Wicked Sweet
Page 26
I shake my head. “The parking lot. Where we were practicing. Maybe they’ve gone there.” I hope like hell I’m right and that nothing has gone wrong.
Chantal
Finally.
I couldn’t hold it any longer. I told Annelise that I needed to get off the stage or I was going to pee my pants. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take over. Make a run for it.” So that’s what I did. And I feel so much better.
Annelise said she had my back. And that whole class president thing was to overthrow Will. Apparently, he let Annelise in on his plan too early. Ouch. The guy has been dumped by more than the Cake Princess tonight.
I should be calm now. It’s over. Everyone knows. I shouldn’t be trembling like this, but, oh, I’ll just come right out and say it. I’ve been kissed. By Mitch.
Right before the video ended, I felt his hand on my arm and when I turned to him, I knew. I knew he wanted to kiss me. His eyes searched mine for my silent agreement. He finished his kiss and backed away, checking to see if it was okay, and I went for it. I kissed him back. It was the first time I’ve really kissed anyone and it was as addictive as chocolate buttercream licked off the beaters. We kissed full on, until my voice came over the video and we realized we’d exceeded common sense. The next thing I knew I was talking into a microphone.
I’ve got to cross through the parking lot to get back to the stage from the bathroom and that’s when I see the commotion. Jillian. Parker. The Hat Trick. The Double Minor. Baby Ollie. And Jillian’s mother. I can hear her, because she’s yelling. “I told you. I am their mother.”
“Chantal! Chantal!” I look back and my parents are waving, following after me. They are hand in hand. Joyful.
“I’ll be right back,” I call out and I break into a run for Jillian.
Jillian
Saved by a Tiara.
“Mother. You’re not driving them anywhere.” The boys are in the van, but the windows are rolled down and even though they could yell out and we’d hear them, they only listen. What other things have they heard, I wonder.
“You’re right.” She slurs the words and it’s clear she’s been drinking. I wonder how she got here, if Keith drove her. “I’ve been waiting for our chauffer. You. We’re all going home.”
“Stop. Please, stop.” Parker reminds her that the boys won the tournament, tells her we’re celebrating at the Pizza Shack. “Don’t take that away from them.”
“I’m not taking anything away from them. I am their mother. They want to be with me.” She takes a step toward Parker and he backs away. “I already told them I’d have pizza delivered. And wings. And as much pop as they wanted. They’re fine with that.”
Fine. The word causes the boys to slump defeated in the van and I can feel the knife of you-can-accept-less chipping away at my toughness. We all know (even Josh and Stevie) that our mother will never give up in a fight with me. I consider tricking her: driving her home and sneaking the boys back down here, but she’d follow. She’ll always follow. Finally, I say the only thing that comes to me, “I need help.”
“What the hell?” my mother asks. Before I can repeat myself I hear footsteps pounding from behind me. Seconds later Chantal is beside me, out of breath, her tiara in her hand. The boys wave when they see her.
“Hey boys! Congratulations! You won! I watched it all on the big screen! Did you see me?” She puts the tiara on her head.
“You’re awesome!” They yell out through the windows. “You make great cake!”
“Chantal?” My mother weaves slightly. “What are you wearing?”
“You mean my apron and pink sneakers?” She models her outfit in a surprisingly confident pose. “Or my tiara? Oh … uh … Mrs … .” (It’s obvious that she has no idea what last name my mother is currently using.) “Can the boys come with me? You guys want to make some cupcakes?”
The boys start unbuckling themselves from their car seats and Travis and Thomas have the van doors open faster than my mother can object.
Chantal
An Unlikely Heroine.
I may have freed Jillian’s brothers, but it’s only temporary. Jillian’s mother is shouting for the boys to get back in the van. It’s unfair that this woman should have so much control over this night, so much control over my friend. And I want to say it out loud, but I know my magic is used up. The last thing I want is for her to turn on me.
“Chantal!” My dad and my mother join our glum party. “We caught up to you!” I hug them and they tell me how proud they are. They ask me what I’m going to do with the rest of my night.
“Well,” I say. “I’m not sure.” I nod toward Jillian’s mother. Maybe it’s a mother’s sense about mother-daughter bonds, or maybe my mother is a mind reader in disguise, or maybe she’s reaching out to me in ways I would never expect. Whatever the motivation, my mother steps in as a problem solver. I stand open-mouthed and watch a master at work.
“Teresa.” My mother smiles at Jillian’s mother. She channels the power-mom, the woman who makes things happen. “It’s been a long time since we talked.” They move away from the group to a spot behind the van. Through the windows I see Jillian’s mother is crying on my mother’s shoulder a few minutes later.
I promise myself that later when the two of us are out collecting our rocks I’ll thank her for being in the right place at an opportune time.
Parker
Facing Will.
Jillian, Chantal, and I decide that we will take all necessary measures needed to avoid another ambush by Jillian’s mother. It seems she’ll be sleeping off her bender in Chantal’s family’s guest room, but we’ve found a secluded spot to order in pizza, wings, and all the pop we can drink. If I understood Chantal correctly, there will be cupcakes, too.
The plan is simple. Jillian and Chantal will go to her dad’s office to bake cupcakes. I’ll round up the boys and take them there a bit later. But first, I have to talk to Will.
Will
On My Way.
I find a dark doorway where I can lick my wounds while I watch everyone else celebrate. Feeling lower than a mole in his hole in January, I start inventorying what prized possessions will fit in the backpack I’ll take with me when I hitchhike out of this town. Tomorrow. My plan so far is to find a park bench to sleep until the middle of the night when I’m sure the parentals will not wake up. I’ll go to my room long enough to collect my shit and then I’m gone.
Some girl in a pink T-shirt spots me, offers me a campaign button.
“Go to hell,” I snarl. Could my life get any worse? I shove my earbuds in my ear, consult my playlist; anything with whiskey in the title sounds about right.
“Son? Son?”
I look up.
“It’s Will, right?”
Annelise’s dad, Mr. Tourism, with his side-parted hair and nerd-shaped glasses has his hand stuck out in front of me. He’s a car salesman and a high school principal all rolled into one. I grab it weakly and he shakes it hard. I grip harder. “Yes …” We let go and I pull out my earbuds. He asks if I have time to talk. I shrug.
“Will, I’ve been thinking. We need more of this.” He gestures behind him at the crowd that still fills the street. “Bringing young people and families together with the tourists. You know tourists love a small town that, well, feels like a small town. They stay longer. Spend more money. And they sometimes move here if they’ve had a great vacation. The town could use a few more taxpayers. What do you think?”
I struggle to catch up. “You mean about taxpayers?”
“Sure. And about doing more of this sort of thing.”
I’m stunned. Did he not witness my humiliation? Has Annelise plotted to twist the knife in my back so my death is more painful and obvious? I shrug.
“Look. I respect you, Will. You were willing to put yourself out there, to well, let’s face it, make a fool of yourself. And that’s not a bad thing. It shows potential. The Tourism Association could really capitalize on your success.”
“Ok
ay …” My success. Capitalize. I start to listen, really listen, and ask questions. I begin to imagine the difference the right director might make in my life. I shake hands with Mr. Tourism and agree to meet him in his office on Monday morning to discuss my future. My future.
“Parker!” I find him rounding up Jillian’s brothers. “Dude!”
“Will! Man!” We fist punch and the awkwardness of where-were-you and what-the-hell-happened-there sets in. I almost give in to it, too. I almost get mad, because I could, you know, I’m totally justified. Except. I can’t stop thinking about my future, about how, now, I have a choice.
“Dude! Mr. Tourism wants to hire me.”
“Annelise’s dad? To do what?”
“To be the youth ambassador of the town! Is that golden or what?”
“Man! That’s great. It’s great. It’s really, really, really great.” And he’s got that I’ve-got-everything-I-want smile.
And I turn mine right back at him. I am on my way back. On my way.
Chantal
The Perfect Friendship.
Baking is chemistry. It’s about incorporating air, activating gluten, and using leavening and binding agents to maintain the integrity of the air pockets. Recipes are formulas, and if you mess with a formula that works, you end up with a mess. The same can be said about a friendship. My friendship. The one with Jillian.
She sits on a counter stool, her attention far away from the kitchen and the bittersweet chocolate cupcakes that wait for frosting. Her eyes cloud with worries. I’ve heard her whole story and I understand that she’s been struggling while I’ve been off becoming a Cake Princess.
“It would have been simpler,” she says, “if we’d just done a summer project. We could have both been Cake Princesses.”
My eyes sting. She would never have agreed to bake cakes with me as a summer project. Never. “Let’s face it, that would have only happened if Parker and Will wanted to bake.” Even I’m surprised at my statement. I thought I was over her dumping me for Parker. It’s clear that becoming the Cake Princess hasn’t fixed everything. I busy myself with measuring sugar.
“And now I’m leaving for Vancouver.” Jillian continues as if I haven’t said anything. “What if my dad doesn’t like me?”
I turn the burner on for the caramel. I can’t even look at her. We should be talking about us. Why is she talking about her dad? “You’ll get over it. Eventually.”
“Chantal.” She pulls the spatula from my hand. “What’s wrong?”
Maybe I should tell her that I know all about getting over something. I could also add the real reason Parker started dating her. “Nothing.” I shrug.
“No? So is this insensitivity a piece of the Cake Princess? If that’s the case I want the real Chantal back.”
I turn the burner off. She knows so little about what I went through this summer. It all looks good now, but it was difficult. Damn hard.
“Please, tell me what’s wrong,” she says.
I choose my words carefully. “I’m glad the Cake Princess project was mine.”
She bites her bottom lip. “And …”
I could tell her how lonely it is when you are different from everyone else. I remember the scene with her mom, the last of so many that I can’t remember them all. She knows what lonely is. Isn’t that why we’re best friends? I wish I could take back my revengeful thoughts about uncovering Parker’s challenge. “Rejection won’t be the end of you,” I say. “It wasn’t the end of me.”
“But is it the end of us?”
My breath catches. “Do you want it to be?”
“I let you down. Parker’s great, but I should have handled it better.”
“True. But … I learned a lot. About being on my own.”
“You love to learn.” She smiles and the world begins to feel right again.
“I do.”
“We’re good then?”
“Yes.” I take back my spatula. “We will speak no more of it.”
We share stories as we create the caramel cream-cheese frosting. When it’s time to frost I demonstrate the technique for squeezing the bag while swirling frosting on the cupcake. “Your turn.” I hand her a second bag of frosting.
“This is so you, the perfect mix of technique and art.”
We work in concentrated silence.
When all the cupcakes are frosted Jillian asks, “Can I name them?”
“Well … you can suggest a name.” It took me hours to come up with my first name, Crush on You.
She swirls a pile of frosting into her open hand, licks it off. “You’re gonna love my suggestion.”
“Let’s hear it then.”
“Nah, maybe I’ll save it for my own cupcakes someday.”
“Jillian!”
“The Perfect Friendship.”
“Delish.”
We each bite into our signature creation. The flavor pirouettes across my tongue like no other cake I’ve made.
Acknowledgments
Many people gave time, space, and/or financial resources that helped me complete this novel.
Thanks to the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and Canada Council for the Arts, for their financial support.
Thanks to the Banff Centre for the Arts, for their scholarship and amazing mountain retreat for artists.
Thanks to my agent, Rosemary Stimola, who saw something sweet and challenged me to dig deeper.
Thanks to my wonderful editors, Liz Szabla and Kate Egan, for their patience, encouragement, and refinement.
Thanks to my writing group, Caterina, June, Debby, Naomi, and Lori, who read, discussed, and helped me to believe. To Rosa, for helping me understand.
Thanks to my family. My daughter, Callie, inspired the first sentence, and encouraged me through to the last. The boys in my life: Cameron, Chris, Gavin, Andrew, Brenan, and Ben all inspired and helped me refine the male point of view. The girls in my life: Danae and Linda kept the faith, and Ashton inspired one particular character. Thanks to Shirley and Paul, who have opened their hearts wider.
Thanks to Dennis, who could not have known when he married me what a roller coaster he’d be on, and he’s still with me.
Thanks to all the taste testers, blog readers, and lovers of cake.
WICKED SWEET. Copyright © 2012 by Mar’ce Merrell. All rights reserved. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK
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eISBN 9781466815995
First eBook Edition : April 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
First Edition: 2012