Wicked Sweet (18 page)

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Authors: Mar'ce Merrell

BOOK: Wicked Sweet
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Cake Deux
.
I
consult each of my cookbooks’ recipes for chocolate cake and I watch Nigella on YouTube making her Old-Fashioned Chocolate Cake. “The fact that this is scarcely any harder than a cake-mix cake to make, makes it a joy,” she says. She wears a pink sweater and I wonder, is pink always an over-the-top Annelise color or can it belong to a quieter celebrity? Or a secret celebrity. Like me.
Nigella stacks a layer of cake on chocolate–sour cream filling and spreads the frosting over the top and sides of the cake. She adds sugared violets as decoration.
“I can’t think of a more welcome sight in the kitchen than this,” she says.
My decision is made. Bring chocolate cake. Be welcomed. If I’d known it was this easy I’d have started baking years ago.
Darling …
Nigella’s throaty laugh tingles my spine …
all things happen in their right time.
I remind myself that I will have to edit my story, when I tell it to Jillian, of Nigella’s influence on my life. If I told her that I create Nigella’s voice when I need encouragement, she might think more psychological help than my dad can offer is in order.
Another thirty minutes of research and I decide on a combination
cake: Dorie Greenspan’s chocolate cake with Nigella’s chocolate–sour cream frosting. Mix and match.
I whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt. The dry ingredients shimmer.
This is joy, darling.
Working with the stand mixer and the paddle attachment, I beat the butter and sugar together until glistening and smooth, adding just enough air and sweetness. I know I’ve reached the optimum mixing when a sliver of gold shines.
In goes the egg and vanilla. I set the mixer on low. I observe. I panic. I’ve got … a mess. Curdled butter bits in goop. The colors have evaporated.
Nigella! Help!
When she doesn’t answer, I consult my laptop. There—in black and white—is my answer: don’t fret if the mixture looks curdled, it will smooth out soon.
I add half the flour mixture, half the milk, the remaining flour, and the final splash of milk. The batter flutters in dove-wing white.
Ahh. It’s all good again.
Now chocolate. Seven ounces of pure refinement, melted and cooled. I add, then blend until mixed.
Oh, Nigella, it’s perfect.
I knew you could do it.
I half-fill my two layer pans evenly. Sparks of copper strike as I strew a mixture of dark chocolate chips, cinnamon, and five-spice powder on each layer. The rest of the batter covers the sleeping chocolate chunks.
I sit on the kitchen floor, staring through the rectangle at the two layer pans snuggled up on the oven’s middle rack.
The radio plays in red and blue tones as Lady Gaga finishes singing about boys, boys, boys.
Who needs them?
I roll my eyes.
“And now for something retro, but totally on the pulse of today’s generation. I was out at Williamson’s Lake today sharing … uh … cake. No, really, cake. Pink cake. To be exact.”
What? That’s Mitch. I pull the radio from the table and hold it in front of me. He must have been at the lake today. I was so busy worrying about Will I didn’t even notice.
Mitch. The Mitch from my class. The Mitch from the ninth-grade dance. The Mitch who is the son of the dad who runs the radio station.
“It’s a favorite of mine. From the Archie cartoons. And it goes out to the secret admirer who is not named … yet.” A guitar starts strumming and then four voices begin in harmony:
You are my candy girl
And you’ve got me wanting you.
Mitch. He’s playing a song for me. Even if he doesn’t know it’s for me. I wonder if he remembers the hour we spent at the ninth-grade dance talking about the laws of matter. I thought it was the beginning of
something
. But
nothing
happened. He didn’t ask me to dance or accidentally on purpose run into me in the halls or sit next to me in French class. By the end of the year I’d forced myself to stop thinking about him while hugging my pillow. Still, he lives in my subconscious. Could it be that I live in his?
The telephone rings. The song ends, but another starts up again instead of Mitch’s voice. My mother’s militaristic tone, over the answering machine, commands my attention.
“Okay. I guess you’re not home and it’s almost midnight your time. That makes my decision simple. I’m coming home first thing tomorrow morning. I was going to stay until Saturday, but I haven’t heard from you and your dad hasn’t either and …” She’s got the panic sound in her voice.
I rush to the phone. “Mom. Mom. I had the radio on and I was … falling asleep. But I heard your voice on the machine.” It takes me twenty-three minutes to convince her not to come home until
Saturday. I promise, not for the first time, that I will have my cell phone on twenty-four/seven and that I will charge it at night. I’m looking forward to seeing you, she says. Yeah, me, too, I answer.
I hang up the phone and the timer beeps.
The cakes are magnificent. This is the second-to-last cake. My mom is home on Saturday. Will gets one more cake, one more day to be the star and then his misery begins. A boy dumped publicly by a secret admirer. And my life goes back to the way it used to be. Only—maybe—better.
 
 
It’s 1 A.M.
I am in black, with my latest cake—titled the Epitome of Refinement Chocolate Cake—riding shotgun in my bike basket. I’ve got fifteen blocks to cycle before I reach my destination. This is worth it, I remind myself. Everything that matters takes effort.
My route takes me downtown; Third Street is the most direct, and the safest for secrecy. Third Street is mainly houses with offices in them. I pass the house where my dad has his office. He told me patients feel more comfortable in a familiar environment. And it must be true because doctors, lawyers, and accountants all have houses along this street, but no one works at an office 1:07 A.M. Friday morning.
Except. I see a kid in jeans walking down the sidewalk and I know from the sort of hunched-in shoulder sway and the hair that flies out from underneath a ball cap, it’s Mitch. He must have just finished at the radio station. He’s walking toward a car parked six feet away from me. He doesn’t look up as he fishes in his pocket for his key fob. I turn my front wheel sharply right and narrowly pass through two bushes alongside the dentist’s office. I stop to steady my cake and get my panic under control. The key fob beeps.
“Hello?”
Crud.
It’s Mitch’s voice. It’s calling in my direction.
I crouch over my handlebars. If he searches the bushes, the first
thing he’ll spot is my butt in black spandex. And if he ever thought I was hot, he’d change his mind forever. I hold my breath and wait for doom. Instead I hear a car door open and slam. The car starts up and music drifts through an open window. I wonder if maybe it’s a good thing my whole secret identity is going to be temporary. One more night. One more delivery. And then it’s back to safe Chantal. I don’t know how long I can take this.
I ride forward, in the dark.
Mr. Chrome
.
I
t’s all over Facebook. And apparently Mitch talked about it on the radio. He only has that job because his dad owns the station. So what? So now everyone knows that I have a secret admirer. And it sucks.
I hear my bedroom door open. The sound of the light switch clicks. The funnel of light from my ceiling fixture competes with the glow of my computer screen. My dad, a man forever in striped trainmen’s overalls, moves to the spotlight. He doesn’t recognize that it’s nearly 1 A.M. or that he hasn’t knocked on my door or that I might not want to talk to him. I call him the Ogre for a reason.
“Will. I’ve … We’ve … The company is … uh … having a … a party next week. They’re giving me an award for service. And your mother wants us all to be there.” He pulls his bandana from his back pocket, wipes his forehead. I love it when the Ogre needs me.
I click from one profile to another. I’ve got 327 friends, some of them I don’t even know. “Uh … next week? What day? I’ve got a lot on my plate …”
He clenches his jaw. Finally he speaks, “Your mother wants you to be there.”
“But you …”
“I don’t want your piss-ass attitude. What’s your excuse now, Will? If you had a job to go to that would be one thing …”
He’s baiting me. I’m usually the stray that goes for the bait and gets a kick to the ribs, but not this time.
“Yeah, I’ll come. I’m going to bring a friend, too. A date.”
His forehead wrinkles up and he considers me for a few seconds. I think maybe he’s formulating a father/son conversation, but the only thing he leaves behind is the glow of the light. “I’ll tell her you’ll go,” he mumbles as he closes the door.
I wonder if I did the right thing, caving into him this time, but my defenses are down with this whole secret admirer gig. I mean—I don’t want Annelise playing me like this, in public. I so want her, I’d be crazy not to, but without the frickin’ parade. Parker loves a parade. Me, I like to drive the float.
 
 
The whole summer project is problematized, that’s what I’m thinking as I stand under the tree watching how things play out. First you got your Parker and Jillian do-gooders with the rug rats. Now that is some annoying crap. Those kids are all running around like it’s Christmas and Parker is Santa Claus. He hands out the plastic hockey sticks and then he transforms into Super Coach, giving them the rules of engagement. When I agreed to this with Chantal, I didn’t think I was going to waste my summer on inspiration. And then there’s Chantal; the girl carries that damn clipboard around as if it was gold-plated. And don’t get me started on Annelise. The texting genius has got a crowd gathered. Around her. I am supposed to be the one organizing this hockey tournament. People should be consulting me. The expert.
And then if things don’t get worse than having a rusty nail shoved under and through my eyelids, Annelise’s friend Danielle is walking up the frickin’ hill with a frickin’ cake on a frickin’ plate.
“Hey, hey,” Annelise shouts. “Everyone. Hey. Will’s secret admirer
is back!” Danielle, dressed for the occasion in the shortest cutoffs and a bikini top, stops in front of me, pulls a card from her back pocket, and hands it over. It’s the same retro cutout letters.
The Epitome of Refinement Chocolate Cake. XXOO, Your Secret Admirer.
Epitome. Annelise must be hiring someone to help her.
“Oh, Will.” She stands so close to me I can smell her cinnamon gum. “This looks even better than yesterday’s.”
I nod.
“Okay everyone. I brought plates and forks today. Line up. Line up.” Annelise glows in the spotlight. “But Will gets the first piece.”
As she cuts into the cake she whispers that Danielle texted her when she found the cake on her doorstep. That’s how she knew to bring the plates. I want to tell Annelise that stating the obvious is stupiculous, but she probably wouldn’t get it.
“This is so cool, isn’t it? Getting cakes from a secret admirer. Like, this only happens in, like, movies.”
She holds a piece of cake to my lips and I take a bite. Chocolate and spice with thick fudgey frosting. It’s good but I want to spit it out. I don’t want to be played by some girl, even if it’s Annelise. And yet, consider my circumstances. Parker is off to the side with the baby posse. A hot girl is close enough that the air between us sizzles. Fans await. All over a cake.
This is easy. Easy. I am chrome. High polish, unbelievably resistant. This is easy.
I smile. Take another bite. Give the thumbs-up. The crowd cheers.
Role Model
.
I
f only she’d left for work or been too self-absorbed to notice Parker’s car out front. If only she’d applied her third coat of mascara instead of looking out at the driveway to see me at the driver’s side door of the minivan, about to get in, and Parker helping the boys into their car seats.
“Parker!” She comes out in her nursing-home scrubs, her arms wide open for a hug. Parker finishes buckling Ollie into his car seat and he startles when he turns to face her. I read the what-the-hell on his face. I close my eyes.
“Mrs. Uh …” He has no clue what to call her. Her name changes faster than the boys can register for the next school year.
“Call me Mom.”
Oh. God. I open my eyes to see Parker ease away from her and close the van door. “Well,” he says. “We’ve got to get going. Big day. Hockey camp.” He pulls the door shut. Maybe he thinks he’ll avoid a conversation, but I know that is impossible.
“So Parker. I just want you to know that what you’re doing for Jillian and her brothers. Such a gentleman.” Her voice has a tight sound. I recognize it as the voice she uses with my teachers when she tells them how she’s so grateful that they’re giving me A’s. It’s the suck-up voice. Please, no tears. Please.
“Uh … thanks.” Parker shifts uneasily.
“And … you know … I wish I could pitch in with some money. Jillian tells me that other kids are donating cash for the hockey camp and all that, but things are tight right now. You know we’re just in, transition, I guess you’d call it. And … uh …”
She stares at the ground. “It’s through the kindness of others that we’ll get through …” Her voice trails off. I close my eyes again. Why does she have to be a train wreck? No one says anything, not even the boys. Time waits for my mother’s dramatic pauses.
“Anyway, I just want you to know how grateful all of us are to have you as part of our family.”
I groan.
“Jillian!” She snaps and turns away.
I follow her to the front door to make her face me before she goes inside. “You can thank
me
later,” I say. She doesn’t respond.
I leave her, mouth wide open.
 
 
She’s all I can think about while I stand on the sidelines of the hockey field Parker and I have created by the park. We’ve got fourteen boys and girls today and three mothers have already found me and signed up their kids for tomorrow. I’m the overall supervisor and snack provider while Parker and three other volunteers that Annelise text-recruited run the kids through the drills. The Hat Trick and the Double Minor are both on the field right now and it’s like they’re playing the game all on their own. The other kids are just running around them, trying to get into the action.
“This is so great.” Mrs. Gibson, one of our neighbors when we lived over by Chantal, joins me on the sidelines. “A hockey camp. Just wonderful. You kids are such great role models.”
Role models. Mrs. Gibson knows my mother and I’m sure she’s thinking I turned out amazingly well despite the circumstances. If my mother were here she’d say she models independence, freedom,
self-expression. I sigh. Try to let go of my anger. It doesn’t do me any good.
Ollie makes a break from Chloe and dashes onto the field. His chubby face jiggles with the rhythm of his stride, stiff on those new running legs. He aims for the center of the action, looking for a ball to kick. The players seem oblivious to his little body. Just as Mrs. Gibson and I are ready to rush out to save him, Parker blows his whistle.
“Time out. Caution. Baby on the Field.” Time out. Time out. The volunteers echo. The players stop their drills. Parker runs through them to grab Ollie, scoop him up, and airplane him back to Chloe. Ollie’s giggles cascade the music scale; he and Parker turn heads. Parker seems to notice envious moms and kids watching him and he airplanes Ollie around the playground. Twice. When he sets him down he acknowledges his audience with a shrug. He runs back to the field, his shoulders squared, I hate to say it, prince-like.
“Wow. He’s great with kids,” Mrs. Gibson says. Her eyes hold mine. “He’s a good catch, Jillian. All the mothers think so …” She laughs as she walks away.
I watch Parker for the next hour and I can’t find any fault in him. He loves the boys. And he’s good at what he does. A natural leader from a family of leaders. Every male in his household has been class president. And he will be next year, too. My currency in the high school will increase exponentially. I’ll be invited to A-list parties, I’ll be at the center of the action of any school event. I’ll be happy. I think I’ll be happy.

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