100 Days of Cake (2 page)

“I got—” I start, but then I just nod, and he follows me into the soupy air that is Coral Cove this summer. Motioning for Elle to pop the rear door, I unlock Old Montee—this green Murray Monterey Beach cruiser that my mom used to ride around when she was growing up here—from a handicap-parking sign. Alex hoists it over his shoulder and slides it into the back of the Jeep. Even though I'm still pretty twisty about tonight, I take a minute to appreciate just how easily he lifted my bike. Alex is a little on the short and slender side, and I had no idea he was that strong. . . . Duly noted.

In the driver's seat, Elle spins around and introduces herself, her dishwater-blond curls still in springy ringlets, despite the heat and lack of animal-tested or ozone-destroying hair products. “And I'm guessing you're Alex.”

“Guilty as charged.” He gives that crooked grin again. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Same. You need a ride?”

“Naw, I got a car.” Alex gestures toward his Ford Fiesta with the rusted undercarriage. “But it looks like I'll be seeing you girls later tonight at Chris's.”

Elle shoots me this laser-focused What's-going-on? eyebrow lift.

“Yeah, it turns out Alex and Chris go way back,” I offer.

“Sweet,” Elle says, even though she doesn't normally say things like “sweet.”

Alex says he'll text me when he's en route, and goes back inside to finish closing up. I barely make it into the passenger seat (the AC is totally
not
on, BTW) before Elle is bombarding me with questions about how Alex knows Chris and why I never told her.

“I swear I had no idea until today.”

“Are you excited he's coming? He's so cute,” she says. “And I kept telling you he was into you.”

This is true. Despite having never actually met Alex—that whole not-entering-the-store thing—Elle has long been convinced that Alex and I are destined to get married and
have a million babies and live happily ever after. I guess I do talk about him a lot.

“I don't know.” I bunch my shoulders. “It's weird.”

“It'll be fine, and your mom will be thrilled you're finally going out again.”

“True.”

We've never been to Chris's house, but we know where it is. There are only thirty-two thousand people in Coral Cove (up seven thousand souls from a decade ago, before J&J Plumbing moved its headquarters here), so you pretty much know all the subdivisions and who lives where. His place is only a few streets down from the model home where my mom and sister and I moved a few years ago.

The street is packed with the cars of kids from school. Half of them are new and shiny sixteenth-birthday presents, the other half hand-me-downs from parents and even grandparents—that's new/old Coral Cove for you. My mom has promised me “any car within reason” if I'm ever motivated enough to sign up for driver's ed; I'm probably the only seventeen-year-old in the entire county without a license.

We park and follow the line of cars to a big new house (Chris's dad is J&J corporate), and we make it to the driveway before I start wondering if maybe I should have put on something other than my summer uniform of cutoffs and a
tank top, or if I should have at least put on a
fresh
tank top instead of just keeping on the one that I've been sweating in all freaking day.

Elle is wearing one of her oatmeal-colored shapeless cotton T-shirts and a pair of drapey pants that cost a lot because they're made without any of the bad chemicals and don't exploit cheap labor. There are probably hip eco-chic models wearing them all over San Fran, but Elle weighs ninety-eight pounds soaking wet, so the getup just looks frumpy on her. Obviously too late to say anything now.

Since the bright blue door is wide open, Elle and I exchange shrugs, let ourselves in, and follow the music out to the backyard.

I guess I was expecting some crazy TV party scene, but honestly it doesn't look all that different from the swim team parties Elle and I used to go to back when I did stuff like that. There's a bunch of people from our class clumped around deck chairs or sitting by the inexplicably drained swimming pool. On a folding table there are plastic containers of cold cuts and a pink bucket of beer and soda cans, as well as an enormous punch bowl. A few of the girls are wearing slightly dressier tank tops, but Elle and I don't look horrifically out of place.

Meredith Hoffman—a cheerleader from my sophomore year health class—is giving off this first-lady vibe, scurrying around straightening the table and adjusting plastic cups.
I wonder if she and Chris are dating, wonder if Elle has picked up on that.

Seeing us, Meredith gives a little wave. “Hey, ladies!”

We nod back.

“You've got to try this punch,” she says, ladling out two glasses. “It's a sacred recipe from Chris's brother's FSU frat.”

The color of a flamingo, it smells like pure gasoline. It must also be about ninety proof, because I feel totally loopy from one swallow. To be fair, even when I did used to go to parties, I was never a big drinker. Elle starts coughing on her first sip and mumbles something about not being able to drive home.

Informing us that she has already “broken the seal,” Meredith jogs off to the bathroom.

Gina and Tina, these freckled identical twins from our AP English class (the only advanced class I was able to keep this year), are sitting on the diving board with their feet hanging over the empty pool. So maybe the entire school was invited. Elle leads us toward them, and within minutes they're all talking about the summer reading list and whether they're going to take the SATs again in the fall—as if we hadn't gotten out of school less than six hours ago.

“A scholarship is my only shot at paying for Columbia, so I've got to,” Elle is saying.

We were supposed to take the test at the same time in May, but I had such a panic attack that not even the Xanax helped. My mom and Elle ended up suggesting that I just wait until the fall.

Gina or Tina is saying something about applying early decision somewhere. These are the conversations that make me want to gnaw my arm off. “Are you thinking FSU or UF?” “You're going into the army even though your dad was a navy man?” “Did you plan out every minute of the rest of your life already?” Vomit.

I'm just staring into the pool. Generally I haven't been a big fan of pools ADF (After my Divisionals Freak-out, which was a year ago), but the missing water makes it much less intimidating. The bottom is painted this nice blue that's probably supposed to look like the ocean.

“Your dad went there, right, Mol?” Elle asks.

“Wha?”

“Your dad went to the University of Miami, didn't he?”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “He was always talking about how this one biology professor changed his life.” Other than the Miami part, I don't know if any of this is true. My dad died when I was three, and sometimes I just make stuff up because I don't remember, which is weird and sad, but at least all conversations don't come to a screeching halt the way they do when you say you have no memories of your own father.

“Yeah, I'm definitely doing early decision,” Gina says, as if someone asked a question; someone probably did.

Eventually Gina and Tina go get more chips, and Chris Partridge catches my eye and starts jogging over. Since we've hung out all of never, it's surprising that he looks so completely psyched to see us.

“Molly, Elle.” He nods. “Thanks for coming to chez casa.”

Elle might burst into a million happy bits because he remembered her name. She doesn't even mention that he just welcomed us to his “house, house.”

“Thanks for asking us,” I say, and hold up my still-full glass. “Awesome punch.”

“Yeah, it's from my brother's fraternity. He could get banned for life for sharing it.”

“His secret is safe with me,” I say.

Elle stands there like someone hit her pause button, and I can see Chris kind of looking off to my right.

“So, got any big summer plans?” I ask, because it's my duty as a wing woman, not because I want to get into another discussion about SAT prep.

“Well, the pool should be fixed by the end of the week.” Chris gestures to the big empty hole. “Total bummer it wasn't ready for tonight, but we'll definitely get that going.”

“If you want an alternative to chlorine, they have natural enzymes you can use to keep it clean.” Elle finally says something, albeit a completely face-palm-worthy something.

“Huh?” Chris looks genuinely confused.

“An alternative that's a little more earth friendly . . .” Elle trails off, as absolutely none of this is registering for Chris. “Is the bathroom this way?” she practically squeaks and points to the house, like the bathroom would be any other place. “Whoa, I had a lot of punch.”

And then she darts off.

Does a good wing woman run after her, or stay behind and explain why she's acting like a total spaz?

“She okay?” Chris asks.

“Yeah, uh, she just broke the seal already.” This is so not something I would ever say, and it sounds ridiculous, but Chris bobs his head empathetically.

“That's the worst, man. No wonder she was talking all crazy about chemicals.”

I bite my tongue.

“So, um, did you come with Ronnie—I mean Veronica?” he asks, and it takes me a good second to realize he's talking about my younger sister.

“No, I didn't even know you guys knew each other,” I say, wondering how Chris Partridge became this weird epicenter of my universe, secretly connected to everyone in my life.

“We had a study hall together. She said she might stop by.” He looks really dejected that I didn't know this.

“Oh, she's probably coming. I just haven't seen her since this morning. After school I went right to work.”

He nods again, still looking like someone filled his pool with natural chemicals, so I tell him that it turns out we also have Alex in common.

“Shut up! You're Alex's Molly?” he asks.

Alex's Molly
. Chris looks as shocked as I feel.
Alex's Molly
.

“He's talked about me?”

“I mean, he said he worked with this really cool girl. I just didn't put two and two together.”

Even though it's already a million degrees out, I feel myself blushing.

“Is he coming tonight?” Chris is asking.

“Yeah, when he's done with band practice.”

“Sweet. McD is a good dude.”

From the table of snacks by the screen door, Meredith calls out to Chris that they need more beer.

“Duty calls.” Chris smiles and trots off.

This really cool girl. Alex's Molly.
Everything is all jumbled in my head. Is Elle actually right about Alex being into me? What about the Hot Topic girls? What about the way he always seems to be joking when he asks if I want to hang out?

My phone chimes that I've got a new text, and I jump a little, thinking it must be Alex and that he can somehow magically read my thoughts.

The message is from Elle:
Hiding in upstairs linen closet. Mortified.

I write back:
Told C u were drunk.

Thanks I guess??!!! Have to use b room for real now. BRB

I really don't want to hear Gina and Tina go on and on about college anymore, and I don't have strong connections to any of the other clumps of people, so I sit on a deck chair a little away from everyone and wait for Elle. To avoid looking like a total loser, I pretend to do something extremely important on my phone. When this slobbering adorable golden retriever comes over, I treat it like a long-lost relative.

Before he died, my dad always used to promise we'd get a dog. That's one thing I actually do remember.

“Molly Byrne.” A familiar voice, and my stomach drops.

T. J. Cranston, all tall and tan and good-looking in this cheesy, Captain America way that your mom thinks is super-handsome—at least my mom did when he picked me up for our first date.

He was a couple of years ahead of me, but when I got bumped to the varsity swim team sophomore year, we were in the same practice lane, and sometimes he'd tell me he liked my suit or joke about how I was attacking him with my flippers. Then one day he asked me out. My mom and Elle and V were all excited, so I got a little excited. He took me to an Olive Garden knockoff, paid the check, and kissed me good night. We started going out like that maybe once a week, or we'd watch something on Netflix or go to a team party together, and he always gave me rides home after practice.

He was a nice enough guy—he never pressured me to have sex or do drugs like bad boyfriends always do in sitcoms—but it was right around that time when everything started to really pile up. I've always been kind of obsessive about grades and art class and big meets and stuff, but it got to the point where little things like having to pee when I'd already put on both practice suits could bring me to tears, and it just became easier to give up on stuff.