by Gaby Triana
“Whatever. Another time is good,” I sigh. “Don’t forget I have scraps back here. Cake scraps always make everybody feel better.” I hold up the bowl so he can see it in the mirror. My primitive instinct is to turn away from those piercing eyes. But this time, I tell myself to hold his stare…hold it…just another second more. Like Sabrina does with every guy she ever talks to.
If she can do it, so can I.
Caleb tears his gaze from the mirror and hops out of the car, rounding the back to pop open the hatchback. “Thanks, I’ll have some later.” He pulls the towel on which the cake sits, another trick I learned to keep from plunging your fingers into the side of the cake, ruining everything you worked hard for.
Then, because maybe Life doesn’t hate me after all, he considers the bowl by my side. “Actually, that does look good.”
I point to one particular chunk with buttercream slathered on it. “That’s a good one right there.” That’s it, dearie…bite into it…
He pinches the piece between his fingers, then time slows down, as he brings it forward and it lands inside his beautiful mouth. Yes!
I watch with fascination as his eyes open wide, like his taste buds are experiencing flavor fusion. “Wow. That was a good one.”
If all Papa said is true, tomorrow, Caleb will wake up dreaming about me. He’ll get ready for school thinking about me, maybe even come to my house to offer me a ride. He’ll see hearts everywhere with my face inside them. He’ll have fever—Rose Fever. And he’ll be texting me all day. Yes, he’ll be looking at the world through Rose-colored glasses.
And I do mean Rose.
Nothing happens the rest of the day. Just Caleb driving me back to Papa’s in near-silence, and Papa coming home tired and ready for bed early. While I’m putting clean cake pans away in the kitchen, he stops in the doorway.
“Hi?”
He blinks a few times. “You just looked like your grandmother for a moment.” He shakes it off and heads down the hall. “I’ll be in watching TV, Rosie. You can let yourself out whenever you leave.”
“You gave me the spare key, so I’m good.”
“Tell your mother I say hello.”
“Will do. Thanks, Papa. I love you.”
“Love you too, kiddo.”
At school the next day, the bell rings, and Sperm-Man waves a book in the air. “See you Wednesday, ladies and gentlemen. Do not forget your book reports on The Canterbury Tales. It was a fascinating read.”
Oy. About as fascinating as the way your zipper is always down, Mr. Sherman.
I enter the hallway and merge with the river of students for no more than two seconds when I spot Alexandre, swimming upstream like a trout. “Rose Marie Zapata.” His eyes bug out. “I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Your cake yesterday was delectable.”
“You waited until today to tell me this?” I’m fake upset, of course. “You know artists get sensitive if you don’t compliment us on our work right away. And thanks, I happened to love the way the gift box came out.”
“The gift box rocked! It was the sparkly bow on top that did it.”
I smile. When one artist recognizes another artist’s details, that’s when you know you’ve done a great job. “Thanks, Alex.”
“I took photos of the cake with my sister and a few of her feeding a piece to Kurt.”
“Who?”
“Her boyfriend. Rose, I don’t know what you put in that cake. Not only was everybody raving about it, but around dinner time, Kurt stands up, kneels in front of my sister, and asks her to marry him, right there at Sammy’s.”
I halt in the hallway, as students bump their backpacks into me. “Marry?”
He nods. “After only going out together for like four months. The guy didn’t even have a ring with him or anything. It was très spontanée. My mom is so pissed!”
“No way.”
Was it…the Cakespell? What will Papa say when he hears this?
“The whole party was a huge success. Thanks, Rosie. Everyone fell in love with it.” Alexandre has a great smile when he actually uses it. And great lips. And pretty brown eyes with unfairly long lashes for a blond person, and I would know.
He takes off in the opposite direction, and I lose orientation for a second. Which class am I headed to? All I can think about is that someone got engaged last night after eating my cake. After Papa said the Cakespell would do stuff like that. It can’t be. Can it?
A bright light beams on inside my head, and I know. Know in my heart that it happened because of my cake. The hilarity of it catches up to me, and I grab the next person who walks by, an unsuspecting girl with short pink hair. “IT WORKS!” I shake her arm and yell in her face.
Mortal fear reflects in her eyes.
“IT REALLY WORKS!”
Six
After school, I race over to Corner Bakery and text my mom to pick me up there, so I can get a snack and work on my book report. With my bagel and cream cheese, I find a seat and sit to process everything. Did Alex’s sister’s boyfriend have plans to propose before the party last night? If so, shouldn’t he have brought a ring with him? Was Nana’s Cakespell responsible?
Of course, the obvious answer to this is NO. It was just a coincidence. A happy coincidence. Maybe it felt right. Maybe the stars lined up. Maybe Sammy’s chips and salsa were extra yummy last night.
Any number of reasons could’ve led to a marriage proposal. A lot of people get engaged after only a few months of seeing each other. At age twenty-one. It’s nothing to make a big deal over.
…
Okay, it’s a big deal, and I have to talk to Papa.
I call him up, and he finally answers after the seventh ring. “Hello?”
“Papa! I have to ask you something.”
“Hello, Rose. How are you?”
“Does the Cakespell only work if I give somebody cake, or will it work on whoever eats the cake?”
“I’m fine as well, thank you for asking.”
Ugh. “How are you, Papa?”
“Why, I’m doing great, pumpkin. So glad you called.”
“Okay, I get it. Can we talk now?”
“Shoot.”
“I did. I asked you a question.”
“Well, what usually happened with your grandmother was, whoever received the baked goodies as a gift would fall for the person who gave it to them—the giver.”
“Is that the only way it works?”
“Mm, yes. Well, no. It worked best when there was physical transference, too. As in somebody passing the cake from hand-to-hand to the other person.”
“What about hand-to-mouth? Like feeding them?”
“Oh, most definitely.”
I didn’t feed Caleb. He just took it from the bowl. Maybe not enough time has gone by. But Alex’s sister did feed her boyfriend-fiancé some cake. “How long after they eat it does it start working?”
“Why are you asking, Rosie? Did it work on someone?”
“Papa, just—hurry, I need to know. Mom will be here any moment to pick me up.”
“Fine, fine, don’t get your knickers in a twist. It starts working anywhere from right away to twenty-four hours. But it didn’t always. We spent years of trial-and-error before figuring out what worked, what didn’t. Giving baked goods to someone was definitely one thing that did.”
“So, it has to be a gift. It can’t be just anybody eating from it?”
“What has to be a gift?” My mother shocks the poop out of me, swooping in from my right and taking a seat across the table with an air of rushed annoyance. She sits back against the booth cushion, out of breath, keys still in her hand. “Who are you talking to?”
“I have to go now. Talk to you later…uh…Sabrina,” I tell Papa and hang up. “Nobody.”
“Sabrina is nobody? What gift are you talking about?”
“A friend’s birthday coming up. We all have to bring her something, a little token or a gift.”
“A token is a gift. And what’s with th
e eating of the gift?” Her eyebrows raise. I wish she would go away, so I can call Papa back, but she’s not moving.
I laugh. “Oh! That’s so funny that you understood it that way. See, Alexandre was actually on the phone at the exact same time I was talking to Sabs, and that question was for him, not Sabs. Don’t worry. It was nothing.”
Her eyebrows scrunch together, debating whether or not to pursue this nonsense, and for once, she lets it go. “Rose, a bagel has about three thousand calories, and they all go to your waist.”
I seethed at her comment. “Mom, it’s whole wheat bread.”
“And cream cheese is death. They have bananas at the counter, you know.”
“I know. I really wanted a bagel.”
Her phone rings just then, thank God. “Katherine Milkovich,” she answers. “Oh, hiii, Mr. Salzedo. Yes, it’s a great time. Which of the listings were you interested in scheduling?” She flips open her iPad and taps the screen a few times with her manicured nail.
And poof, what little mother-daughter bonding time we were having is over, just like that.
Whew.
I never got to call Papa back. Between my Canterbury Tales report, a new Ge-sucketry project I need to start, and the watchful eye of LM, making sure I get it all done, I never get the chance.
Thursday night, I’m at his house again. Caleb has yet to exhibit signs of falling in love with me. Tomorrow is a pep rally, and the whole school will be celebrating in an overzealous revelry of purple and white. It’s been five days since I baked. My hands are itching to crack eggs.
Maybe I’ll try something else.
I leave my mother a peanut butter sandwich on the counter and take off for Papa’s. Tonight’s baking spree will be quick. Nothing fancy. A dozen cupcakes should do the trick. Just an experiment. Hopping on my bike, I take off in the waning light, and wow, my legs actually feel horse-strong.
When I arrive, I ring the doorbell, even though he gave me a key. I don’t feel right barging in, especially when I never know what I might find. Standing there with my grocery recycle bag, the one I planned on bringing the cupcakes back in, I hear Papa’s flip-flops shuffling toward the door. “Put another nickel in…”
“…the nickelodeon.”
He unlatches the top lock, middle lock, and opens. He’s wearing flip-flops with socks, shorts, undershirt, and ruffled hair. “The lentil soup isn’t ‘til tomorrow.”
“I didn’t come for soup. I need to use your kitchen. I won’t take long.” I give him an extra-cute begging face. “Please?”
He shakes his head. “Good God, you have it bad. You’re worse than your grandmother.” The door opens wide and I rush inside.
Something smells delicious, like spices and pumpkin. I lean in to him. “Are you wearing scented body cream?”
“Not exactly. The thing is…” He glances over his shoulder.
“There’s a thing?”
“Peter? Who is it?”
My whole body tenses. Someone’s here?
A moment later, a redhead I recognize comes to the door. Papa moves aside. Sheila, the bikini lady from the pool. Fully dressed, thank goodness. “Oh, Peter, is this your Rose?” Her eyes do this crinkly thing where they disappear when she flashes her pretty smile.
“That, she is. Rose, this is Sheila. Sheila, my talented and unpredictable granddaughter, Rose.”
“Hi.” I wave.
She has purple eye shadow and black eyeliner around honey brown eyes. Man, she’s even more gorgeous up close than by the pool. She could totally win Ms. Senior Citizen USA hands down.
“Unpredictable is a good trait to have.” She pats him lightly on the shoulder. “Keeps people on their toes. She’s gorgeous. Well, come on in, hon. I was just leaving.”
Ms. U.S.A. thinks I’m gorgeous?
In a way, I’m relieved she’s going. Not because my grandfather can’t have company, especially a senior citizen hottie who apparently likes him, but I have to admit, I like the fact that she knows when it’s time to yield.
It’s Papa-Rosie time.
They smile at each other. She leans in to give him a kiss—whether on the cheek or on the lips, I don’t know—because I avert my gaze just in time. It lands on the movie star photo of my grandparents. A twinge of guilt knots my stomach. Nana has been gone eleven years now. Papa has the right to move on and be happy. But something about these two canoodling right in front of my grandparents’ famous photo feels weird to me.
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” I head off to the S.O.L. “Nice meeting you.”
“You too, sweetheart.” Sheila twiddles her fingers. “Your grandfather thinks the world of you.”
I smile. “The feeling is mutual.”
Papa ushers her out the door, his hand at the small of her back. They whisper things to each other. And I’m out of here. I sashay over to Nana’s apron and slip it on, pulling the straps back, waiting for Papa to tie it. My fingertip runs over the little pentagram.
“Ready to bake, Nana?” I whisper.
1940’s music trumpets through my speakers. As soon as I hear the opening notes of “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” I know I was born in the wrong decade. I wish I could travel back to that era—the romance, the war, the simplicity, when women were women, and men were men.
“Shovel all the coal in, gotta keep it rollin’…woo woo…Chattanooga, there you are,” I sing while unwrapping butter and cracking eggs.
Papa enters the kitchen. “That song is from when I was a little boy. My mother used to sing it to me.”
“In Russian?”
“In English.” He strolls over to me. “Turn.”
I spin. He tugs, pulls, and tightens the straps. It reminds me of the time he got me ready for school when my mom went on her vacation attempt to save her and my father’s marriage, and I slept at his house for six days.
“Voilà.” He shoves his hands back into his pockets.
“Thank you.” Now that my apron is on, it’s time to get these babies baking. Butter, sugar, beat, aerate. I lean on the KitchenAid. Speaking of apron… “Papa?”
“Yup.”
“What is this inside here?” I pull open the apron, nervous to show him. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve ever subscribed to any religion. I think my father was Catholic, but he’s not in the picture, so we never belonged to anything.
Papa peers inside. “Ah, that’s Nana’s pentacle.”
“Pentacle or pentagram?”
“Same thing, pumpkin.”
“Why is it here?”
“I told you she was a witch.”
“So she was Wiccan?” I ask.
“Not exactly. Your grandmother wasn’t anything. She was her own person, dabbled in her own witchy arts.” He smiles. “Baking, sewing, anything that helped her focus her energies.”
“So it’s not an evil symbol? Please tell me I haven’t summoned any demons from Hell.”
“Rose, those are Christian concepts you’re talking about, and I just told you that Nana wasn’t religious. Spiritual, yes, but not religious.” Papa heads for the door. I’ve made him uncomfortable talking about these things. I don’t want him to stop talking to me, like my mother does, so I quickly change the subject.
“So…Sheila’s nice.”
“She is.” He smiles in a new way I can’t quite figure out, a cross between sad and surprised.
“But she’s no Nana, right?”
“No. But she’s pretty terrific.” He chuckles to himself then checks the faucet for drips. Is that it? Is that all he’s going to say? He heads out of the kitchen whistling. “Through layered cakes…”
“…and whipping cream…”
“…bring the Cakespell…”
“…onto me.”
“I’ll be on the computer.” He taps the wall.
“I’ll be here. When you hear the whistle blowin’ eight to the bar...then you know that Tennessee is not very far,” I sing. Man, nobody sings about trains anymore.
So there’s n
othing to worry about then. My grandmother wasn’t some Celtic priestess who danced naked under the full moon wearing horns and flowers on her head. She just danced to the beat of her own drum. I could respect that.
And now I learn that Papa likes Sheila. And she likes him. I can tell. No need for cake magic there. Whereas Caleb and me…that’s a different story. Yes, he liked my scraps on Sunday, but the spell didn’t work. I need him to love the cupcakes I’m making now.
I add eggs and vanilla, sift the dry ingredients, then reach for the cocoa powder. Heck, sometimes, you have to use the good stuff. I open the pantry, pull out the Ghirardelli cocoa powder, and toss that in. Nice. Now we were talkin’. Caleb doesn’t stand a chance, and this next 1940’s song sends me into another daydream…
Halona Cove, Hawaii—1941.
The surf rolls in and crashes against the shore. The sea understands my feelings of forbidden love and longing, all because of Sergeant Caleb, who happens to be half-naked right now in really tight bathing shorts. What girl wouldn’t get restless in her one-piece halter bathing suit, playfully running from him?
He chases me, as I scamper down the beach, flailing my arms in that special way helpless girls know how to get just right. I laugh out loud. He collapses on the sand. I fall over him, and we kiss. Hard, full of passion, our lips smashing together, the way a woman should be kissed. At least in 1941 anyway.
I scramble to my feet and run back to the dunes, hoping he’ll follow. He understands the game and chases me. I fall onto the hot sand, my arms splaying out on either side of me, a gesture that says, my darling, I have lost all inhibitions.
He drops to his knees, then it’s all adoring gazes for this lucky gal, as he kisses me again and tastes of salt water, sun, and chocolate hazelnut cake from our beach picnic.
“Oh, Caleb. I never knew it could be like this.” I am breathless. His gray gaze roves over my body which I make sure to position just right so it looks like I fell this way haphazardly. “Nobody ever kissed me the way you do.”
“Nobody?”
“No. Nobody.”
I mean, yes, I’m a hot muffin, and men are lining up at my kitchen for goodies, so understandably, there’s doubt behind his eyes. But it’s the truth. Nobody has ever kissed me (come to think about it). Well, there was that one kid, Omar, in seventh grade, who tried stuffing his tongue down my throat in front of my locker, all because I told him he was cute, but other than that—nobody.
