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“It's not you I don't trust,” Dad said mildly. “It's everyone else on the road.”

The Chinese restaurant was next door to the tuxedo shop. It was still adorned with a going-out-of-business banner, but I'd heard that sales had picked up after it had been tagged. I stared at the gorilla painted on the side wall while Dad ran in and picked up our order. I remembered the first time I'd seen the gorilla. Dad had been driving Eli home, and we'd sat in the back of the squad car and laughed at the quote painted above the gorilla's head: “They call this a monkey suit.” Eli had pretended it was the first time he'd seen the mural, but he must have known that his brother had painted it.

I could see the familiar words painted near the gorilla's left foot:
Art Lies
. It didn't make sense to me. Of all the statements one could make about art, declaring that it lied seemed like the last thing an artist would say. Wasn't art supposed to reveal truth? I kept staring at those two little words as if they might reveal something more.

Dad returned with a bag full of white paper cartons, which he handed to me. I sat with the warm food in my lap, breathing in the scent of egg foo yung and fried rice. I pointed out
Art Lies
to my dad, who just nodded.

“It's his signature,” he said. “All the murals have that tag.”

“Even the ones in other states?”

“Yep. We checked.”

Ben was weird and his signature was even weirder, I thought. Something bothered me about it, though, and it wasn't until we were pulling into our driveway that I figured it out. The letters did make sense, in a way.

Rearranged, they read:
Eli's art.

A
FTER SENDING THREE
separate e-mails to Eli and not getting a reply, I told myself to calm down and wait. I would see Eli on Sunday and figure the whole insane, chaotic, mysterious mess out once and for all—in person. Until then, I just had to make it through Saturday without obsessing about the party, which was going to be difficult to do. The local news was covering the event because Nothing Serious, the band Tiffany's dad hired, was going to be there and they were the most famous people to ever come from—and return to—Cleary.

Both my parents were gone when I woke up on Saturday. Dad was meeting with the Werners' security team and Mom was busy at the bakery. She told her boss she was going to quit if he didn't give her the following week off. He agreed, and it helped calm her down. She was focused.

“I just need to get through Saturday,” she told me the night before. “Then I can breathe easy for a while.”

It seemed like everybody was just “trying to get through Saturday.”

I showered and put on my most comfortable gray sweatpants and a baggy blue T-shirt. My afternoon plans were
simple: watch a ton of TV and maybe, if I felt like it, finish my history paper, which was due on Monday. I still didn't know what I wanted to write, but if I couldn't come up with anything, my plan was to turn in the original draft and hope Mr. Gildea would be feeling generous.

I was sprawled out on the couch at four in the afternoon, flipping through one infomercial after another, when the phone rang. I didn't answer. I was so comfortable and the phone was all the way across the room and I really didn't want to talk to anyone. Then I heard my mom's voice on the answering machine.

“Kate? Oh please, please be there,” she said, her voice frantic. “Kate! You have to call me back as soon as you get this, okay? It's absolutely imperative that you—”

I grabbed the phone. “Mom? Are you okay?”

She began to cry. Real sobs, like she was hurt, and I panicked.

“Mom? What's wrong? You're scaring me.”

“I need your help,” she said finally. She was breathing funny, kind of gasping.

“Should I call Dad?” I was already searching through the list my parents kept next to the phone for my Dad's special emergency number.

“No, honey, I'm not hurt. But I need you down here right now.”

“At the bakery?”

“Please. Bud was in a car accident and I can't get hold of Abby and my boss is out of town and I need your help.”

“Bud was in a car accident? Is he okay?”

“It was a fender bender. He was on his way back from de
livering one of the wedding cakes. He's going to be fine, but he has a concussion and I have three more cakes to deliver and they take two people to assemble and I can't do it alone.” She was crying again, which was scary because Mom never cried. Ever. We could be watching the saddest movie ever made, with a dying kid or a sick puppy or both, and I would grab for a handful of tissues while she made some crack about bad acting and melodramatic endings.

“I'll be there as soon as I can,” I assured her.

Since I had no car and no license, my options were to walk the two miles to Cleary Confections or ride my bike, a rusty ten-speed that was gathering dust in the garage. I didn't bother to change my clothes because I knew I was going to get sweaty riding the bike. I threw a bottle of water in my backpack and was pedaling down the driveway within five minutes. Luckily, most of the way was downhill, so it didn't take too long to get there.

The bakery was dark when I arrived, a Closed sign hanging on the front door. It wasn't even five yet, but I knew Mom had closed early because she couldn't handle any customers. I walked my bike around back. The delivery van was parked there with its back doors flung open. The doors to the bakery were open, as well. “Mom?”

She poked her head out. “Oh thank God, Kate. Help me.”

I leaned my bike against the van and rushed inside, bracing myself for all the work that would need to be done. Wedding cakes were not delivered in one piece. The pieces were made separately, then assembled at the site and touched up with extra frosting. I had helped Mom once before and watched her go through the process a dozen times, so I knew that it was a
delicate procedure. We began loading the separate pieces into the van. She had already loaded one cake, and the different layers sat in little white boxes, which she had color coded.

It took us twenty minutes to pack the van and get going. Mom was trying to drive while glancing at a map and fumbling with her purse and for a moment I didn't think we'd make it out of the parking lot. I tried to focus on my job, which was to sit in the back of the van and do my best to keep all the boxes from sliding around. Mom tried to drive slowly, but she was in a rush, and we seemed to hit every pothole in town.

“How much time do we have?” I yelled from the back.

“Three cakes, two hours,” she replied. It usually took one hour to make sure a cake was perfectly set up. It was going to be a rough night.

Fortunately, our first delivery was easy. The cake was only four tiers and we were ten minutes early, so there was no problem. Mom began to loosen up a little after we left. “One down, two to go,” she said, a note of relief in her voice.

Our second stop was more difficult, though. The bride's mother, who was wearing a ruffled red dress that made her look like a giant tomato, watched us the entire time. After the cake—which was six tiers—was carefully put together, she slowly walked around the table and inspected our work.

“It could use some more roses,” she announced, fingering the pearls at her neck.

I saw Mom clench her fist and take a deep breath. I jumped in before she could say anything to Tomato Woman.

“Actually, your daughter requested a specific number of roses,” I lied. “She said it was personally symbolic.”

Mom gave me a shocked look. Tomato Woman looked
doubtful. “Well,” she murmured, “I guess if that's what she wanted…”

I grabbed Mom by the arm and pulled her away, leaving Tomato Woman to count the buttercream roses in a fruitless attempt to figure out their symbolism.

“I hope you're not that good at lying all the time,” Mom remarked as we hurried to the van.

“Only when it counts,” I replied.

We had forty minutes and one delivery left, but it was the biggest cake. There were a dozen different boxes and I tried to keep both hands on the largest ones as my mom picked up speed and made a sharp right turn.

“Sorry!” she called back to me.

“Where are we going?” I was already looking forward to getting home and enjoying a bubble bath and basking in the parental brownie points I had just earned for all my hard work.

Mom said something, but I couldn't hear her.

“What?”

There were no windows in the back of the van, so I couldn't see anything, but when the road went from bumpy to smooth and my mom began to slow down, I knew we had arrived at our last location. Mom put the van in Park. I began to get up, but she stopped me.

“Kate, wait.”

I was expecting her to thank me for helping her, one of her couldn't-have-done-it-without-you speeches. Instead, she apologized. “I'm sorry you had to come here like this.”

“Where are we?” Through the windshield I could see tall trees twinkling with tiny gold lights and beyond them, a vast lawn. But it wasn't a lawn, I realized with a sinking feeling. It
was a golf course. Specifically, the Cleary Country Club, location of Tiffany Werner's Sixteenth Birthday Spectacular. I groaned.

“Mom, no. Don't make me go in there. Please let me sit out here in the van.” I worried that someone from school might see me or the camera crew would be prowling around getting footage of the party preparations.

“Just help me carry in the boxes, Kate. That's all. Ten minutes, tops. Please.”

It was the way she said
please
. I knew she was exhausted and desperate and counting on me. I took a deep breath.

“Ten minutes,” I said. “Let's go.”

I carried one of the larger boxes through the back door leading to the kitchen. Inside, a frenzied blur of people dressed in white shirts and black pants carried trays and yelled over the sound of pots clanging and the heavy thump of bass coming from the next room. The party, I guessed, had begun early. I set down the first box on an empty table.

“No, no, no!” a woman shrieked. She was dressed like one of the servers and had her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. “This is the cake, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, it's about time you showed up. Mrs. Werner is throwing a fit.”

Mom entered holding two more boxes. “Where should we set up?” she asked.

The girl sighed and pointed to the corner. “There's the table. It's on wheels, so be careful. I'll let Mrs. Werner know you're here.”

Mom had numbered the boxes. I had box number one, so
we opened it and lifted out the first section, a long rectangle iced with pale blue frosting and decorated with a hundred candy pearls. I could tell immediately that this one perfect piece had probably taken hours.

“It's gorgeous,” I breathed.

“Thanks,” Mom said. “Let's hope Mrs. Werner agrees with you.”

A tall blonde woman entered the kitchen. She was dressed in a cream-colored silk dress that made her look like a Greek pillar. As she walked toward us, the silk rippled like liquid.

“How nice of you to finally join us,” she said icily.

Mom put on her patented fake smile. “I hope we haven't inconvenienced you.”

Mrs. Werner examined the first layer. “I see you managed to get the color right,” she said. “Where's the rest of it?”

I hurried out back to retrieve two more boxes. When I returned, Mrs. Werner had left and Mom was assembling the second and third layers. It wasn't like a wedding cake, exactly. The layers were staggered to make it look like the cake was actually a pile of presents. Mom explained that Mr. Werner was going to place a special gift on the top tier.

“Mrs. Werner is going to be back in five minutes,” Mom said. “Keep bringing in the boxes. I'll stack.”

The kitchen was hot and stuffy, so I was actually happy to be able to step outside and inhale the cool night air. I collected two more boxes from the back of the van. It was dark out, but I couldn't see any stars. Distant laughter and voices echoed from the front of the building and someone, I guessed kitchen staff, was opening the Dumpster at the side of the building.

“So much for only ten minutes,” I mumbled as I carried the boxes inside.

It took Mom nearly an hour to put together Tiffany's cake. It was massive. I was actually afraid that the little wheeled table wouldn't be able to hold the weight of it. Each layer was the same shade of soft blue, but the decorative patterns were different. Tiny edible pearls decorated the first tier, a design that looked like white lace was piped onto the second and a cluster of diamonds made from sugar sat on the third. Each of the twelve tiers was unique. Different size, different design. It belonged on the cover of a gourmet cooking magazine, I thought. Instead, Tiffany would take a big breath and spit all over it.

“I think this is your best work yet,” I said. I was really proud of my mom.

“Thanks.” She smiled. “It took forever. I almost hate to see it eaten.”

“Me, too. I wish I had a camera.”

Mom motioned toward her purse. “You can use the one on my phone.”

I located the phone and snapped a few shots, trying to capture the cake at every angle. I wished I had a better camera, something with a higher resolution. I knew the pictures I was taking wouldn't do Mom's creation justice.

Mrs. Werner returned, this time with Monica and Mallory in tow.

“But it would be so cool!” Monica was whining.

“Please? Just this once?” Mallory pleaded.

“No one is going to hang from the balcony on a rope!” Mrs. Werner said sternly.

Before they could beg some more, Monica and Mallory saw
me. They stopped, narrowed their eyes, then turned and stomped off without another word. They were going to tell Tiffany that I was there and I hoped Mrs. Werner would approve the cake so Mom and I could leave before that happened. I didn't need an irate birthday girl storming back here with a camera crew to make a scene that would be aired later on national television. I looked down at my T-shirt, now streaked with frosting, and my baggy sweatpants. No, I definitely did not need to be on television.

“Well.” Mrs. Werner was scrutinizing the cake. I held my breath and swore that if she uttered a single negative remark about Mom's hard work I would smash her perfectly coiffed head into the top tier. “I certainly had my doubts that a local baker could pull this off,” Mrs. Werner said finally. “But this is good.” She gave my mom a small smile. “This is very good.”

I saw the relief on Mom's face. “I'm so glad you like it. Now, you'll want to start cutting here,” she pointed to the corner of the bottom layer. “And careful of the dowels. There are twenty-four of them, but I'm sure the caterers have served wedding cakes before and this is similar.”

Mrs. Werner frowned. “Why would the caterers cut it?”

“Well, that's what they are paid to do, isn't it?”

Mrs. Werner shook her head. “No, they
serve
the cake. You are to stay and cut it. I spoke with Sam last week. He said you would see to it that it was delivered and sliced to serve three hundred.”

“Sam did not tell me that,” Mom said. I knew she just wanted to get home. It was already after nine, and staying to cut the cake would be another hour's worth of work, if not more. She would need me, and I needed to become invisible
as soon as humanly possible so no one from school would see me wearing dirty sweats, no makeup and a frizzy ponytail.

Mrs. Werner informed us that they would roll out the cake at ten and Mom could begin cutting immediately afterward. The kitchen staff would have the plates ready, and she could possibly spare one of the waiters to assist her. “It's a fine cake,” Mrs. Werner said, “but it would be nice if you and your staff—” here she glanced at me “—would be a little more organized.”