Wicked Sweet (23 page)

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Authors: Mar'ce Merrell

BOOK: Wicked Sweet
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Batons?
I
t’s hotter than two rats making out in a wool sock, but Team Popular forces me to stay on the hill. Annelise’s texting has convened more than thirty kids, all of them waiting for the next cake. And if it it doesn’t show I’ll be the guy whose secret admirer dumped him. My head pounds and the five bottles of water I’ve consumed don’t seem to be helping. You can understand why I want to go for a swim. Since the Facebook announcement that the Cake Princess will show us who she really is at the hockey tournament, plans have gone guano.
“Two cakes,” I told Annelise, “that’s it.” I tried to keep my eyes focused on her face instead of her chest to show that I was sincere. “You need to slow the chuck wagon down.”
“Will.” She set her phone down to add another layer of coconut oil to her skin. “Enjoy the ride. This is as close to the paparazzi as you’re ever going to get.”
Even with my sunglasses on and my back against the towel I can feel the rush of the crowd when someone we know starts up the hill. The whispers start. Is she carrying something? No, it’s Chantal. No cake.
Chantal. I ease myself up to sitting. Last night’s convo with her definitely went sideways. I wasn’t so drunk I don’t remember it. And
what I remember was her frickin’ attitude. As if she thought she was better than me.
“You didn’t get the cake, either?” Annelise asks.
“Cake?” Chantal raises her eyebrows.
Annelise reminds Chantal of the biggest event that’s happened since the forest fire that got us all evacuated three years ago. “And … the Cake Princess is going to show us who she really is at the hockey tournament. It’s on Facebook. Everyone is going to be there.”
“Fun.” Chantal says. She glances at me and I know she’s thinking that I don’t deserve to be the object of some girl’s affection. She’s thinking she wishes the secret admirer would end it all by Tuesday so she wouldn’t have to go out with me. Whatev. She owes me.
Now Jillian, Parker, and the rug rats join us for the lunch break and all those boys spread throughout the crowd acting like they belong here with the high-fives and the hockey talk. I revert to my behind-the-shades and on-the-towel pose, hoping no one can tell that I’m as jumpy as a rabbit being chased by a dog through a bowling alley.
Annelise’s phone pings and the five or six people nearest me go silent.
Maybe this is it
, I hear one of them whisper. “It” is the message that reveals who has the cake and why they haven’t gotten here yet. We wait. Finally, Annelise speaks, “Guys? Quiet everyone. Quiet. Oh. Wow. This is unbelievable. Okay. Listen to this.”
Annelise loves to be the center of attention. Obviously that’s why she’s baking all these cakes. “As you know, my dad is on the tourism board. He’s been talking to the mayor and some other people about our summer project. And they’re going to turn it into a tourism
event
. We can have it downtown. They’re going to block off the street and bring in floodlights from the high school and bleachers for the fans. The Dairy Barn is going to sell ice cream. And that’s just the beginning.”
Conversations erupt. Some girl four people away from me says she’ll organize a halftime show with baton twirlers. It’s hockey, I want to yell. There is no halftime. My head pounds. I need water. Lots of
water. Some towns have strawberry festivals or theater days or regattas on the lake. Ours has a charity hockey tournament organized by high school kids and some crazy girl baking cakes. I know I’m supposed to be celebrating. Parker’s over there giving me the nod like I told you this was going to be great.
For real? This could be
disaster.com
. I’m supposed to be happy about this, my chance at class president and Annelise, but I’m thinking if the secret admirer has backed out, that wouldn’t be so bad. I wouldn’t get what I want, but I also wouldn’t have to suffer any embarrassment on a plan that goes wrong.
I’m composing my exit speech in my head, for the moment when it’s clear that the cake isn’t going to show.
Then the crowd’s energy shifts. The cake has arrived.
Rule Change
.
I
make sure that I’m at the back of the mass of kids as Mitch approaches. It’s hell to be sort-of-short in this situation. I have to look around people’s heads to get a clear view of the cake and Mitch. His hair is perfect today and he’s simply dressed but interesting—rolled-up jeans and a plain T-shirt and a new ball cap. He’s so … noticeably unnoticeable. I Like Him, I think, I Like Him A Lot.
“Chantal.” Jillian pulls my elbow, moves me closer to the center of the action.
“She Likes Me, She Likes Me A Lot,” Will says as he studies the card.
“Told you. Told you,” Annelise taunts.
“Strange you were right on that one. Like maybe you had some insider knowledge …”
Annelise looks at me. Ever since the day I sat in her car and gave her advice on how to get Parker back, she thinks I’ve got the answers. She doesn’t know I’m the Cake Princess, but right now she’s looking at me. At me! And everyone else does, too.
Crud.
Now … they’re going to think I’m connected. I feel a brain rush and the words form a defense line that I may regret later.
“What’s even stranger is that some girl is choosing Will to secretly admire.” I glance at him for only a second and then at everyone else. “Just kidding.”
And they all laugh. They laugh because a crowd always looks for someone to be different, someone to target. Today it’s Will.
“Bitch.” Will says it playfully, as if we’re on some MTV show, but it doesn’t feel like we’re friends. Not even close.
“Aw …” Mitch rubs Will’s shoulder. “Don’t be such a prima donna. You’re the one getting cakes. All the guys are jealous …”
Will shakes off Mitch’s hand, faces him with fists clenched. He’s going to fight Mitch?
“Let’s have some cake.” Parker pushes between them. As he whispers to Will, Jillian starts slicing the cake and Annelise pulls out the plates, napkins, and forks. Soon slivers of cake are dispersed.
“Chantal.” Mitch is next to me. The sound of his voice sends reverberations of I Like Him A Lot through me. I’m not kidding. The sound of his voice, warm and rich with resonance, reminds me of a cello being played. An Italian cello. “You have to try this cake.” He drives a fork through a corner of it, holds it up for me. “It’s amazing,” he says.
“You really think so?”
He nods as the cake tickles my tongue, the delicate crumbs dissolving so pleasantly with the frosting. “Oh. It really is good. I wonder where the Cake Princess bought it.” I hope that my lie is believable.
“This is definitely not from a mix,” Annelise says. “And I think we need to send the Cake Princess a message that she’s got to take pictures of the cakes from now on, before she delivers them. Like, I think we need to make sure no one is going to, like, copy her.” She looks at me. Again. I stare at my fingernails.
Now I have to document my deliveries. If I make any more.
“Yeah, Will only needs one girlfriend,” Parker says.
Will punches Parker in the shoulder playfully.
“Or video,” Mitch says. “She could make a video and it’ll be like the Oscars. And the winner is …” Mitch has never spoken this many words in a group. Giving him the cake must have given him permission. As if the cake said, you’re one of us.
Jillian suggests that the Cake Princess might be working alone and, therefore, creating a video would be difficult. Mitch turns to me and says that one person could not make a cake a day and have it be this great. I nod in agreement.
“Okay.” Annelise stops chewing the end of her pen. “The Cake Princess is going to make a video of herself. We’ll show it at the hockey game. I’ll let her know.”
“I’m sure you are in close contact with her …” Will leans in close enough that surely Annelise can smell his hair gel.
“Facebook.”
“Right.” Will sits back, defeated.
I can’t object. They’ll suspect me. Maybe I should just tell them now. It’s me. I’m the one. Then I won’t have to make a movie or keep this a secret from my mother. Mitch will know I like him. That will be enough, won’t it?
I start to feel a bit faint, maybe from the heat or the excitement or the sugar rush. Did I even eat breakfast today? I think I was too nervous, worried that I would miss Mitch delivering my cake. That was all I wanted today, Mitch delivering the cake.
A sudden gust of wind catches me mid-fantasy. “Chantal.” Will is next to me, squeezing out Mitch. The smells of vanilla and sugar disintegrate, overpowered by hot peppers and rotting wood. “I just wanted to talk to you about Tuesday night.”
“Uh …” I’m trapped. I can feel my skin losing the glow of happiness.
“I’ll be at your place at six thirty P.M.”
“Uh …” I already told him I’d meet him at the Moose Hall, but I can’t speak. I look at Mitch, who doesn’t hide his look of disgust. He can’t believe I’d be going out with Will. He thinks I should know better. I should know better. I hang my head.
“So. Tuesday night.” Will leans into me and kisses my cheek. “Can’t wait.”
I can’t look up. I’m trapped by a deal I never should have made and now I’m paying the price. My armpits start to sweat. No. I’m fighting back. With cake. I’ll turn Will’s humiliation right back at him.
When I finally look up, Mitch has gone and Jillian and Parker are off again with the boys to the hockey field. Annelise is throwing away the empty cardboard platter of the I Like Him, I Like Him A Lot Cake. That leaves …
Will. He’s in his usual pose, hands behind his head, sunglasses on, chin up to the sun as if it’s shining solely on him. He thinks all he has to do is sit on the hill and a cake will show up. I think it’s time for a new set of rules and a new way of doing things. He wants to be the king of the cake. Well, he’s going to have to earn the privilege. I’m the one who sets the price.
The Non-Fight
.
J
illian and I are united on this: we are here for the Hat Trick, Double Minor, and Ollie. Now that the boys know the whole town will be watching them play hockey, they’re motivated. I think the Hat Trick have convinced each other that talent scouts are going to show up because, you know, scouts are always watching seven-year-olds. And I’m not about to burst that bubble. Kids like them need hope in their lives.
About Jillian and me. We haven’t argued. She hasn’t broken down crying. She doesn’t demand that I explain where I was last night when I stood her up. We are the perfect couple, really, focused on a goal. Everything is okay, I tell myself. Extraordinary.
I don’t know why I feel so uneasy then, like I forgot to turn the lights off in my car and I’m going to go out to a dead battery. I focus on the hockey drills; this is where the improvement happens. You have to put in the time every day to build your skills, get the passing and the communication moving. Playing the games is just about seeing how the practice is working.
Dad 4?
I
blame the heat when Parker and I pull into the driveway.
I need to cool them off, I tell him.
I’m worn out, I say, from the heat.
I wouldn’t be much fun.
No, I don’t even want to watch a movie.
I stop short of saying the truth; I want to be alone. I kiss him good-bye as if nothing is wrong because, really, it’s just me. I’ll get over it. I simply need some time by myself. Normal, I tell myself, this is normal.
I send the Hat Trick to take showers, give the Double Minor a package of saltines and a DVD in my room, and set Ollie in his playpen with a bowl of O’s. I’m on my way back to the kitchen but I stop in the living room, in front of the fan. I meditate to the oscillating blades.
“Need some help?”
I follow the trail of a man’s voice.
A man with blown-back hair, wide-set eyes, and a shadow of a beard sits at the kitchen counter. He’s the sort of man you see on a Harley at a stoplight and you wonder if he’s ever been in prison. I’ve never met this guy, but I know who he is and I don’t want anything to do with him. Main resolution of this debate: this family does not need a Dad 4. This family needs a Mom 1.
“The name’s Keith.” He raises his coffee cup as if offering up a toast to me. “You must be Jillian.”
The coffee cup is mine, created for me by Chantal during our summer pottery project. I walk to the kitchen. I wish I hadn’t. This close I see that Keith is naked from the waist up. Dark hairs curl on his chest and his stomach is mostly flab free. My mother goes for the fit muscle men.
“You … uh … need something?” He sits back, sets his hands in his lap. He’s only wearing boxer shorts. His right shoulder is tattooed with notes playing across a musical staff.
Not a musician. Please, not a musician.
It would make sense for me to walk away. But I hope I can scare him off. “So … you know my mother.”
“We work together.” He runs his hands through his hair. Once. Twice. Trying to use that blown-out hair to get him out of this mess. He doesn’t look like the type who’d work at a nursing home.
“Doing what?”
“Uh … assessments … mostly.” His too-wide-set eyes remind me of a bulldog’s. What does she see in him? What does he see in her?
“You know she has seven kids, right? From three different fathers?” I count us off my fingers, Jillian, Travis, Thomas, Trevor, Josh, Stevie, Ollie.
“We’ve been friends a long time.” He winks at me and takes another sip of coffee.
What? My debating skills aren’t prepared for … what is he saying? How does he define a long time? Or friends?
“Jillian. What did you need?” My mother walks, no, she floats, toward us in her hippy dress—no bra, a loose and flowing skirt. When I’ve told her she can’t wear that dress around my friends, she says she won’t get rid of something that transforms her into a princess.
“You’re not working. And Keith’s here. Just met him.” My brain is
telling me to calm down, but my mouth is in charge. “Did they close the nursing home down? Ebola? Bird flu? Send you guys home with strict orders to avoid cavorting with the outside world?”
“Jillian.”
“I … uh … better go.” Keith walks past me to the sink with my coffee mug.
“I’ll take my mug.”
He hands it over. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”
“You can only use that excuse once around here,” I say.
“She’s a teenager,” my mother calls after him on his way to the bedroom to find his clothes. “It’s a good excuse for almost anything.”
I wash my cup in full-on-hot tap water, keep my back to them as they kiss their good-byes at the front door. Finally, my mother shuts the door.
She leans against the closed door with her eyes lowered to dreamy. She sighs. I don’t want to think about what she’s been doing with him. Today. While I’ve been taking care of her other kids.
“Couldn’t you have at least made dinner?”
“Relax. We’ll order pizza.” She grabs her hair into a ponytail.
“I don’t want pizza.”
“Chinese, then.”
“I don’t want to order.”
“No.” She wraps the elastic around her hair three times. “You want to be unhappy.”
I grip the countertop; let the sharp edges dig into me. It is happening. Again. “I don’t have a choice.”
“You have a choice, darling.” She comes toward me. Her hand trails the side of my face. She stares into my eyes, trying to hypnotize me. “You always do.”

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