Wicked Sweet

by Merrell, Mar'ce

  He runs his finger through the icing, licks it off his finger, nods his head. Oh, what does it matter if he thinks I’m weak? Maybe, right now, I am.

  “Okay. Go around front, I’ll open the door,” I tell him.

  “I want to come in through the window.” He sets the cake down and I see he’s dragged an old ladder from the shed. He props it against the house.

  I almost tell him that it doesn’t make sense; that he could drop the cake, but I keep my mouth shut. The guy is made to be Prince Charming. It’s just who he is.

  The cake is the absolute best. The name, though, Cheetahs Always Get Caught, makes me think Annelise really could be the Cake Princess. She’s in animal prints every other day and she has a message to send to Parker.

  I wonder two things:

  1. Could she bake a cake that tastes this delicious?

  2. What would she think of Parker secretly bringing it to me?

  “Isn’t Will going to be ticked off that we’ve eaten a big chunk of the cake you’re supposed to give him?” I ask as I fork my last bite.

  “He owes me.”

  I run my finger along the plate, squeegeeing the last of the frosting. “I really needed this.”

  “Great. Great.” He studies me. He motions for me to close the space between us. I move next to him so that we’re sitting on the floor, shoulders touching, with our backs against my bed. I hope that this is enough, because right now, that’s all the contact I want.

  “Jillian …”

  From the way he says my name, I know I’m doomed. He wants more than a shoulder against a shoulder.

  “I feel like I’ve done something wrong but I don’t know what it is.”

  I’m at a loss to say anything, but eventually I come up with some words to fill the silence. “That sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t mean to be flippant, but it’s just, I guess, I understand what you’re saying.” I do, don’t I? Isn’t this one of my complaints about my mother, I never know how I’ve screwed up.

  “So what can I do about it?”

  “You have to communicate. Set it down in point form. Make it clear.” I visualize the crumpled list wedged under my mattress.

  “Okay.” He reaches for my hand and turns his body enough so that he can watch my face. Hold eye contact. “I really, really, really, really like you. Like, I really do.”

  I hold eye contact for as long as I can but the more reallys he throws in the harder it gets, like looking at a bright sun that I need to turn away from. “Articulate.” I smirk. His bottom lip shakes a bit and I realize that I’ve gone too far. I punch his shoulder. “I’m kidding.”

  “You win. My apologies.” He punches me back. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”

  It’s the words you win that swing a punch into my stomach. He’s putting up with me.

  “We need to start over,” I say. “I am not tough. I don’t normally punch boys and I apologize for the sarcasm. I have never had a boyfriend. And I am scared. And not because there was one too many reallys.”

  While I sneak in deep, cleansing breaths, he tells me that from the beginning he’s wanted to date me and that he’s sorry he got so focused on the boys and their hockey skills.

  “They’re more important,” I say. “Everyone knows that. They’re so little and vulnerable.”

  “Wait. Not more. Just as important. They’re so noticeable, but, Jillian, you are, too. You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re beautiful, and, sometimes, like on our first date, when you looked at me, I saw past the puzzle of you and I saw you.” He runs his first finger along the inside of my elbow, makes tracks to my wrist and back again, and I let him. He makes eye contact and I don’t look away. I don’t look away even when I think we might resemble a cheesy romance movie.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “I saw goodness and … a survivor.”

  “Right.” I laugh.

  “No. Really. A girl who isn’t going to give up because her nail broke or she didn’t get a free pass to the movies. You say you’re not tough. I don’t think that at all. Not at all.”

  He leans toward me. His fingers lift my chin. Oh … it is a cheesy movie scene. I give in. To him. To the kiss. To the feeling that it’s okay to let him get close. It’s good to be me, at least for now.

  Will

  Cheetah?

  Cheetah? She thinks I’m a cheetah. As in fast and sleek. All those extra workouts I’ve been doing must be working. If Annelise isn’t the Cake Princess, than I am a doorknob. Maybe this will all be worthwhile in the end.

  I won’t deny that I was a little ticked when Parker showed up with a cake that had two pieces carved off—needed for his girlfriend emergency. And enough with the photos. Today I had my face painted as a cheetah and I had to pounce in front of the WELCOME TO OUR CITY sign. I’m drunk on chocolate cake and my imminent power player position.

  I didn’t share much of the cake today, because it was my last one, and because the rug rats were apparently resting up before the big game. In my false drunken state, I weave up the path to my house.

  I find my mother in the kitchen, ask her to sit at the table. I pull out two plates, two forks, and a knife to slice the remaining cake in half. “You’re going to love this,” I say. “For a whole shitload of reasons.”

  I show her the note from my secret admirer, I tell her the story of a guy who has become the most popular boy at the beach, the one who is surrounded each morning by dozens of kids, the friend to all who is not only going to be publicly hailed as the object of the Cake Princess’s affection, but who will begin his campaign for class president with the most stunning girl beside him.

  “This is delicious cake,” she says. “How do you think she got those spots on there? You don’t think Chantal’s baking this cake?”

  I stare at my mother.

  “I guess I don’t know her that well, but she seems like the kind of girl …”

  “Who would stand me up for a date and be my secret admirer? I don’t think so.”

  My mom dives her fork into the next bite. “All of the cakes were this good?”

  I ignore her. Instead I focus on what I want. “You guys, you and Dad, you need to be at the hockey game Friday night. I want Dad to see it happen.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Will. Your dad isn’t into all that flashy stuff.”

  “He is when it’s about him. They had a head table, Mom. A head table. He gave a speech.”

  “Right. After twenty-seven years of service. I just, I think you might be trying too hard.” She’s got that look of pity on her face and I want to hold up a mirror to show her what she looks like.

  “You could come. Without him.”

  She looks up, only for a second though. “I don’t know.”

  What was I thinking? I should have known she’d choose him over me, again. I don’t know what to say now, so I eat cake. And so does she.

  Chantal

  More Than a Ride.

  Friday morning I wake up shivering, my armpits prickling with anxious sweat. A million hammers pound my head in simultaneous Morse code. SOS. Only one thing can help me: cake. Baking cake. A whole lot of it.

  I call on Nigella but she must be busy this Friday morning making eggs in a cup with toast soldiers for her Bruno and Mimi. My own mother is still in bed so I’m on my own. And I know where to go. The grocery store. Then, the kitchen.

  I’m outside the store, next to the bike rack, attempting to problem solve how I will transport an entire grocery cart of baking ingredients on two wheels when an unlikely heroine in a shining convertible stops next to me.

  “Hey. You need a ride?” It’s Annelise. She’s wearing a hot pink top with PRINCESS emblazoned in sequins, white short shorts, and huge sunglasses that match the white convertible, all accessorized with a leopard print scarf.

  “Out for another test drive?” I don’t even have a sneer in my voice, because Annelise is the sort of girl who grows on you. Pretty. Ric
h. As harmless as the stuffed Bengal tiger riding shotgun on her dash.

  “It’s mine, now. I was supposed to get it after my senior year, but my dad bought it early.”

  Shoppers swerve around the car and stare at her. “Hey, get in.”

  “I’ve got my bike …”

  “Can you lock it up and get it later?”

  “I think I’m going to need it.” I reach for my grocery bags.

  “Well, at least it’s clean.” She opens her car door and before I can decide that I don’t want her help, she’s picking up my grocery bags. When I carefully put the bike in the backseat I notice sugar and pastry flour labels are clearly visible. How many more clues is it going to take before Annelise knows who I really am? Crud. I decide I have no choice but to play it cool. She doesn’t say anything about the groceries though, not even when we’re driving out of the parking lot.

  “You know, Chantal, I’ve been thinking. Parker is just too complicated. Like with the kids and all that? He’s like Mr. Mom and he’s sixteen. I want to have fun and travel around the world. And honestly?” She turns to me for so long I almost beg her to keep her eyes on the road. “Don’t tell anyone I said this because they’d think it was shallow, but I don’t want to wreck my figure by having kids. I mean, I work hard at this, you know, over an hour a day.” I nod. I sort of respect her attitude; I spend time baking cakes or studying, therefore I’m a great baker and I get A’s. Annelise wants to be fit. Different goals, same persistence. “Do you get that?” she asks.

  “I totally get it,” I say. “You need to know who you are before you become part of a couple.”

  She stops at a stop sign. Turns to me again. I can see my reflection in her big sunglasses and I look almost like I belong in a convertible. Relaxed. “You know that’s smart. Oprah smart.” I laugh and she does, too, and it feels strangely comfortable. As if because we think something good about each other we can hang out, even if we’re not the same in other ways. “Okay, where to? It looks like you’ve got some work to do.” Annelise is the one playing it cool, she shoulder checks and keeps driving.

  As I give her the directions to my dad’s office I wonder how much she knows.

  “You know,” she says as we’re transferring the groceries from the car to the back step. “That Cheetah cake yesterday had my name all over it.” She fluffs her leopard print scarf. “And another thing, the Cake Princess delivered her first cake to me. Because she liked me. Every person who got a cake was nice, even if they weren’t all popular. She didn’t have to do that.”

  “Interesting …”

  She waits for me to say something more, but I outlast her.

  “You know, if I could talk to the Cake Princess I’d tell her something.” She leans in close to me.

  “Yeah …”

  “I’d tell her that one of the most popular girls in the school has her back.” She points to herself. “No matter what Will does.” She backs away, makes a 90-degree turn on her leopard print heel, and continues her catwalk to her car.

  Jillian

  The Debate.

  I hear the boys return from breakfast and my mother yell at them to go outside and play. Doors slam shut.

  “Jillian,” my mother shouts. “I need to see you in the kitchen.”

  I stop my daydreaming about Parker, check my reflection in the mirror, and reach for my bedroom door. A final debate with my mom is coming.

  My mother is in the kitchen. “I’m going to get my hair cut, get a new skirt for tonight.” She slurps loudly from her coffee. “I’ll be in the stands cheering those little monsters on. Why didn’t you tell me they were so good? Travis says a talent scout is going to be watching and, by Christ, they’ve sold two hundred tickets.”

  I wonder where Keith is, if he’s working or if she’d kicked him out last night. I’d like to know the chances of him appearing suddenly to take her side, but I decide to hope for luck. “Mother.” I wait for her to give me her complete attention. “I don’t want you to come,” I say.

  Her response is quick. “I am their mother,” she says. “I am your mother.”

  We’re within throwing distance of a coffee cup or a jar of mayonnaise. I’ve been waiting for something to send me over the edge and now I’m looking over a cliff, prepared to jump. I made the phone call after Parker left. Everything is in place for what I am about to do.

  “You are a mother in name only.” I recite the second point on the list that remains under my mattress. I remain calm. Calm. Calm.

  She begins her counterattack. “You don’t talk to me that way,” she hisses. She reaches for my wrists to shake me until I beg her to stop, but I know this trick of hers. I move out of her reach until she stops grabbing for me. I wait for her rant to end. “Don’t you judge me.” She throws her coffee cup and it shatters in the sink.

  “In fact.” I take a steadying breath, remembering bullet point number seven. “This isn’t about you. It’s about my brothers. And me. I’ve got some people coming to help you.”

  She relaxes a bit, leans against the counter, thinking I’m on her rescue team. It’s always about her. She doesn’t consider that the boys or me are in need of saving.

  “They’ll be here for dinner tomorrow night. They’re bringing it with them. Roast chicken. Gravy. Mashed potatoes. The boys’ favorite.” I nearly choke as I’m saying it because even though I hardly know my grandma, she cared enough to offer dinner and she wanted to know what the boys loved to eat. She said it would make it easier for them. She said it was the boys, the boys and me, who were most important.

  “You got Parker paying for a maid and a cook?” My mother laughs. I think it might be the last time I hear her mean sarcastic laugh.

  “It’s Grandma and Grandpa. They’re staying here to help with the boys.” I watch her face change as the reality sets in; this was the grandma who brushed my hair in the hotel room, the one my mother ran away from and then refused to talk to after we moved into the house on Columbia Street.

  “As in my mother and father?” My mother’s face is pale. Nothing is funny now. She erupts in a story of self-pity. She tells me how they oppressed her as a child, how their rules wrecked her self-confidence, how they expected too much and gave too little. “What makes you think you can invite them here, without asking me?”

  I’m as prepared as I can possibly be for this question. My final argument is distilled in one sentence. “Either they come or I call child services.”

  She reacts in stunned silent rage. She takes a knife from the drawer and begins slashing the cutting board, leaving deep groves, chipping off chunks of wood. I wonder if she’s seen this in a movie; it seems so … psychotic. I back away, closer to an escape route. The longer she obsesses with the knife, the more I want to run or call for help, but I don’t. I’m numb. As if I’m stuck in this place where she has defeated me before, and it’s about to happen again. She continues her intimidation, doesn’t look up when she seethes, “Where are they going to sleep?”

  “In my room.”

  “And where are you going to sleep?”

  “With Travis until Tuesday and then I’ll be in Vancouver.”

  She continues lifting and slamming the knife on the cutting board, missing every now and then and hitting the counter instead. The knife kicks back and I wonder if it’s going to break, if the blade will snap off and hit her in the jugular. I know she’s figuring out that I’m going to see my dad. Dad 1. That I got his address from the child support checks.

  “He said you were ugly.” She stops slashing the wood. She stares me down. “And he was right. You’re ugly through and through.”

  Her words are acid that burns away the numbness, revealing cracks and rivulets of hurt. I hug myself. My only defense. I want to be good. I want to be good. The cracks expand and I’m breathing in deep, holding my breath. I recognize this mother. This was the mother I was trying to protect myself from. I remember her now; she’s the one who made the cracks.

  “That’s a lie,”
I say.

  Until this moment I don’t know the power of the words you tell yourself about who you are or the way someone else’s words can change you. Who you are is all about what you want to believe. This, I know is true: I could tame a grizzly.

  Parker

  The Hockey Tournament.

  “Check. Check. Check.” My voice echoes over the sound system and two guys Will recruited from the broadcasting class give me the thumbs-up. Heads turn toward me. The scene is smoking. Not only is it still hotter than Hades, we have got an epic crowd. They fill the bleachers the city crews set up on either side of the blocked off street, courtesy of the town council and a phone call from Annelise’s dad. We’re wearing team jerseys, too, donated by the Sporting Life. My dad and mom take front row seats in the VIP grandstand with their friends.

  To calm my nerves I’ve got my iPod playing in one ear. When the music kicks in, my adrenaline pumps and the nerves smooth out. I hold up the earphone to the mic, blasting the beats.

  “Something for the people!” I shout. “In the place to be!”

  Will pumps his fist and before long everyone is into it. Everyone younger than twenty anyway.

  “Hey O!” I holler.

  “Hey O!” The crowd calls back. I look over at my mom. She’s swaying her arms with the crowd.

  This is the best part of being popular. You have the power to get a whole crowd liking something you like. I know the party belongs to me.

  “Dude.” Will pulls me away from the microphone. “You know what this is? Flying without a parachute! This is our night, man.”

  We punch fists and I make the announcements.

  “We’re here for two reasons today: to support our kids in sport and to raise money for Read On, the Africa Literacy Project. We want kids to play hockey!” The boys whistle and shout from the players’ bench. “And we want kids all over the world to have access to books!”

  Will steals the mic. “Reading is fundamental!” He pumps his arms to get the crowd into it and they follow along. The power trip is off the charts. Finally, the noise settles.