by Remy Lai
“I—I forgot.”
She stands up and wheels the suitcase away. I hear her tossing things in my room. A while later she comes back with a paper bag. She goes to the coffee table and dumps books—my cookbooks—into the bag.
“I’ll be back soon,” she says, still not looking at me. “Yanghao’s sleeping, but give him his dinner when he wakes up.”
“Where are you going with those books?” I ask.
“Library. To return them. I’ve also confiscated your library cards.”
It no longer matters because I’ve made all the Pie in the Sky cakes, but for some reason, I can’t let it go. “You said that my English has improved since reading those cookbooks—”
“From now on, you and Yanghao will only go to the library with me. You can only borrow storybooks.” Without casting one glance at me, she straightens up and heads toward the door. “No more cookbooks.”
There is a wail. Yanghao stands in the hallway. The skin near the black thread stitched across his right temple is red. That will surely leave a scar.
“Let us make cakes, Mama!” he cries.
I want to tell him it doesn’t matter. We’ve made all the Pie in the Sky cakes. If things haven’t gotten better, there is nothing more I can do. My life on Mars will simply be stuck on stinky. But this time my lips don’t obey me and I swear at them—only in my mind, since they’re not doing what I want them to.
Mama tells him to go back to bed. He walks away, but continues wailing. She bends down to slip on her shoes. “You’re the older brother, and you should’ve known better, Jingwen.”
I stare at Rules for Making Cakes.
“These cookbooks can’t help much with your English. Because what use are almond and double-boiler outside of a kitchen? The reason why you find English so hard is because you refuse to use it. You need to be more like Yanghao.”
She wants me to use English? Fine.
At last, she turns to look at me.
It’s the same look she had when I asked her why we came to Australia without Papa, maybe more miserable. I know I’ve hurt her, but I just can’t say sorry. All that’s in my head is a gif of a volcano spewing lava. Mama takes a deep breath and walks out.
For some bizarre reason, now it’s not only my lips, but also the rest of my body that is acting beyond my control. I shoot to my feet, pick up the dictionary, and hurl it so hard into the trash can that the garbage topples over. The dictionary rolls out and flops open to show me double pages full of English words. Mocking me.
I don’t care about those words printed on the pages, but only those words I said.
Those English words I said, I didn’t mean them.
I said what I didn’t mean.
I meant what I didn’t say: I’m sorry.
59
It must have been thirty seconds later.
My heart beats so hard, so fast, so loud.
What if those words are the last words I ever say to Mama? If something happens to her on her way to the library, my brain will surely remember I hate you.
No matter how hard I beg my brain, I can’t remember the last thing I said to Papa or the last thing we did together. What was he doing? Where was he going? What was he thinking? My memories of him are like a swarm of monsters locked in that suitcase under my bed. Every day I let a few go. Just a few. Because one more than that will kill me.
But I have let go and let go and let go, and now there is only one monster left.
At the very bottom was Papa’s signature.
Underneath it, the date, ten days before my birthday.
The day of the crash.
60
The monster that has escaped from my suitcase is raking its claws all over me. All those cakes I made are not luring it away. I play that morphing game Yanghao and I used to play. Metal shields materialize all round my legs, arms, torso, head.
* * *
Mama comes home safely from the library. Seeing her walk in allows me to throw some of the seashells in my pocket back into the sea.
But the next day, the tide washes them all back up onto the beach.
Saturday begins with Mama’s announcement that Anna will babysit Yanghao and me from 4 to 8 P.M., Monday to Friday. Mama has changed her shift so she’ll be gone from 9 A.M. to 8 P.M. There will be zero chance for cake making. Which is very ha-ha-ha, since I’ve made all the cakes I needed to make, and I’ve gotten into all this trouble and hurt Mama and Yanghao for nothing. Only the thought of listening to Anna talk like a robot for four hours every day stops me from laughing. There is nothing I can do. So I put myself into automatic mode, like a robot (though not an annoying one like Anna).
It’s a relief to have a heart made of metal and nuts and bolts that feels nothing. But my smart robot brain knows that even machines break down.
61
On Thursday night, two weeks later, my robot heart short- circuits.
Anna is slowly reading The Little Prince with Yanghao, and I’m at the dining table trying to do my homework when Mama comes home.
Anna finally leaves, and Mama fishes out a letter from her handbag. “It’s from Ah-po and Ah-gong. There are no individual letters. It’s addressed to the three of us.” She hands me three whole pages of the letter and a torn page with three lines of Ah-po’s handwriting.
I say, “What happened here?”
“I tore away the recipe for rainbow cake.”
Yanghao says, “Oh!”
Mama continues. “Ah-po thought I asked for the rainbow cake recipe for your birthday, Jingwen.”
My twelfth birthday. In four weeks’ time. Which means that in four weeks minus ten days, we will have been without Papa for two whole years.
“Are you going to make rainbow cake for Jingwen’s birthday, Mama?” Yanghao asks.
Mama tidies up Yanghao’s storybooks that are scattered all over the coffee table. She says nothing.
Yanghao looks at me for an answer.
I lower my head and stare at my homework. Sparks are flying inside my robot heart.
I was wrong all along.
Rainbow cake is supposed to be on the menu of Pie in the Sky.
Everything has not become all right because I haven’t finished making all the Pie in the Sky cakes.
Everything has not become all right because I haven’t made rainbow cake.
Everything will be all right once I make this last cake.
Papa’s cake.
62
While Mama is in the shower, I search for the recipe. It isn’t in her handbag or anywhere in her room. She must have put it in that cubbyhole at Barker Bakes, the same place where she keeps all her cookbooks.
And that’s where I go on Friday after English tutoring.
“Because she’s mad at me, so she won’t,” I say.
“She’s not mad anymore.”
“Not at you. Never at you. Because I’m the older one, and I’m supposed to know better. You’ll never understand because you’ll always be a little brother.”
“Let’s go to the library and book a computer and Google the recipe.”
“No.”
He places a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll do all the talking.”
I shrug his hand off me. “Booger. It’s not that. For the other cakes we could use any recipe because Papa and I were just practicing, but the rainbow cake recipe is special. It’s been passed down from our great-great-great-great-grandparents. The ones on the internet won’t be the same.”
“Ooooh.” He’s caving. Convincing him will be a piece of cake. Which is an idiom I just learned from Miss Scrappell.
“Do this one thing for me. For my birthday.”
“It’s still weeks away.”
“As my brother.”
He lets out a sigh that’s too big for someone so little. “Okay, okay.”
Piece of cake! There are probably two more times in our whole lives that I can play that brother card.
“But Mama’s in there. She’ll see me.
Even if she doesn’t, someone else will, and they’ll ask me what I’m doing in the staff-only area. What if they think I’m a thief and call the police?”
I pace around in tighter circles. “Help me think of a better idea, then.”
Yanghao peers into the café. “Maybe we can ask your friend.”
I don’t have a friend. But I look up anyway.
Ben’s sitting at a table. He isn’t eating. Instead, there’s a big cardboard poster and pieces of colorful paper in front of him. He’s doing the math project I’m supposed to be doing with him, the one that’s supposed to be exhibited this Monday, which is three days away.
“Your friend really likes cakes too, huh?” Yanghao says. “This is the second time we’ve seen him here.”
“Ben’s not my friend.”
Yanghao squints at Ben. “He’s not the one who you think said something mean about you, is he? That was the tall boy, wasn’t it?”
“Ben, too. I heard him and the tall boy talking at the playground the other day. Ben also said I was s l o w.”
I smack his hand down. “What are you talking about?”
He points to Ben. “That boy in there, the one that likes cake a lot. Ben? I heard him at the playground. He said whipping egg whites by hand was s l o w. He wasn’t talking about you at all!”
“But—But—” There is nothing more to that sentence.
I’ve horribly misunderstood Ben. I didn’t hear my name mentioned at the playground, but because he was with Joe, and because of what happened with Joe and the word s l o w, I assumed they were talking about me. I was a booger for thinking that just because Ben hangs out with Joe sometimes that Ben is as evil as Joe. After all, I hang out with Yanghao a lot, but I sure hope I’m not as annoying as him. I smack my forehead.
“Look,” Yanghao says, peering into the café again. “He knows Mama’s boss.”
Ben is indeed talking to Heather. She ruffles his hair and gives him a hug. Heather then disappears into the staff-only area. I turn back to look at Ben. He’s staring at Yanghao and me. I yip and duck. But Yanghao waves and beckons for him to come out.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“He knows Heather. Maybe we can ask him to get the recipe for us.”
“You booger—” I say, but then think it could be a good idea. If Ben is willing to help me even though I’ve been such a jerk lately.
Ben steps outside, looking bewildered.
“Tell him, Jingwen,” Yanghao says.
Yanghao pipes up. “He said what for?”
“I know that, booger,” I say, but then I don’t have the next English words. “Yanghao, translate for me. Tell Ben how Joe called me s l o w in school, and then tell him about the playground thing where I thought he called me s l o w.”
As I talk to Yanghao, a look of total confusion spreads across Ben’s face. That must be how I look to everyone when they speak to me in English.
Yanghao turns to Ben and prattles off English-that-sounds-like-Martian, but I catch Joe, slow, playground. He also says booger, which 100 percent refers to me, and I’m about to tell him not to add personal comments, but Ben is looking less confused.
“Yanghao, tell Ben I’m sorry I threw away his cake, but it was because I thought he and Joe were playing a trick on me.”
“He gave you cake, and you threw it away?” Yanghao almost-yells. “You said we can’t throw away food!” He utters another bunch of Martian words, and Ben looks at me.
“Joe is Ben’s cousin,” Yanghao says to me before turning back to Ben. “Do you know Heather?”
“How do you know my mom?” Ben asks.
Yanghao then says a lot more things to him. Rainbow cake, our mom, recipe, please.
Ben’s expression is like that of a mime’s, changing from are-they-cuckoo to are-they-really-doing-this to that’s-strange-but-somewhat-curious to that’s-cool.
“Okay.” He chuckles. That’s all he says before marching into the café.
Two minutes later, he scuttles back out with one hand in his pocket.
“Yanghao,” I say, “ask Ben what I can do for the math project.”
Yanghao translates for me, and Ben’s eyes light up. “Meet me here tomorrow morning. We’ll finish the project. Nine o’clock?”
I haven’t paid much attention to the project this past two weeks because Ben wasn’t talking to me, and because I was sure I’d be sent down to fourth grade next term—just thinking about it makes me grimace. But now that I know there’s still one last cake to make before everything is fixed, there may be a miracle. So I’d better buck up.
63
I hatch a plan: On Sunday, Yanghao will ask Mama to take him to the zoo or the pineapple under the sea or wherever he wants. I’ll say I can’t go because I have a lot of homework to do. Which isn’t a lie. While they’re away for a few hours, I’ll make a rainbow cake and keep a slice for Yanghao to enjoy in secret. Mama has no reason to suspect I’ll be making cakes, since I don’t have any cookbooks.
“What if Mama asks Anna to babysit you?” Yanghao asks.
Sometimes, maybe once or twice in his whole life, he’s not such a clueless booger, but I’d never tell him that. “You have to ask Anna to go with you to the zoo or wherever. You’re already best friends with her anyway.”
“That’d be too sweet,” I say.
“Then too bad—”
“But I can make caramel sauce and keep it on the side. You can pour it on your slice of cake.”
* * *
But early Saturday morning, I’m woken up by the ring of the telephone.
I get to the living room as Mama is hanging up the phone. “I have to go to work,” she says. “A colleague called in sick. I’ll get Anna to babysit.” She goes next door, but when she comes back, Anna isn’t with her; Ginger is. “Anna’s on her way out, so she can’t babysit. I should be back around four.” She looks me dead in the eyes. “Jingwen, will you look after your brother?”
I nod.
“No making cakes. Or I’m going to be furious. Promise?”
I have to make one more cake. This is the perfect chance. If I don’t lie today, I’ll have to lie tomorrow according to the plan anyway. This chance has been gifted to me by the deities or the universe, which is being nice for once.
64
Rainbow cake doesn’t look too complicated to make. The frosting is simple whipped cream. The cake bit is basically the same sponge cake recipe for all seven layers, except a different food coloring is added to each. In the whipped cream filling between the layers, there’s fresh fruit: kiwi, mango, and strawberry.
Yanghao and I have plenty of time to bake and wipe clean evidence of illegal cake making before Mama comes home.
Later, at the grocery store, as we search through the aisles for ingredients, he starts singing another made-up song. “Rainbow caaaake!”
I shush him, but he continues as we wait on line to pay. After Yanghao’s smoke alarm accident, every time I got my allowance, I stuck it into the can, so I had to take some back out before we left home. Yanghao has no idea. And it’s still just borrowing.
When we’re stepping out of the store, Yanghao shuts up. But only for one second.
“What did you say yes to?” I ask.
“Sarah asked me to play at the playground. We can go once her mum comes out of the store.”
Inside my head, something goes pop! “What about our rainbow cake?”
“Ah,” he says.
How could he have forgotten about it when it’s the very reason we are here at the store in the first place?
He tugs at my sleeve. “Can I play for ten minutes? It’s not even nine o’clock now. We have a lot of time before Mama comes back at four.”
I yank my sleeve free. “No.”
“Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—”
“No.”
He huffs, then turns to Sarah.
Several seconds later, I hear Yanghao. “Jingwen! Wait!”
I don’t slow down. He ca
tches up with me as I cut through the bus station. At least he chose me over Sarah.
“I told Sarah I’ll meet her later, after the rainbow cake is done. I’m meeting her at the playground at three o’clock. I’ll call Mama and ask.”
He doesn’t get it. It is not just about the cake. “We’re not making the caramel sauce,” I say.
“But you said you’d make it for me.”
“You can’t combine caramel with rainbow cake. Too sweet. Makes everyone vomit.”
Yanghao stops. His face scrunches up. Tears glisten in his eyes, but he doesn’t wail.
“Don’t be a crybaby.”
“I. Am. Not. A. Cry. Baby.”
Each English word lands with a plop! Plop! Plop! It feels like the moment when he dropped the rainbow cake on the plane all over again. I snatch his grocery bag from him. “I’m sick of you showing off your English. Add this one last rule to Rules for Making Cakes…”
I stomp home.
I don’t look back.
65
Yanghao doesn’t run after me or shout, “Jingwen! Wait!”
I only slow down when I pass by Barker Bakes and spot Ben inside. Oh no! I’m supposed to meet him for our project. I turn to step inside to ask him if we could work on our project tomorrow instead. But I stop at the door. The only English words I have are I can’t.
Ben doesn’t notice me. He’s laying out the big cardboard poster on a table.
Yanghao doesn’t appear. He must be in snail mode. He can’t give me the words to give to Ben.
I back away from the door and hurry past the café. I need to bake the rainbow cake today. Right now. Who knows when Mama will be called in for work on a weekend again? Once I make this cake, everything will be all right. Everything. I don’t dare peek from the corner of my eye to see if Ben saw me.
