I reached for her, but she backed away. “Let’s do something tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“We haven’t seen each other outside of the lake.”
“The heat has been hell. The boys are so worn out after the hockey.” She kept looking away from me.
“You’re sure that’s all it is?”
She nodded.
I watched her. Waited. She bit her bottom lip. Sighed. Scratched at a bug bite on her ankle. Stared off at the distance.
“Look,” I said. “On Saturday night, I’m taking you out. Just you.” I told her I’d get Chloe and her friends to come to the house to watch the boys.
“Okay.” She shrugged. “I’ve got to go in.” I leaned down to kiss her and my lips landed on her cheek. I wanted to stop her again, on her way into the house, but I didn’t know what to say.
Now I’m driving home, the sunroof open and the radio on, but the music isn’t the magic it usually is. I’m two days away from my hockey tournament, the first of my altruistic innovations and I feel like an ass. Irony sucks. I stop the car at the park near my house, turn off the engine, and recline the seat. I stare up at the cloudless sky. My meditative state is interrupted by my phone. It’s Will. I consider ignoring it, but it’s Will. I need my friends. Especially now.
“Dude, the posters aren’t here.” He’s ripping through some kind of paper from the sounds of it. Annelise brought the posters for the hockey tournament, he explains, but the other posters are missing.
“What posters?”
“The ones I had printed. You know, you suggested it. WILL FOR CLASS PRESIDENT.”
Did I suggest posters? “Print some off the computer.”
“They won’t be the same. Those were posters.”
“Print fliers. We can hand them out.” Problem solving is time-consuming.
“I don’t know. I don’t know about this anymore.”
What? Now I’ve got to rah-rah Will? I can’t let this whole thing fall apart. “Listen, man. Success is in the palm of your hand. The cakes. The photos on Facebook. Your face time is skyrocketing. I’m almost jealous.”
“Right.”
“Seriously. Man, you know what? You don’t even need fliers. Annelise is going to play her video and we’re going to find out she’s been your secret admirer all along and you’re going to go up there and give her the big oh, we’re-a-cute-couple kiss and you can take the microphone and say …” I trail off at the thought of Will with Annelise. And me, without Jillian. I want to spend time with her after the hockey tournament. Lots of time. Just Jillian and me. That’s the only way to fix this.
“Say what?”
Right. I slide away another tile of the puzzle in order to concentrate. “Say, ‘Thanks. And if you want me to be class president, I’ll make sure we have cakes. Lots of cakes. After all, I’ve got the connections. ’ People will laugh. It’ll be online in minutes and once it’s viral, you’re in.”
“Perfect. So that’s what you want me to do?”
I hesitate. Now I’m in charge of his life, too? I wonder what Annelise would say if she were in on this conversation. Guilt tunnels through me, rises like a worm looking for water. “You don’t think Annelise would want to be class president, do you?”
“Dude, she’d be terrible. We’d have leopard-print tablecloths at graduation.”
“Yeah …”
“What? You don’t think it’s going to be good.”
“No. No. It’s good. All good.”
“What’s with you, dude? The rug rats wearing you down?”
“No, man. They’re great. Really great. It’s just, well, I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind in other ways. But. It’s nothing.” I hang up the phone a few minutes later, turn it off. Jillian’s right; the heat is exhausting, and I’m done. I drive the rest of the way home.
When I pull into the driveway I realize I am not as done as I’d like to be.
My mother is coming out of the house with her tennis racket and she runs to the car as I turn the engine off. I get out quickly trying to avoid her expectation, her critical eye.
“Parker. Join me for a doubles game.” She twirls her racket.
“Mom. I’m exhausted. Can I get a rain check?”
“Parker.” She waits until I’m looking right at her. “You’ve been spending too much time on this hockey tournament thing, with those little boys and that girl.”
“We’re raising money for kids in Africa,” I remind her.
“I understand that’s the good cause, but I’ve had enough of you being gone all the time. And we will be playing tennis next week.” She winks at me. “I’ve booked a villa for us at the Waves and Wishes retreat. Remember we went there when you were little?”
I want to say I’m not interested. You can’t make me. I’m not a kid anymore. Instead, I stare at her and nod.
“We’re leaving on Saturday. Two weeks in luxury. Me, you, and your dad.”
Damn. This is so like my mother, she decides what she wants to do and nothing is going to get in her way. Damn. And I’m like her. A lot. Pushing forward, like I know what’s best. During this whole hockey tournament I’ve been focused on the boys and me, and what I’m going to get out of this. No wonder Jillian’s upset. “Can we postpone it? For a week? Or a few days?”
“You know how I feel about family time, Parker.” She lays her hand on the side of my face. “You’ve had your fun with your friends.”
I try to protest.
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
This is how it is with my family. They only give you so much room to move.
Jillian
Around the Word. Wednesday Morning.
This is what I have discovered. When you are stuck in a too-small sweltering house with six little boys, you think. About your potential, and theirs. Parker is clearly the expert when it comes to hockey skills. But I worry, you know, about deciding that hockey is the best investment you can make when you’re young. Statistically speaking, few kids end up playing hockey as a career and a really small number of them are successful beyond the old-timers’ community league. And, statistically speaking, your best investment in your brain is learning to read. Kids who read at fifteen are more likely to graduate. That’s a debate fact. So I’m making my investment in my brothers. Post-it Notes, smelly markers, and a game.
“Living room is done!” Travis shouts.
“Living room is done!” Thomas echos.
“Living room is done!” Then Trevor.
I hold my fingers to my lips as I walk in the room. I remind them that Mom is sleeping and we’ve got to be quiet, but cannot help squealing at what I see. “Oh, it’s perfect!”
The Hat Trick have created their first Word Room. Pink, green, yellow, and purple Post-it Notes label every piece of furniture, the walls, the stir-fry of odds and ends in the living room.
Couch
Window
Dirty laundry
Cracker crumbs
Television
“It’s time for the Around the Word in Nine Minutes!” I proclaim. “Everyone line up!” Their mouths, still smeared with jam and peanut butter from breakfast, spread into wide smiles, teeth and gums showing. Baby Ollie jumps, jumps, jumps. I lift him out of the playpen and he gets in line behind Stevie. They wait for me to throw my arm down, for the race to begin. I start and then I stop. Their eyes are on me. On me. Holding my gaze. They love this. They love me. Isn’t that worth everything? I drop my arm and the boys begin the tour.
Thomas and Trevor lead the Double Minor from one sticky note to the next. Travis buddies up with baby Ollie. The Hat Trick says the word, the Double Minor and Ollie repeat it.
Old pizza crust
Little cars
Video game
We move as a flock from word to word, branching into the kitchen. Thomas opens the refrigerator.
Milk
Jam
Penis butter (Thomas! I take that one off and crumple it up.)
The
cupboards reveal more words:
Stuffing
Rice
Noodles
Ketchup
We are an amoeba that grows with the words we eat. We spread out, searching for more, the Double Minor hand in hand, trying to sound out words on their own. Ollie is our pseudopod tail, dragging his blankie behind us. We blob down the hallway (carpet, wall, picture, hole) to the end. After a stop in the bathroom (poop, pee, diaper, stinky) we all gather in the area outside our bedrooms. The end of the Around the Word Tour. The beginning of quick, get dressed, we’re going to play hockey. But, they aren’t ready. Travis, Thomas, and Trevor each have Post-it Note pads and they continue to write down words. The boys’ names on their doors, my name on mine.
Love. Travis writes that word and sticks it on my door.
I feel warm now, and comfortable, and important. Valued. In a way I haven’t for a while. This is my project. I’ve decided what the boys need. Words. I want to grab Post-it Notes and write down important words for them. Stick them where they can never lose them.
Freedom
Independence
Responsibility
Pride
Courage
Kindness
Compassion
Love
Hope
They’re finished writing words now, and it’s time to move and instead of an amoeba, they decide we are a pack. A pack of hungry wolves. I follow the pups through the house. I howl in a ghostly whisper. Baby Ollie grips my leg and slows me down. I almost miss the moment.
The boys are in front of Mom’s bedroom door and before Travis or Trevor or Thomas can tell the Double Minor the words, Josh points at the first word and says, “Mom.” Stevie points at the second and says, “Door.”
The Hat Trick explodes in a wolf pack/hockey chant celebration with high-fives and howls. I join in, too, I can’t help it. The first day. The first day. And they are already reading. I hug them and the Hat Trick let me hug them and we know, we know so clearly, that we are a team. A word team. But our celebration ends.
“What the hell?” My mother’s voice comes through the door even before it swings open. We back away from the heat of her words. “You know I worked a double shift that ended last night, don’t you? And what the hell is this? A crime scene? What are you doing with them, Jillian? Playing CSI?”
“We’re teaching Josh and Stevie how to read.” Travis sticks his jaw out and I wonder if he understands the word courage even better than I do. He pulls Josh and Stevie in front of him, makes them stand in front of her. “They know this word means door and this one says Mom.” She tilts her head at Travis, does a quick survey of her audience, me included. I almost think she’s going to shut her door and let us alone. But I am wrong. Again.
“Oh whoopity dippity do!” She throws her arms up and gives a fake sort of smile. The Hat Trick are still gullible, they think she really is happy at their genius. “Give me that marker.” Travis hands the Sharpie to her. Now they think she’s joining in their game, that somehow she’s changed.
She turns her back to the boys and she writes on the dingy white paint of her bedroom door. The boys are open-mouthed. I grounded them all two months ago when I caught them drawing on their bedroom wall.
Her letters are big and looping. And she’s laughing. Giggling at how funny she is. I’m thinking oh, no, now she’s going to be creating a permanent chalkboard of I-love-you-messages-to-Mom on her bedroom door. That’s so like her. Take anything good around here and make it about her.
Finally she’s finished and she backs away. The boys’ eyes widen with expectation.
“I’ll give you twenty dollars if you teach them to read that by the end of the day.”
Inside the outline of a huge heart, she’s written a message. She underlines each word with her hand as she reads it out loud.
“Shut The Hell Up.”
She laughs like it’s really funny. Because it is, to her. And she holds out her hand for a high-five from the Hat Trick. Thomas responds weakly. Travis and Trevor turn away from her. “Hey, get back here. Travis. Trevor.” She forces them to high-five her.
“Mom,” I say. “That isn’t very funny.”
“Jillian, you and I have different senses of humor.” She takes me on. “I accept that you’re boring. You’ll have to accept that I’m not.” She laughs again and holds up her hand for more high-fives.
“It’s stupid.” Travis sets his hands on his waist, refuses to play along with her I-love-me-and-so-do-you game.
“Stupid,” Trevor echoes.
“Stupid.” Then, Thomas.
“Stupid.” Josh.
“Stupid.” And Stevie.
“Stoof-eh.” Even baby Ollie tries it.
“Get out.” She glares at me. She adds a fake smile. In her dirty bathrobe and her wild hair I see her again, and again, the real her: nasty and mean under a veneer of sarcasm. She is not the hippy mother who is a little scattered. That’s just a part she plays. She is more the character from a bad sitcom that no one believes is actually a mother, only a placeholder for cruel jokes.
She opens her bedroom door and Keith lolls in the background in his dopey plaid boxer shorts. He looks at me like a sheepdog, with a drooping moustache that he’s been growing ever since he saw the pictures of Dads 1, 2, and 3. They all had facial hair because my mother finds it manly. I hope my real dad is a grown-up now with a clean-shaven face; I imagine he’s moved on to all sorts of cosmopolitan choices by now.
I wonder what made my dad stop thinking about saving me and start thinking about escaping my mother.
Chantal
Cheetahs Always Get Caught.
Folding my dry ingredients into a dark chocolate cocoon of batter showers my brain with a tiara of sparking synapses.
I read the line twice. I try to say it out loud spontaneously, Nigella style.
Crud.
It’s like I’m talking with a mouthful of M&M’s and that thing I’m doing with my hair, tossing it over my shoulder, it’s too … not the real me. I try the line again, adding in pauses, trying to be Nigella instead of just acting like Nigella.
Better. This time I don’t even touch my hair.
“Darling, you’re brilliant.” Nigella’s voice arrives at just the right time.
“Oh, you’re here. Listen to this …” I start my introduction from “Hello, Chantal the Cake Princess here,” but my pace is fast and my gait wobbly. I gain confidence through the bit about how Will is my target and then, I lose my momentum. It feels too long, too constructed, too complicated, like a cake with contradictory flavors. The white cake, vanilla frosting version is this:
I detest Will. With good reason.
I baked him some cakes.
He thought someone liked him.
No one does.
The end.
I try to rework the two paragraphs I’ve got about Will, but they fall flat, every time. I thought this part would be easy, but I start in on that paragraph and I begin to feel ill. It must be my allergies coming back. Eventually, I move on.
I try to channel my inner Nigella again. “The final cake is a fabulous example of overindulgence. Much like my inspiration Nigella Lawson, I am a more-is-more kind of person. What could be more hedonistic than deep dark chocolate cake, layered with the finest ganache, spread with chocolate Italian buttercream and decorated with a daring dash of Cheetah spots. In the world of cake, Cheetahs Always Get Caught.”
I glance up at the clock: 11:32 A.M. The Bee Yourself Honey Cake will have made its debut at the lake—it’s probably gone—by now. My mother will be going on her lunch break and will call my cell phone before she remembers the note I left her this morning that my cell is dead. My dad will know that I can be reached at his office only if there is an emergency. Jillian and her brothers are all engaged in practicing for tomorrow’s big tournament. I should be motivated to produce this video.
Revenge, darling, I imagine Nigella’s wise words, is only useful to get you started. If
you’ve given in to it, you may spoil the taste of every cake you bake from now on.
“Nigella.” I need her to listen to me. “It’s all about revenge. I can’t separate the two. Not now. I am the Cake Princess because I’ve set Will up.”
Cinderella’s fairy godmother warned her about midnight …
“But Cinderella was trying to get Prince Charming. I am trying to get rid of a frog. Evil Will.”
Darling … her voice persists in my brain.
“Enough, Nigella. I am in charge. Stop.” I command it and it is done. As if I were a real princess. I survey my ingredients and implements: white and pink bowls of measured flour, sugars, baking soda, baking powder, eggs, melted unsweetened chocolate, and buttermilk. Metal mixing bowls, whisks in two different sizes, the mixer with the paddle attached, a pink spatula, my prepared cake pans, and, finally, my pink gloves.
I stretch my pink dishwashing glove, trimmed in fur over my fingers. It’s crafted from materials I found in the hardware and scrapbooking store. Shimmery stick-on letters spell CAKE on one glove and PRINCESS on the other. I press the record button on the camcorder and rush to the stove. I turn the knob slowly to 350 degrees. The shot over, I run back, rewind, check it. Nope. Not perfect. I have to do four takes to get it right.
I set up for the second shot: the whisk is in the gloved hand. Hold it upright. Two seconds. Whisk. Ten seconds. Eggs blend. I lift the glass cup toward the camera, showing off the beaten eggs. Drop the whisk back in the measuring cup. Take off the pink glove. I race to the camera and press pause. I rewind fifteen seconds. Play.
It’s not perfect. You can see my arm, and I’ve stuck my other hand in the picture, and I’ve forgotten to put on the second pink glove. I rewind. Pull on the gloves. Move to record. Again. Again. Again.
On my fifth take I whisk vigorously to add more action in the shot. I lift the measuring cup. The shot is finished. The take is perfect until the view of the eggs: black strings from the faux fur trail through the lemony goo.
Wicked Sweet Page 22