You'll Never Know

by Katie Cross

  “Me too.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “The round are a little more simplistic. I like that too. I think, with certain flavors, it goes better. Not as much pizazz.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Pizazz? Give me an example.”

  Heat warmed my cheeks. Was I being too intense about cupcakes and frosting? This analysis felt a little too … in depth. I mean, it was frosting. Then again, she wasn’t laughing at me, so I decided to go with it.

  “The white cupcakes with the white frosting and silver ball sprinkles for the little girls’ tea party were perfect with the star tip,” I said. “The texture of the frosting added just a little more decoration to a mostly uniform cupcake that helped highlight and hold the sprinkles. In these bright numbers, the frosting color makes its own statement. Leaving it rounded helps the colors … be themselves.”

  Feeling really stupid now, I turned slightly to the side. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sophia’s brow had furrowed. She stared at the wall with a distant expression.

  “You know, Rachelle, you are absolutely right,” she murmured. Then she straightened and headed across the room, calling over her shoulder, “Do me a favor? Try this lemonade for me. Tell me what’s wrong with it?”

  Before I could protest, she reached into the fridge, grabbed a pitcher, poured a bright yellow liquid into a cup, and shoved it into my hand. Her intent gaze intimidated me. I stared down at it, shocked. I hadn’t had lemonade—or any other sugary drink—in a year and a half.

  I opened my mouth to protest but stopped. Without exercise, the extra sugar would either make me hyper … or binge primed. Lexie and I used to drink lemonade by the liter. We’d mix it with Sprite and make slushes out of it. Just the memory of the tart, cool liquid in the summer heat almost made me sweat.

  Could I handle it?

  “Rachelle?” Sophia broke through my reverie. “You all right?”

  “What? Oh. Yes. Fine, thanks.”

  “You’re kind of pale. Is it too hot in here?”

  “No, no. I’m fine.” I reached for the lemonade and sipped it. A shockingly sweet taste spread through my mouth with a punch. My lips puckered, overwhelmed by the saccharine taste, almost gritty on my tongue. Sophia’s shoulders slumped.

  “That bad, eh?” she asked.

  “Not bad. Just…” I smacked my lips. “Ah … strong on the sweetness.”

  She frowned. “I can’t get the right lemon-to-sugar ratio. Some people like it strong, some like it subtle. It’s hard to really get right, especially when making a simple syrup out of it.”

  “Let the lemon do all the work. It’s citrus. Citrus can carry itself with the right ratio. I’d cut the sugar by half and add fresh-squeezed lemon juice if you didn’t start with that.”

  “Sounds simple.”

  “If you can get it, a drop or two of mint extract. Perfect summer drink.”

  Sophia leaned back against the counter, arms folded across her slender chest as she chewed on her bottom lip. Her lithe legs and sculpted face and neck always drew my attention. She had such casual grace. A question flowed out of me before I could stop it.

  “How do you stay so skinny, Sophia?”

  I’d spent enough time here to know that her diet consisted mostly of salads and fresh veggies. Seeing her eat the same thing as me was gratifying, but I cared more about her exercise regime.

  “Willpower, mostly,” she said with a wry grin.

  “Cardio?”

  She nodded. “Mixed with weights. I do thirty minutes of each before I come into work every morning.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  That seemed impossible. I’d been doing hours of cardio every day for the past three months in an attempt to break the 150-pound weight barrier. Still, I hadn’t managed it. Considering my current state of health, I wouldn’t for a while.

  “Oh.”

  The tinkle of the door opening broke the silence. On cue, Sophia whirled around with her usual bright smile. A young woman and her mother appeared.

  “Come inside!” Sophia said. “It’s so good to meet you. I’m Sophia.”

  They faded into the consultation room amid a chatter of voices. I turned back to the cupcakes, grateful for my simple job. Cupcakes. Frosting. Food coloring. Didn’t get too much easier. No doubt Sophia thought I took food a little too seriously. But when you had as much experience with sugar as I did …

  I stopped to mentally assess my state of mind. No ogre had grown out of my body after I drank the lemonade. I didn’t feel like flinging myself across the room, climbing on the counter, and shoving frosting into my mouth by the fistful. I felt … fine. In control. No need to rush to exercise every morsel of sugar off.

  Reassuring.

  The next hour passed in a quiet routine. Cupcakes off the trays. Frost. Decorate. Repeat. Reload frosting. Bundle cupcakes into boxes. Help a customer. Rest my leg for a few minutes while perusing the recipes for the next day. Think about roles and then imagine a lump of color that didn’t actually create an actual person but had nothing else defining it. But even then, didn’t the color define it? Around two o’clock, a reverberating boom came from the back door. I stopped scrubbing a few leftover cake pans and peered over my shoulder. “Hello?”

  Four boxes lined the narrow walkway leading to the back door, which opened into a dingy alley that always smelled like garbage. A whiff of hot waste wafted in from the open door. My nose wrinkled. Gross. Who would leave that door open? Who would even come in that door? We had to keep the store cool or the cakes wouldn’t set right. Four cardboard boxes were splayed across the ground, like someone had dropped them and run. I hobbled over with one crutch.

  “Um, hello?”

  The silhouette of a slender man appeared with three boxes piled in his arms.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  He jumped with a shout, dropping the boxes, one of which fell on his converse sneaker. He flailed and tumbled to his backside, striking the back of his head on the doorframe. I shrieked and dropped my crutch, which clattered on top of his head. One of the boxes had burst open, spilling a plastic jar of edible blue food coloring.

  “What the—”

  “Who are you?” I cried at the same time.

  He scowled and rubbed the back of his head. “I’m delivering Sophia’s supplies.”

  “Oh.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Rachelle. Sophia just hired me.”

  He glanced behind me, suspicion in his bright emerald gaze. His clean-cut blond hair appeared recently tousled. He wore an old pair of jeans and a dirty white t-shirt over his thin shoulders and slender torso. Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of the alley, where an old pickup truck with peeling paint and rust spots idled.

  “Sophia would have told me if she hired someone else,” he snapped. “Where is she?”

  “She’s busy.”

  “You’re not trying to steal something, are you? One of her recipes? The new lemonade?”

  “Ew. No! Have you tried it?”

  He scowled. “People are always trying to steal from her. I’m calling her right now.”

  “What?” I screeched. “No! Stop. She’s in a consultation. Do I look like someone who’s trying to steal from a bakery?”

  I spread my arms, drawing attention to the frosting-stained apron. Powdered sugar still dotted the front. The scent of bleach drifted from my hands. His shoulders relaxed a little.

  “And a not-very-original bakery at that,” I added. “Kate went into early labor, all right? I’ve just been filling in.”

  “Fine.” He stood up and brushed himself off. “Whatever. I don’t have time for this.”

  What was with him? Who was that paranoid about burglary, anyway? He must have some sort of relationship with Sophia. He squatted down to pick up the scattered supplies. I attempted to help by grabbing my crutch. The shoulder padding hooked a bag of baking powder and pulled it my way just as he reached for it. He scowled a
gain and glanced at his watch.

  “Late,” he muttered. “Stupid—”

  “Sorry. Look, I can get this if you need to go.”

  Grumpy-face didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened. He pointed at my boot and crutches. “Can you?”

  “Listen, I’m sorry about what happened. I just … you startled me. She didn’t tell me to expect a delivery and I’m new here.”

  He said nothing. His nostrils flared as he shoved the rest of the things back into the box and straightened up. Just as I hobbled out of his way, he slid past me, deftly avoiding getting tangled in the crutches. I followed him into the prep area. He started to sling the boxes onto the table, but I stopped him with a cry.

  “Wait! I just sanitized that.”

  He clenched his teeth. The muscles in his neck tightened. “Then where do you want them?” he muttered.

  “Just put them … over there.”

  I pointed to the far counter on the other side of the room, then regretted it when he ground his teeth. Almost at a run, he loped across the room, shoved the boxes onto the counter, and dashed back for the others. Even before my injury, I couldn’t have moved as fast as him.

  “What are you late for?” I asked.

  “Class.”

  My eyes widened. He had to be at least twenty-eight. “You’re in college?”

  The end of a tattoo on his arm peeked out from underneath his long sleeve—which seemed an odd fashion choice in such intense summer heat. When he turned to grab the last box, I caught sight of an old piercing in his right ear. No. Scratch that. Piercings all the way up the shell of his ear, in fact. He had to have had eight at one point. Was that the top half of a skull tattoo on the back of his neck?

  How intriguing.

  “Yeah,” he muttered and shoved the last box onto the counter. “In college.”

  He disappeared out the back and slammed his door before I heard the angry belch of a truck speeding out of the alley.

  I drew in a deep breath and let it back out.

  What a strange delivery man.

  Staring at the close, fading confines of my bedroom the next day left me with a blank feeling inside. This old trailer—which hadn’t even been new when Mom and Dad bought it before their divorce—had long been declining. Rusted spots covered the exterior. The windowpane above my bed cracked when I was ten, and we still hadn’t fixed it. In the wind, it whistled. Even the carpet seemed dead. Weather beaten. Too tired to fight back.

  “Grief,” I muttered. “I need to move.”

  I’d accepted that the marathon wouldn’t happen this year. Now, I just yearned for life without crutches. They hurt my armpits and wore calluses on the heel of my hands. Not to mention how much easier life would be if I didn’t have to haul them with me everywhere.

  The usual murmur of the television filled the living room when I stepped out of my room. Mom sat on the couch, surrounded by a wall of three different bags of potato chips and a plastic cup of sunflower seed shells. The sparkly foil of a candy bar wrapper gleamed from the ground. She normally hid her candy splurges. Maybe she didn’t care anymore.

  The A/C unit groaned from the window right across from her, blowing with full force. Two other fans were pointed her way, and perspiration still dotted her forehead. She wiped at it with her sleeve.

  Mail scattered the floor by the front door. Mom always left it there—she couldn’t safely bend over—so I carefully balanced on one leg and lowered myself down. Nothing of consequence. I padded into the living room and tossed the envelopes onto the couch next to her. She glanced at it, then picked up the remote and flipped to another channel.

  My stomach growled. Maybe I was hungry. Still, I searched the fridge and settled on some cut-up watermelon and a water bottle. The air was cooler out here than in my room. I relished it while I slurped the slushy fruit pieces. Mom whizzed through the television channels, her legs propped up on an ottoman. Dishes cluttered the sink, and dots of food littered the floor. I frowned.

  Why was it so dirty?

  Because I’m the one who cleans, I thought. Another role? If so, a stupid one. I blinked. If my role was to clean—which, in hindsight, it absolutely was—then what was Mom’s? The sound of her voice startled me out of my thoughts.

  “You going to be home tomorrow?” she asked.

  I turned around. “No. I have work all day again.”

  “Oh.”

  “Need something?”

  “Just out of a few things in the kitchen.”

  My chest felt heavy again. Was it disgust? I couldn’t tell sometimes. The sheer fact that I didn’t really recognize most of my emotions still startled me.

  “I don’t think I can get it.”

  “Why not?”

  “My ankle?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Oh. Right. How is that, by the way?”

  “Ah, it’s coming along.” I moved out of the kitchen, past the table still piled high with unopened food, and toward the living room. I stopped just behind the couch. “Can you have it delivered instead? I still can’t drive. Bitsy has been taking me to work every day, and I have an appointment with Ja … I have a thing tomorrow.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Yeah, I just hate the extra charge.”

  No, I thought. You just hate getting it from the porch and bringing it inside.

  Another role? No. That was a chore. Not a role. Perhaps Mom’s role was even more subtle than mine. Moneymaker. No, graphic designer? Sort of. Thinking about roles in terms of her life was even more confusing than my own. If I peeled away what my mom did—which wasn’t decidedly easy because she didn’t actually do much—what was left?

  A woman addicted to food?

  I shook my head to clear the thoughts. “Sorry about the charge, but I don’t think we can avoid it for a while,” I said.

  She grabbed another potato chip and crunched into it. “You get a new job?”

  “Yeah. Temporary. Working at a bakery. I’m done in just a few days.”

  She met my gaze for the first time. “Oh?” Her voice lifted. “Didn’t know that. The food good?”

  A rush of something cold trickled down my spine. “Not sure. I haven’t had any.”

  “None?”

  “None.”

  “Well, you’ll have to bring home any day-old stuff sometime.”

  “Yeah.” My heart sank, and I didn’t know why. “Sure.”

  The television pulled her back with its tenacious tentacles. My mouth opened, then closed. Words I wanted to say sat on the tip of my tongue. Did you see me when I was a teenager? Did you know what decisions I was making while you escaped with the television?

  Did you care?

  I brushed the questions away. They’d arisen before. I’d never voiced them. Of course she cared. It was just different now. It hadn’t always been this way, of course. Back when we bonded over food and being overweight, our relationship had been stronger. Intense—swinging from hatred to love like a pendulum—but at least it’d had substance. Losing 110 pounds had changed everything.

  Now I wasn’t sure that I knew her at all.

  “Hey, Mom. What’s your favorite food?”

  Her brow furrowed in concentration. “Not sure if I could really pin it down. I love pasta in all its many forms. Although a good piece of fried chicken sometimes hits the spot. Then again, Chinese sounds good too.” She glanced up at me. “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Huh. What about you?”

  Arrested by surprise—this was the first attempt on her part to have a conversation in a long time—I paused. A spark of the mom I used to know still lived within her.

  “I’m pretty partial to Thai food these days.”

  “Chicken pad thai is yummy.”

  “Hey, did you ever look at the ingredient list for that carrot cake? Still sounds good to me.”

  She hesitated, a chip halfway to her mouth. “Oh, no. I forgot.”

  “Okay. Well, whenever you want.”

  She gave me a thu
mbs-up, then disappeared back into her television show. I rinsed out the watermelon container, put it into the dishwasher along with the fork, and hobbled back to my room with my water bottle in hand. As soon as the door muffled the sounds of the TV, I breathed easy again.

  Chapter 7

  Forgiveness

  The next day, I walked into Wings of Hope Counseling Services alone. Bitsy dropped me off before running to pick up her daughters from soccer practice. The sweltering summer air followed me inside. The receptionist—who I finally remembered was named Margery—smiled.

  “Welcome back, Rachelle. Janine will be ready in just a moment.”

  “Thanks. Oh, I meant to ask, when do I get billed?”

  “Billed?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t received anything in the mail. Bitsy said she’d pay my first one, but last week was technically my second. Do I pay as I go? Bill it to insurance or something? I doubt I’m covered.”

  Her brow furrowed. She tapped on her keyboard, perused something, then smiled brightly again. “It’s all taken care of.”

  “Oh. But … I need to pay something eventually, right?”

  She smiled again. “All covered.”

  I squinted. “Bitsy?”

  “They asked not to be named and wished to remain anonymous.”

  “Uh … okay.”

  Before I could make my way to the waiting room, Janine slipped out of her office with her usual warm smile. “Come on back, Rachelle. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Hi.”

  When I settled on the couch, nervousness fluttered in my belly. I hadn’t figured out who I was without my roles. However, I didn’t feel the same sense of dread that the last two visits had triggered. That was something.

  “So?” Janine asked, eyebrows high. “How are you?”

  “Good.”

  “Did your week go all right?”

  She sat in her usual chair, ivory pumps crossed at the ankles, a modest, knee-length skirt and matching teal blazer completing her usual ensemble. She smiled in that non-judgmental way she had. Somehow, I could tell she actually cared.

  I shrugged. “I think so.”

  “A good start. How did your homework go?”

  I chewed my lower lip, then stopped. No doubt Janine was analyzing everything—even my nervous tics.