Authors: Mar'ce Merrell

Wicked Sweet (25 page)

BOOK: Wicked Sweet

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The Ten-Pound Tumor
.

I
nside 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 this 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
.

I
t’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
.

I
t’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.

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.

BOOK: Wicked Sweet

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