Truth Game (11 page)

When I get to Angela's birthday party that night, it's even more extravagant than I'd imagined. Her entire house is decked out like a kids' wonderland complete with pony rides, face painting, and not one but
two
bouncy castles. I should be excited to be here. After all, when I was little, no one invited me to their birthday parties because they didn't even remember that I existed. But being here by myself doesn't feel much better. I know Marisol and Evan are both in the crowd, but since neither of them is speaking to me right now, that's not much comfort.

Clearly, I'm not the only one who's uncomfortable. I spot lots of kids who look lost or are talking to people they don't seem to actually like. I wonder if other people's relationships got totally messed up, thanks to the Truth Game. I don't know if that thought makes me feel better or worse.

I position myself near the cotton candy lady—yup, Angela actually hired someone to make cotton candy!—and scan the crowd. After a minute I spot Evan talking to some guy from our gym class. He's laughing and gesturing like he's reenacting something that happened during volleyball. I know that if I walked up to him though, his smile would immediately fade.

Part of me wishes that the tingly feeling I get in my stomach at the sight of him would go away, but another part of me wishes we could rewind time and go back to when we first admitted we liked each other. If I did it all over again, maybe I could find a way to make him still like me, and I'd definitely think twice before saying anything bad about him, anonymous or not. But, of course, that's not an option.

I turn away and spot Angela making the rounds, looking more confident than I've ever seen her.

“Rachel, you came!” she says when she sees me. “Everyone's been raving about how pretty the cake looks. I can't wait to eat it!”

“I wanted to come by and wish you a happy birthday. I can't stay though.”

“But you have to at least stick around until I cut the cake!” she says.

I let her bustle me inside the house and into the kitchen where her mom is putting candles on top of the cake. Now that I'm looking at it again, I can see how much more polished it looks than my gaudy monstrosity. Chef Ryan's cake is like a cherry on top of a great party. My cake would have been like a paint-filled water balloon.

After we sing to Angela and watch her blow out her candles, she comes over to me, still gushing. “You did such an amazing job,” she says. “I'm so glad you were at the bakery when I went in! I doubt Briana would have been all that helpful.”

I look at her in surprise until I remember about the Truth Game answers. “So I guess you heard Briana works with me?”

Angela gives me a conspiratorial smile. “I'm the one who told people,” she says. “I saw her hiding behind the counter when I came to order my cake.” She laughs. “As if she could hide that kind of secret for long! You should have seen how shocked Caitlin was when I told her.”

“Wait…you're the one who told Caitlin? I thought people found out about it because of what I wrote in the Truth Game.”

“Nope! Those answers got leaked on the same day I told Caitlin, but people would have found out without that game.”

“But why would you do that? What do you care if Briana works at a bakery?”

“Because she's always thought she was so much better than everyone else. But now she has a job like a normal person. Besides, it was way too good of a secret to keep to myself.”

I shake my head. For weeks I've thought Angela was a new version of herself, but I guess in some weird way Briana was right. Maybe people never completely change. I thought I could leave my old self behind, but middle school Rachel seems to follow me wherever I go, no matter what I do.

Angela's party is suddenly the last place I want to be, so I hurry out the door and wind my way through some jugglers. I swing around a bush at the top of the driveway and smack right into Briana.

“Ow!” she cries, rubbing her shoulder. “What's your problem?”

“You are!” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “What are you even talking about?”

“You want to know who spilled your secret about the bakery? It was Angela. And because of that stupid game you signed me up for, Evan and Marisol are mad at me.”

“Hey, I didn't say that stuff about them. You did. It's not my fault if you feel guilty. And seriously, get over it. Some people have real problems.”

“What do you know about real problems?” I snap. “All you care about is making sure you don't miss your next manicure appointment. Evan is working his butt off to help your family, and you spend all your time at the bakery not lifting a finger!”

“I'm not like you, okay? I'm not one of those people who just know how to do stuff. You were probably mopping the floor since you were born. I'd never even touched a mop before I started working at that place. And no one would show me how to use it! You think I like looking like a moron all the time? On top of already feeling like a total loser?”

I can only stare at Briana for a second. Did those words really come out of her mouth? “What do
you
have to feel like a loser about?”

Her eyes just about double in size. “Are you kidding me? I used to rule our grade, our whole school! And then I get dumped by my boyfriend and my best friend on the same day, and then my dad loses his job and I'm suddenly living in some gross Cinderella story where I have to take trash out and stuff. No one at school even cares about me anymore, and most of my old friends totally ignore me. I mean, Angela Bareli is more popular than I am now. Do you know what that's like, to think Angela Bareli's life is better than yours?”

And the funny thing is, I do know. Because on the first day of school, when everything was going wrong, I was jealous of Angela for having her life together. But it turns out she's still the same old person she was in middle school, just with a better hobby.

“It doesn't matter anyway,” Briana says. “I'm not making nearly enough money at the bakery.”

“For what, your fancy clothes?” I say.

“No, for Evan's tuition,” she says, lowering her voice even though I doubt anyone can hear us over the blaring music from Angela's house. “God, do you really think I'm that shallow?”

“You're working to help Evan save up for school next year?”

“Yeah, so?”

“But…but why would you do that? You guys aren't exactly close.”

“He's still my brother,” she says like I'm a total idiot for not understanding. Then she pushes past me and goes inside Angela's house.

As I watch her disappear, it occurs to me that just because Angela is the same as she ever was doesn't mean that the rest of us have to be. I might make some of the same old mistakes, but I know I've changed for the better over the past few months. Maybe that means Briana can too.

My phone rings. It's Cherie calling. That's weird. Why would she be calling me on a Friday night?

“Rachel, I need your help,” she says when I answer the phone. “Ryan is in the hospital.”

“Oh my goldfish! Is he okay? What happened?”

“He'll be all right. He was watering the herbs in the bakery, and he fell off the ladder and broke his leg and his collarbone.” She lets out a long breath. “I can't believe this is happening the day before our biggest wedding! That means I need you to finish the cake.”

“You need me to
what
?”

“It's almost done, but my husband can't put the finishing touches on it. I'll need you to do it. Can you come in early tomorrow morning and handle it? I'll let you inside at seven before I head over to the venue with the other girls to set up.”

I swallow. This is it. The pineapple gods are finally answering my prayers and giving me a chance to show everyone what I can do. “I'll be there,” I tell her.

In the morning, I arrive at the bakery with my whole body jiggly with nerves. I tried to find my lucky shirt again—the one that I couldn't wear on the first day of school because I managed to stain it with toothpaste—but it seems to have disappeared for good. I guess I'll have to get through what could be the Most Important Day of My Life without it.

Cherie assures me that Chef Ryan is going to be okay and says that they're both counting on me. Then she says she'll be back to pick up the cake at noon and runs out the door, leaving me standing alone in the bakery.

I'm frozen for a second, suddenly terrified. Then I tell myself to pull it together, and I go into the kitchen to check out the Montelle-Brennan cake. The three tiers are all frosted, but they still need to be put together and decorated in the intricate pattern of iced roses that Chef Ryan sketched out. Even though I'm still not convinced the design is perfect for the occasion—it looks a little too stuffy and uptight—it's beautiful. And after Angela's cake, I'm not about to start questioning his vision. I only need to assemble the cake and make the roses to go on top, and it'll be done. And hey, that means a tiny bit of my work will wind up on TV, even if I wish it had happened a different way.

Okay. I can do this.

I riffle around in the supply cabinets—careful not to make a mess so Chef Ryan doesn't freak out when he comes back—and gather what I need. Then I get to work. Since the cake has to be put together for the roses to go on it, I decide to assemble it first. I've never worked on a cake this big before. From what I've heard, a lot of bakeries assemble their cakes at the wedding location and finish the decorating there, but I don't think we have time for that. I'll have to put it together here and hope that it makes the trip in one piece. I'm sure Cherie can do a little bit of touch-up work at the venue if need be.

I take a deep breath and carefully lift the second tier and place it on the bottom one. Then, holding my breath again, I pick up the smallest tier and gently place it on top. I realize, too late, that I should have measured out the tiers before putting them together, but even eyeballing it, they come out pretty good. The top tier might be a tiny bit off-center, but it won't be all that noticeable once I put the roses on it.

I'm sweating like crazy from the stress, so I hurry to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face before I start on the roses. When I come back out, I glance at the clock and see I still have more than four hours before Cherie comes to pick up the cake. At this rate, I'll be done in way less time than that!

Thankfully, Chef Ryan already made the colored fondant, so I only have to shape it and put it on the cake. Roses look impressive, but they're actually pretty easy to make. I shape the petals and then carefully wrap them around each other until they start to look like blooming roses. I put them on wires so they'll be easy to put into the cake without worrying about them falling off.

When I've made a half dozen of the roses, I peek at the cake to see how it's doing—

“Oh my goldfish!” I shriek.

Half of the middle layer is caving in on itself! The cake is collapsing!

I run around the kitchen, frantically looking for something I can use to keep the cake from sagging more, and find a bunch of dowels that I shove into the tiers. But when I try to reshape the cake, it's no use. The middle layer is completely sagging, and the bottom one is collapsing too. No amount of frosting will cover that up.

I don't get it. What did I do wrong?

And then I look at the dowels again and remember something I saw on TV a long time ago about stabilizing wedding cakes with wooden or hollow plastic dowels to keep them from caving in. Since Chef Ryan usually assembles cakes on-site, I've never seen him do it before, but that must be how he keeps his cakes from collapsing. In my rush to put it together, I hadn't even thought about reinforcing it! Why didn't I ask Chef Ryan about that kind of stuff instead of badgering him to let me put vines on things? It doesn't matter if a cake has fancy decorations on it if it's falling apart!

Gah! The cake needs to be at the venue in less than four hours, and it's a total mess! What am I supposed to do?

Tears start stinging my eyes, but I push them back. There's no time for crying right now. I grab my phone and call Cherie, but there's no answer. She's probably off taking care of some other wedding emergency. I think about leaving her a message, but I don't want her to freak out. So instead, I call my mom even though I know she's busy at work.

“Okay, don't panic,” Mom says after I explain what happened, but it's a little late for that. Her voice is echoey which probably means she's cleaning someone's bathroom.

“I can't believe I did this! No matter what I do, I always mess things up and drag everyone else into it!”

“Honey, stop beating yourself up,” Mom says. “Yes, you make mistakes, but you always fix them.”

“But I don't want to always fix my messes!” I say. “I want to not make them in the first place!” I'm so mad at myself that the tears start trying to pour out again.

“That would be impossible,” Mom says.

“I know, I know. I'll always make a mess. That's just who I am.”

“No. You're a human. That means you can't help but be imperfect. But that also means you can find a way to make things right.”

For some reason, I think about rock climbing with my dad and how I decided to actually leap through the air and risk falling to the ground rather than climb back down and try to fix my mistakes. I thought I was being brave and pushing myself to do big stuff, but maybe if I'd slowed down and actually focused on learning the basics first, I wouldn't have fallen at all. “You've got to crawl before you can walk,” Chef Ryan keeps saying, and I keep rolling my eyes, but maybe he's right. And part of crawling is falling on your face over and over, until you finally learn what you're doing.

“Okay. I have to go.”

“Do you want me to come help you?” Mom says. “You don't have to do this on your own.”

“I know,” I say, “but you're busy. I'll be okay.”

“Are you sure? I can tell my clients I have to reschedule. I can—”

“No, really. It's my mess, and I'll figure it out. You have your own stuff to worry about.”

“Okay.” I can hear the reluctance in her voice. But she promised to let me handle my own problems from now on, and I guess she's keeping her word. She tells me to call if I need anything, and then she hangs up.

As I stand there staring at the destroyed cake, I know I need to start over and make a new one. It seems crazy and impossible, but it's the only way. And my mom is right. I'm going to need some help.