Cakespell

by Gaby Triana

  Patent leather heels click along our tile floor. When she sees the three of us in mid-scramble, she cocks her head. “What are you all doing?” Lovely Mother strolls in, straight long black hair matching tall, skinny pants. She drops her beloved designer bag onto a counter stool and eyes the mess. “Rose? Is that a cake pan?”

  “Yes, we were just clearing out the rest of my things. Since I’m not baking anymore, you know.” I give her a nervous smile.

  “Then why is there powdered sugar on the counter?” LM’s gaze zeros in on me.

  “Scouring powder, Mom. We were deep cleaning. To surprise you.” I eye Sabrina who’s closest to the powdered sugar.

  “Yup,” Sabrina chimes in, sopping up the sugar with her wet sponge. “Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere…” She sings the Barney song. I almost die.

  “Well, thank you,” LM’s tone softens. “I do love seeing my kitchen clean.” Her attention returns to her phone, giving us a momentary relief from her scrutinizing gaze.

  I hate to tell her, but it’s my kitchen. She never actually uses it for anything other than storing water, ginger root, and kale. Its state-of-cleanliness should be none of her concern.

  “Did you finish your Math project?” LM looks up with a raised eyebrow.

  “Almost.” Haven’t even started. “That’s what we were going to work on just as soon as we finished…you know…cleaning.” I glance at Sabrina and Alex, making sure we were on the same lying wavelength.

  They nod.

  I nod.

  We’re good.

  “Good,” my mother says. “Just because it’s a teacher’s workday doesn’t mean you can relax. You should be studying.” Suddenly, her eyes snap to something on the counter. It’s clear and see-through, and ugh, we didn’t hide it in time. She walks toward it, just as Alex tries to snatch it away. They both lift the wobbly impression mat at the same time. “Rose?”

  Alex shakes the plastic mat for making patterns on fondant. It makes a woozy noise. “What is this thing?”

  “It’s an impression mat. Thanks for finding it!” I yank the mat out of their hands. “Now I can get rid of it along with everything else.”

  “Rose?” Lovely Mother is not buying it. Her sharp eyes cut into me. “And this?” She crouches to pick up a flower cutter from the floor clearly covered in powdered sugar. Freshly used. Forget it—I’m dead. “Were you baking again?”

  “Not technically, no. Today, I decorated.”

  “Rose? Why would you be decorating when we had an understanding?”

  I laugh nervously. “It’s amazing the mess a cake can leave behind, isn’t it? Like having a baby. So much chaos for such a cute little end product.”

  “Rose?”

  “Mom…” My shoulders droop in defeat. “I had that baby shower cake to make, remember? I was already contracted before you asked me to stop. I couldn’t back out of it. It’s unprofessional.”

  “Unprofessional? Rose, you’re not a real baker. You’re a student.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, Sabrina and Alex wince in pain. “They’d already paid their deposit. I couldn’t back out of it,” I explain.

  She scoffs and throws up her hand. “And how much did they pay you this time—twenty bucks? Barely enough to cover your materials, not nearly enough for all the time you wasted on this?”

  Wasted? “Fifty bucks,” I clarify. “Which is a lot. For me.”

  “Fifty bucks, twenty bucks, it’s not that big a difference.”

  “It’s big to me. And a start.”

  “A start to what?”

  “Owning a business.”

  “A cake business?” She presses a hand to her chest. “No. We talked about this. For one, you don’t know the first thing about business. You need math and organization for that, two skills you’re lacking.”

  “I can help her with that,” Alexandre interjects. Bless his heart, but can he just stay out of it? I glare at him. Alexandre goes back to sweeping. My mother stares at him like she just realized he was here.

  “Mom, I’ve already learned a lot.”

  “This isn’t learning. This is slaving away at a time when you should be focused on school. Making a holy mess of my kitchen so someone can avoid paying real money at a real bakery is not learning.”

  Ouch. Thanks so much for that.

  “I’m sorry, Rose, but I made myself very clear last week. No cake sketches lying around, no butter thawing on the counter, no grease in my sink, no baking, decorating, nothing. And yet, you haven’t kept your end of the bargain.”

  “What do you have against baking?” That’s all I want to know.

  She stops her fuming to stare at me.

  “It’s just baking. It’s fun.” I shrug.

  “Will fun pay the bills? Will fun get you through college?”

  “It’s better than stripping,” I point out.

  Sabrina and Alex drop their heads. I am doomed. Finished. Rose was a nice girl and we loved her while she was here.

  My mother cranes her neck, and I know she’s summoning her inner velociraptor. “Is that supposed to be funny? Are you being smart with me right now?”

  “I’m just—what if I don’t want to go to college?” There. I said it.

  Her jaw drops. I’ve just uttered her worst nightmare. “Great. So I’m paying college fund fees for a daughter not interested in pursuing a decent career. Just great.”

  “I never said that. I said, what if.”

  Okay, I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe I’m not college material. Maybe, because I have this pretty decent culinary talent, I can start capitalizing on it right after high school or go to a pastry arts program. Is that such a bad thing? It’ll save her a ton of money, and I’d be doing something I love.

  I didn’t mean to open this can of worms, especially with my friends cowering in the corner. I feel bad that they’re just standing there. “It was just a hypothetical question. Sorry I went against your word.”

  She picks up her purse and heads to the hallway. There she pauses. When she looks back at me with hard anger in her eyes, I know the jig is up. “Here’s what you’re going to do…”

  Ugh, here we go.

  “You’re going to finish cleaning. Then, you’re going to work on your math project. Then, you’re going to make me a list of three other interests that don’t involve domestic skills, interests that might actually provide you with a reliable income in the future, so you won’t need to depend on anyone whenever the economy decides to tank. Got it?”

  “Mom—”

  “And then, you’re going to take all this baking…stuff.” Her eyes rake across the kitchen. “And you’re going to get it out of the house.”

  “No.”

  “No? I’m sorry, what? Rose Zapata, you’ve made enough cakes. It’s time to focus on school, or so help me…”

  “Mom—”

  “Gone. All of it. No more orders. Your schoolwork is all that matters.”

  “I can’t! I have another order for next Sunday!”

  “Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? Return the money.”

  “Mom, please! It’s not just about the money. They won’t have enough time to find another baker who does the kind of stuff I do. Not for the same cost.”

  “I fail to see how that’s my problem, Rose. My only concern is you and your future. I want it gone. I don’t care where you put it. Sell it for all I care.”

  Tears sting my eyes, but I can’t say anything, can’t defend myself, can’t anything. I feel like Ariel when King Triton blows up her grotto. Why can’t she get it that I love baking? Doesn’t she want me to be happy?

  “You just want me to be miserable like you.” My words shoot out of my mouth like darts—foop, foop, foop. I hear Sabrina gasp.

  Maybe, I almost hear my mother think, her impeccably painted cat eyes studying me.

  “I want it all gone by dinner time,” LM says, ignoring my question. Then, as if she might actually be a human mother with a fleshy heart b
eating inside her ribcage, she adds, “I’m sorry. I know you hate me now, but you’ll thank me later.” She disappears down the hall, heel clicks punctuating her departure.

  I hang my head. For a moment, I can’t breathe. Then, the tears spill over.

  “Man. Talk about a bad day at work.” Sabrina hands me a napkin.

  “Why does she get like that?” Alex rests his hand on my shoulder. “It’s just a cake.”

  The million-dollar question. “She doesn’t like messes.” But even I know there has to be more.

  “But this wasn’t even, like, your biggest mess. I’ve seen bigger.” Sabrina plays with my hair. Of course, it has nothing to do with messes. It has to do with her will against mine. About fitting me into her mold. About turning me into her.

  Well, I’m not her. I’m me. And that’s just how it is.

  Sabrina and Alex go back to helping me clean. I’m grateful to have them with me. Together, we make the kitchen sparkle and shine. As if I was never here at all.

  On Papa’s doorstep, I stand surrounded by boxes of all my baking equipment. My grandfather is seventy-nine and lives in a tiny townhouse my mother found for him after Nana died. He washes the same plate and cup every day and makes lentil soup every Thursday. On Fridays, he calls to see if I want to come over and have leftovers. I always wonder why not on Thursdays when he actually makes the soup.

  I wave at Sabrina and her mom in their car. Sabrina gives me that sad smile, lips pressed together, the sympathetic one. I ring the doorbell again. “Hello?”

  A pair of slippers shuffles toward the door. “Put another nickel in…”

  “The nickelodeon,” I mumble the secret password then wave to Sabrina’s mom, so she can drive off.

  Two locks come undone, and the door opens. Half bald, wearing workout shorts, a white undershirt, and flip-flops, Papa stares at me. “You’re a mess. All that crap coming in here?”

  I’m the mess?

  The smell of lentil soup, his concerned face, and the framed photo of him and my grandmother on the wall behind him make my heart ache. Black and white, glamorous Hollywood couple. It makes me smile with nostalgia every time I see it. Except now. I fall into his arms and start crying.

  “There, there.” He pats me on the back. “The evil witch.”

  It takes me a whole minute before I can gather enough words. “She’s not evil, Papa,” I sniffle. “She just doesn’t like messes.”

  “Don’t defend her, Rose. I know my daughter.” He takes out a handkerchief and wipes my nose. “You’re welcome to bake here, pumpkin.”

  “I can?” Waves of relief wash over me.

  “Can’t stop someone from doing what they love.” He sighs, heavy and long, like an air mattress with a small hole in it. “Come on. Let’s get all these boxes in the house.”

  I love my grandpa.

  Papa used to be a classic alpha male from back in the day, the kind of man who single-handedly made all the household money, just so my grandmother could stay home and raise the kids. I say used to be, because ever since Nana died, he’s a whole new person. My mother reminds me every day how their way of life is “no longer relevant in today’s world,” and “it’s not good for us modern women.”

  Correct me if I’m wrong, but Nana must’ve been in heaven having a husband who could pay the bills by himself. That way, she could take care of the house, kids, and anything else she wanted to do. What’s so terrible about that? That’s serious jackpot.

  According to my mom, though—everything. “That type of marriage creates a dynamic where wives feel helpless without men. Then men feel they can rule women. Because of that, we all need to work, if only to preserve our dignity.”

  Pardon mon français, Lovely Mother, mais that sucks!

  I sit at his kitchen table, staring at my bowl, thankful that he doesn’t ask a million questions. Shunned. Evicted. From my own kitchen. Papa says I can bake here, but how will I get away with it every weekend without LM finding out?

  Through the window and across the backyard is a nice view of the clubhouse and pool with a few old people sitting around it. “That’s the new pool, huh? Maybe you could go swimming every day,” I suggest.

  “I do.” Papa ladles soup into my avocado green bowl. “With Sheila every morning in her red bikini to greet me.”

  I know this Sheila. She lives down the street. She gardens and rocks an awesome body for an old lady. Even I can’t rock a bikini, and I’m only fifteen. But I don’t want to think about my grandfather having feelings for her. “So you swim with her? That’s good exercise.” I pick up my spoon.

  “She’s good exercise alright.” He returns to the stove. “Gooood exercise.”

  Ew. I burn my tongue. “Papa, please. It’s bad enough you’re the hot bachelor of the seniors’ community. I don’t need to hear details.”

  He sits opposite me at the kitchen table and leans forward like someone might overhear us. “She says I look like Dirty Harry.”

  “Papa, I mean it. I don’t need to hear that stuff. Really.”

  “Dirty Harry, Rose. Clint Eastwood? You watch all those movies from my time. You should know him. Ahh… never mind.” Thin tendrils of curly steam rise from his bowl. Thoughtfully, he blows on it for a while. “When’s your mother coming to see me?”

  “I don’t know. She had a closing today.” Lies. I just don’t want him to feel disappointed thinking my mom doesn’t care about him enough to visit. Honestly, though, I’m getting tired of covering for her.

  “Too busy to visit the old man is what she is.”

  I don’t deny it. I just go on pretending to love lentils. “Mmm.”

  “Good, isn’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  We eat in silence, fine by me. “Rosie, I’m sorry you’re having trouble with your mother. It was a matter of time, I guess.” He pours sweet tea into two glasses. “We didn’t raise her to be the way she is, but she is who she is.”

  Understatement. She’s so different from us. It’s like Papa, Nana, and I are on one side of the Venn Diagram, and my mom is all alone on another.

  “Why is she always so mad?”

  He shrugs. “It’s everybody’s nature to want to be different from their parents, to be themselves. Even you. You don’t want to be anything like her, do you?”

  Hell no. I shake my head.

  “Right. Well, Katherine’s always considered herself the newer, more improved model of Nana. The problem is…” He stares into his soup as though the rest of his thought floats there.

  “Is?”

  His face reflects a different man. Not the loverboy of a moment ago, but a man who loved a woman once upon a time. “Nana was perfect the way she was.”

  I watch his crinkly eyes and fuzzy eyebrows twitch. This man never, ever tried to dominate my grandma. How could my mom even suggest that?

  “Do you still believe I’m like her?” It’s been eleven years since she died. I was four. I forget what Nana was like sometimes.

  He snaps out of it and examines me. “Sure you are. Like her twin, with differences, of course. But Rose, you need to know something.” He dips his bread into the lentils. When he glances up again, he’s in listen-to-me mode. “Your grandma was a magical woman.”

  That’s so cute. “Yes, I know, you keep telling me that.”

  “No, really. She was a magical woman.”

  “What?”

  He leans in and whispers, “She had powers. Your grandmother was an enchantress.”

  Oh-kay…

  In fourth grade, my teacher made us watch a video of Edgar Allan Poe dramatizations. “The Tell-Tale Heart” had an actor playing the old man character who looked bat-shit crazy with a mad spark in his filmy gray eyes. That’s how Papa looks right now.

  “Papa?” I lean into him. “Is it happening? Are you…you know…going senile?”

  He chuckles. I love that he doesn’t take me seriously. LM would’ve lost it by now. “And a real knockout of an enchantress, too, I might add.” H
e winks his bad-boy eye at me.

  He’s right. There’s a photo of Nana in his room where she’s leaning against a palm tree in the 60’s, wearing a sexy one-piece, and she was pretty hot. “Okay, but what do you mean she was an enchantress? You mean she cast a spell on you, a temptress of a woman, that sort of thing?”

  “No. Yes! No.” He points his spoon at me. “She was the best damned baker anybody ever knew, that’s what she was. Her desserts made people beg for more. She could make folks fall in love just by baking for them.”

  Aw, so adorable. “For a second there, I thought you meant she was really an enchantress, like having witch powers. Papa, you’re so funny.”

  His eyes grow so big just then, I have to swallow back my laughter. He goes past Edgar Allan Poe crazy straight to The Conjuring crazy. “Laugh, Rose, but it’s true.”

  I can’t help it, and let out a howl. Lentils fly up my nose.

  “Go ahead, get it out.” He waits while I choke on food. “For me, it was easy. I was already in love with her. But Lois wouldn’t give Eddie the time of day until he brought her some cookies Nana sold him. They’ve been together ever since. And Douglas and Lillian? Doug would’ve been a bachelor his whole life had Lilly not given him a cake made by Nana the very day before he left for college. They’ve been married fifty-five years now!”

  I have no clue who these people are. I grab a hold of my laughter and calm down, clearing my throat. “It’s probably just a coincidence,” I wheeze through my choking fit.

  His gaze holds mine a long second, then he goes back to drinking his soup.

  Uh, oh. I’ve hurt his feelings. I put down my spoon.

  Fine. So, my grandmother was considered a matchmaker in her day, like a magical cupid who flew around shooting people through the heart. “Then that’s one way Nana and I were different. My cakes don’t make people fall in love,” I sigh. “If they did, Caleb would be totally in love with me. He’s eaten enough of it.”

  “Who’s eaten enough of it?”

  “Nobody.” Only the love of my life. He just doesn’t know it yet, because I can’t seem to make him notice me as anything beyond the little girl who’s always lived next door.