, keeping a slight angle (approximately 30 degrees) as I slide it along the bottom and up the side facing me. I fold my wrist over when I reach the top, allowing the creamy lemon mixture to fall onto the dry ingredients. I repeat, and in five folds the mixture is homogeneous but not deflated. Exquisite. Two cake pans. A 350-degree oven and a timer set to twenty-five minutes. The cake is finis!
With my favorite pink Sharpie I add the cake to the list:
1. Crush on You
2. Epitome of Refinement Chocolate Cake
3. I Like Him, I Like Him A Lot Cake
4. The Puppy Love Cake
5. Bliss is You and a Banana Cake
6. I’m Coconuts for You
7. Spice Up Your Life Cake
8. No Fear of the Devil’s Food Cake
9. Smile at the Sunshine Lemon Cake
10. Chips O’ Joy Cake
11. Go for It! Surf the Mint
12. Peach for the Stars
13. Bee Yourself Honey Cake
Lovely, darling, lovely.
I knew you’d think so, Nigella. Her voice always comes at the right times, helping me to avoid panic. Speaking of panic.
I check my phone. It’s 10:55 P.M. I turn the radio up and I’m not disappointed.
“Hello cats and kitties, dogs and puppies, here we are again. Another smokin’ hot day at the hill—and another gift from the Cake Princess who wants us to Peach for the Stars. Five-star effort, Princess. Two more cakes and we’ll know who you really are. Check out the Facebook page for details. And Cake Princess, this is for you.”
Our song, “Sugar, Sugar” comes over the airwaves and I tingle with interior firefly lights. His goofy radio commentary is new to me, but I like a guy who doesn’t mind showing a little bit of his inner nerd. I think it holds promise for a relationship. With me.
I have always thought that my future one and only would be good looking but not rock star, enjoy documentaries about science but not WWF, and listen to music that has intelligible lyrics not that screamo punk. Mitch, I think, scores high on my list of requirements. I might be sending these cakes to Will, but Mitch has become the hidden object of my baking affection.
The song ends. It’s time for the buttercream. Over simmering water, I whisk together the egg whites and sugar until the sugar is no longer grainy and move the mixer bowl to the KitchenAid. I beat on medium speed until the meringue has cooled and doubled. I add butter chunks that measure a total of one and a half cups of unsalted butter and beat until smooth and thick. Nearly ten minutes later, I add lemon juice, vanilla, and the feature ingredient, honey. I pull out the paddle attachment and lick the sides. Oh … it’s heavenly, a perfectly rounded flavor of sweet and fat that is decadence defined. My mother would die if she knew what she’s missed out on her whole life.
I’m proof that baking and eating the occasional piece of cake does not make one fat. In fact, I’ve lost ten pounds since school let out despite my taste tests. Not that my mother has noticed. She’s been distracted in a way I’ve never seen. My dad assured me over the phone that their relationship is intact. “The new job is stressful,” he said. “Just be patient. I’ll be home on Friday.” I trust my dad—he said he’d keep the baking at the office a secret from my mom for as long as he could—and I’m glad he’s on his way home, though I am concerned that he’s arriving on the night of the hockey tournament. He’ll insist on coming; he’ll say it’s a great family event. If I’m lucky, my parents will leave before the Cake Princess is revealed.
My changed mother is at the office early and all day. We only meet at dinner. While I clean up the kitchen, she closets herself in her room with a book and a sleeping pill. When she’s asleep she doesn’t hear my bike slip out of the garage to go to Dad’s office to bake. Not that I’m complaining. Not really. I thrive on structure and routine, especially when it’s self-imposed.
You have every reason to be supremely happy, Nigella reminds me.
Yes. It’s true. Two cakes from now, I will be crowned the Cake Princess.
A title you are deserving of, rest assured.
“Thanks, Nigella.” I press play on the Nigella video on my laptop; it’s sort of like having her watch over me as I construct my cakes. I slide one layer cake onto a cardboard circle and spread the top with the honey buttercream. I sprinkle on smashed-up chocolate-covered toffee candy bars and add the second cake layer. Now comes the dance of buttercream
along the sides and top.
Nigella talks to the camera and she’s so real. Herself. That’s what I want to be: the real me. I haven’t even started making my video yet; I’m so terrified of looking … stupid. What if stupid is the best I can do?
The thing about the twenty minutes following the hockey tournament is that it’s going to be big. Literally. On the big screen. All me. In a video where I have to explain myself. I’ve got a whole lot of people to be worried about.
If Mitch thinks that I am secretly hot for Will, he might not be interested in my subtle flirtations. My mother might ban any future baking. Jillian might be mad I’ve kept her in the dark. Even Annelise, the queen of publicity and perhaps the biggest fan of the Cake Princess, may want to Tweet obscenities about me when she realizes that I’ve tricked her, too. I’m now at 759 friends, four of them, inexplicably, from Iceland; that’s a lot of people to piss off. I’m hoping the crowd will be asking themselves how it is possible that socially awkward Chantal has baked her way into our hearts? Not, how could we let ourselves be tricked by a strange girl who figured out how to bake a cake. This is serious. It could go wrong. Very wrong.
“What I recommend,” Nigella says on the computer screen in front of me, “is that you take the weight off your slingbacks, relax, and eat.”
I hear you, Nigella. I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I eat. And I breathe.
Parker
Negotiation.
It’s a puzzle I’m trying to solve, sliding tiles into a frame to create a picture. One shift creates the need for more moves.
We were driving home from the lake this afternoon. The Hat Trick and I were reviewing plays while the Double Minor told me their worst knock-knock jokes. Then I realized that Jillian was silent. Distracted. I tried to remember the last time she initiated a conversation with me, or the last time I really kissed her and she kissed me back. I waited until the boys climbed out of the van and ran into the house.
Wicked Sweet Page 21