The Cake House (16 page)

“Lunchtime. Chaos. Rain.”

She was a hidden poet. I snapped a picture. “What else?”

I caught her in the target of the lens, focusing on the freckles that tripped across her nose. “Why are you always taking pictures?”

“Because I want to.”
Snap.

“I’ve asked Alex about you.”

When she said his name there was a catch in her breath, a dip in her sparkle. It was strange to think of Alex talking about me when I wasn’t there. “What has he said?”

“Nothing.” Tina tilted her head in an unconscious mimic of Alex.

I lowered my camera. She brushed her hair away from her face. I wanted to hate her, but I liked that she’d painted her nails with pale, frosted glitter, and I liked the way she kept trying to get the hair out of her eyes.

“Are you guys going out?” I asked, trying to keep my jealousy from my voice, trusting my camera to hide my resentment. Focus on the longing, on the splash of pain in the raindrops falling on her face.
Click.
I wondered if she was talking to me because she thought it might get her closer to Alex.

She wrinkled her nose and lowered her eyes. Alex watched us, standing tall in the whirlwind of students. I took her picture again. End of roll.

“It’s all right,” I said. “You can tell me. Alex and I tell each other everything.” My ears grew hot from the boldfaced lie, but I wanted to reclaim my hold on Alex from her, even though I never had any sort of hold on him to begin with.

“I know about his mother,” she said, her voice weak against the strength of the cold.

My hands stopped halfway through rewinding the film, forgetting that she hadn’t answered my question. “What about his mother?”

“You don’t know?” She lifted her chin, upturned nose pointing to the sky. “She wasn’t married to Alex’s father. I don’t think he even knew he had a son until she showed up one day and left Alex with him.”

I held my breath, wondering how I had missed this key fact, but there was so much that was never spoken of, so much kept hidden. “I’ve seen her picture, his mother’s. He looks like her. Does he visit her?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think they’ve seen each other since she left. He doesn’t talk about her.” Her gaze shifted with curious sea-green intensity.

“Yeah. I noticed. How long have you known him?”

“We were all in preschool together.” She licked her lips and took a quick, short breath. “When he first showed up, he cried every day. Quiet-like, in his chair. He wouldn’t do any of the work; he wouldn’t play. A few of the boys made fun of him, but he just kept crying. He let them tease him. They got rough, pushed Alex around, and still he did nothing. He let them hit him. It was so weird. I tried to stop them. One of them pushed me down and I fell to the floor. I wasn’t hurt, but Alex took hold of Tom’s shirt and threw him onto the floor so hard he broke Tom’s arm.”

“What happened after that?” I asked, mesmerized by the story and her distant, searching expression.

“All our parents had to meet, and Alex had to see a doctor. They almost sent him away after that. Everyone was half scared of him, and at the same time they wanted to be
his friend. They still do. That was the first time my parents met Alex’s dad.” She added the last almost as an afterthought, wrinkling her forehead.

Behind Tina, Alex was moving toward us. When she saw Alex approach, all her feelings, her emotions, blossomed, more open than the sky above, ready for plucking.

He held his hand out. Tina smiled, radiant. They walked away and left me shivering.

THAT WEEKEND
,
WHILE I WAS
out for a bike ride, it began to rain. I pedaled home as fast as I could, wiping the raindrops from my face, dumping my bike outside and running up the stairs when I heard the front door open and close without the bustle and bang that accompanied Claude’s typical entrance. I knew it had to be Alex. He stopped in the downstairs hallway, and I heard the tone of an open phone line. A moment passed, and then several more, before he put the receiver back.

“Who do you keep trying to call?” I asked.

He spun around, blond hair darkened by rain, skin flushed red from the coolness of the weather. He stepped forward, and I saw the way his eyelashes clumped together. “A phone-sex line,” he said, deadpan.

I laughed but blocked his path when he tried to scoot past. “Can I come up to your room? Borrow some records?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? There’s no one here but us.”

Claude had taken my mother with him that morning. He did that every once in a while, disappeared with her for the day, only to return in the evening with a shopping bag or two. It had been weeks since that night when Claude had
caught Alex in my room, and slowly the new rules were being forgotten.

“Maybe your girlfriend’s coming over. What’s her name again? Was she who you were trying to call?” I asked, even though I knew her name and knew that he hadn’t been trying to call Tina and that he wouldn’t say whom he had tried to call no matter how I asked.

He leaned against the wall of the staircase. “What if it was?”

Frustrated, I let out an exaggerated sigh and stomped up the stairs. “Just say you don’t want to hang out with me.”

He called after me. “I didn’t say that.”

I stopped near the top of the stairs but then continued on to my room, shutting the door. It wasn’t until later, when I left my room to come down to dinner, that I found a stack of albums in front of my door.

THE MEAL WAS ONE MY
mother cooked often because it was easy: chicken baked in rice. It used to be one of my favorites, but even though it tasted the same, it now got stuck in my throat and made me gag. The familiar taste brought memories of eating with my father at the kitchen table in our apartment. I pushed my plate away and drank all of my water.

Alex sat across from me. He took a big breath, as if gathering strength for an arduous task, and said, “There’s a football game tomorrow. Against Newhall.” He spoke to no one in particular.

Claude leaned back in his chair. He finished chewing before speaking, his tone casual. “Sounds like a great idea,” he said. “We should all go. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Rosie?”

I looked from Claude to Alex to my mother. My mother wasn’t eating either. She fiddled with a piece of chicken before setting her fork down. She got up and started clearing the table.

“I’d like to go,” I said, because I did want to. I had never gone to a football game before. Claude smiled, but Alex didn’t. It was strange. Although Alex was the one who brought up the football game, I got the impression that he had no desire to go, that he suggested it because he had to, an obligation or a duty.

Claude sat back and winked at me. “That settles it. We’ll all go.”

My mother came back into the dining room from the kitchen. “You have fun,” she said, as she took my plate and Claude’s.

“No,” said Claude. He took the plates from her hands and set them down, kissed her cheek. “We all go together. You’re going too.”

I looked to see Alex’s reaction, but he had retreated behind his usual mask of cool disdain. He nodded to his father, turning to run up the stairs, and a moment later I heard the door close and his music begin.

My mother tried to smile and went back to clearing the table. Claude squeezed my shoulder, and I was struck by an urge to give him a hug and let him hug me back. To hide the heat in my cheeks—from horror, from embarrassment—I went into the kitchen to help my mother with the dishes.

By the next day, I began to regret saying I wanted to go to the game. It took place in the evening and didn’t start till seven
P
.
M
. Alex wanted to meet us there.

“You’ll come with us,” Claude told Alex, who had become a living statue, like one of those street performers
who stood so still you wondered if they were mechanical rather than living flesh and bone.

My mother made us late. She had chosen a dress with a noisy print of big tropical flowers. It swished around her legs. I remembered the dress; she’d worn it a few times with my father, on those rare evenings when they’d left me alone to go together for dinner or to some event. But when she came downstairs, Claude halted, and his brow creased when he tried to hide his cringe. She blushed, then went back up the stairs and changed into a blouse and slacks, returning clutching a designer handbag of brown leather. Her hair fell in easy waves of honey, a woven shawl wrapped around her shoulders. This apparently met with Claude’s approval. He smiled at her, but she hesitated before smiling back.

Once we arrived at the high school, parked, and made our way through to the football field, I began to feel better. The air was fresh and crisp. It had drizzled earlier, but the sky was a dark inky blue with the requisite smattering of pale stars. The crowd buzzed, alive, pulsing with energy. This was what high school was about, with the added scent of cotton candy and roasted peanuts. The four of us sat in the bleachers, halfway up on the home-team side. Claude busied himself getting refreshments and a large bag of popcorn. We chewed our popcorn and sipped our drinks, Claude a beer, the rest of us soda. My drink was so cold my hand hurt to hold it, but I sucked it up until my head throbbed and my chest felt tight because of the gas bubbles. The game started with announcements before the teams ran onto the field. They slapped one another’s hands, falling into their first formation. I knew nothing about football.

A few minutes into the game, Alex sat up straight in his seat. He reached across and touched Claude’s arm. Claude
followed Alex’s gaze. They were looking at a group of adults, two couples, as well as a few teenagers I recognized from school, standing at ground level in the walkway meant for foot traffic.

Claude swallowed the rest of his beer. “All right,” he said, setting his cup down.

Next to me, Alex held his breath and sank into his seat like he wanted to slide off and down between the slats of the bleachers. There was a closed-off, dark expression on his face, and then a brief flash of disgust before he sprang up and made his way down the steps.

Claude grabbed a fistful of popcorn while my mother watched a young couple and their little daughter. The girl was maybe two years old, trying to climb up the stairs of the bleachers by herself. She kept falling. Oopsy-daisy. One small leg slipped, but her mother held her hand and let the child dangle until she found her feet again.

“Where’s Alex going?” I asked, picking up my camera and searching through the viewer for a good picture. The football field, the lights, the crowds.
Click.

Claude turned and held out a kernel of popcorn, opened his mouth to indicate I should do the same. I copied him, and he tossed the kernel into my mouth. Grinning, he did it again. “He’s talking to some friends of his,” he said, holding another kernel. I opened my mouth again, with one eye out for a familiar blond head.

Alex was leaning in close to the two teenagers, who went to our school. One of them turned to another adult, an older man who must be his father. They introduced Alex. Alex shook the father’s hand. He leaned in close again to be heard. He looked back at Claude as he spoke, waving at us. The man waved too.

That was Claude’s cue. He got up. “I’ll be right back,” he told my mother, then took the stairs two at a time, joining Alex and his friends.

I watched everyone shake hands. Introduce themselves. Laughing. More leaning in; then business cards were passed around. More talking. At one point, Claude cupped his hands around his mouth and called for my mother. His voice carried over the noise of the crowd; she wasn’t paying attention, still looking at the small family with the two-year-old daughter, but her eyes were unfocused and she wasn’t seeing them anymore. I nudged her.

“Claude wants you.” I pointed to where Claude stood talking to the parents of Alex’s friends while still trying to get my mother’s attention. The father had graying hair and deep-set raccoon-ringed eyes.

My mother sat up straight and watched Claude, who waved at her again, flicking his fingers in the universal sign for
Come here.
She hesitated, her eyes moving as she saw whom Claude was with: the gray-haired man, his wife, and the other couple, the teenage children. She shifted to the edge of her seat, paused, then said, “I’d better go.”

Claude met her at the base of the stairs, put his arm around her, guiding her to where the others were milling around. He introduced her. Several rows up, I heard him say, “This is my wife.”

Apparently I wasn’t required to shake hands or receive pats on the head. I picked up the half-empty bag of popcorn, but it had become cold, chewy, and greasy.

I couldn’t help but notice that the dress my mother had started out in would have been inappropriate. Next to the other wives, she looked pretty and stylish, younger than they were, but these women were open with her, willing to
include her as one of their own. One put a hand over my mother’s and leaned in close to say something funny. My mother was stiff at first but loosened up as she returned with a joke, and the women laughed. Claude beamed. I had never seen her like this before: belonging, at ease with others, making friends.

Alex was no longer there. He had slipped away.

The game continued, and I wondered what was the point of going if people stood around and talked instead of watching. Someone made a touchdown and the Canyon High cheerleaders did flips and cartwheels and split jumps. Canyon High wore green and white and gold. Newhall wore black and red. I liked watching the team huddles, with everyone’s arms around one another, sharing secrets that might win the game. The team burst apart with friendly slaps, ready to fight; then the football twirled in the air in its giant, majestic arc, caught in the cradling arms of its savior.

Near bursting after drinking my soda, I left the stands to go find a bathroom. Daunted by the long line, I decided to go farther onto the campus, where there might be fewer people. The school was a different place at night, with strange shadows that moved with the wind. I went all the way across to the far end of campus.