by Gaby Triana
Oh, he has noo idea.
“If you don’t like Rosie the Baker, I can change it.”
“No, I like it, actually. It’s just that nobody has ever gone through so much for me before.” I look at my two amazing besties. “Thank you, guys. For believing in me.”
Sabrina bumps shoulders with me.
Alex keeps on typing, setting things up for me online. “I figured you’ll need your own email for cake business once people see this.”
Sabrina opens her tablet to BettiePageClothing.com and pulls up the red va-va-voom dress again. “We might need to get you this baby after all.”
Alex leans in to take a look. A blush creeps into his fair face.
I stare at the dress, its sexy scoop neckline and belted waist. I can so see myself wearing this with some spot-on makeup and one of my flower hair clips. I’ve even lost a few pounds from biking to Papa’s. Not much, but enough to almost convince myself that I can dress this way in public.
I stare at my friends as they work hard on my behalf. Every girl should be so lucky to have a team like this. I’m scared to disappoint them. I have to start believing in myself as much as they believe in me. “Let’s go all out,” I hear myself say.
The silence between us is kinetic, as they both stare.
“Meaning?” Sabrina turns up that sly smile of hers.
Alexandre eyes me hopefully.
“If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right. I’ll need a website, Insta, Facebook Fan Page, Tumblr, Pinterest…I’m going to have to tell Papa that I’m overtaking his whole kitchen, and—”
A pair of arms crush me. Sabrina’s long hair in my face smells like apples. “Rose, this is awesome. I’m so happy for you! Just say the word, and I’ll help you. I’ll even speak for you at all major appearances.”
“Sabs, it’s not like I’m getting my own TV show or anything.”
“Why not!” Sabrina screams and shakes our whole booth. An employee gives us a disgusted look. “You could make those YouTube videos now. That’s how it starts! Alex, you can make Rose a website, right?”
“I’m ten steps ahead of you.” He grins devilishly, tapping away at keys.
There’s no way I can do any of this without these two loveable goons. “Thanks, guys. But I’m still not talking or doing interviews for the school paper. Don’t even try, because I will leave a Rose-shaped dust cloud where I stand.”
Sabrina taps my hand with a pen. “I can do that for you, Rosie. I’ll be your spokesperson. You just bake.” Yes, just bake. Perfect.
“I’m good with that.” As long as it’s for public stuff. As for small battles, fights with Lovely Mother, talks with Caleb, I have to do the talking.
Sitting here, watching my friends get excited about me, it’s like the oven in my heart has been set to pre-heat, and all I have to do now is get baking and make an awesome creation out of myself.
Sabrina’s mom drops me off at home. I wave goodbye and walk through the door feeling loved and excited about the possibilities but also very alone. Starting an underground cake business when I live with The Cake Nazi? How is that going to work?
I also feel very warm.
The fans are still on in every room of the house. The A/C is still broken. When I close the door, I already hear her griping. “You have got to be kidding me. The last guy that came out here said he could do it for $2,700. What right do you have to charge me $4,000?”
If only she would try being nice to people, she might get anything she wants. It’s called karma. My mom’s anger problem might be related to what Papa said. He said witchcraft is just manipulating energy to get a desired result. I think my mom focuses so much on the negative, she only gets negative back.
I turn the corner and catch her talking to a guy a little older than her in his late forties maybe, in jeans and a buttoned-down shirt, holding a clipboard. He’s handsome for an old guy with salt and pepper hair and a kind face, and I immediately feel bad that he has to deal with my mother. “Mrs. Milkovich?”
“Ms. Milkovich.” She crosses her arms.
“I’m sorry, Mizzz Milkovich,” he corrects himself. I hold back a laugh. The guy sees me coming in and seems relieved to have someone else to look at besides my mother’s stern face. I wave a small wave.
LM follows his displaced gaze. “Rose, you’re home. Great, start your homework, please.”
“I already did it.”
“Then, find something to read.”
When she turns back to the poor A/C repairman, my eyes roll all the way up, to the back of my skull, and around again. I take a seat at the counter and pull out my phone to surf for more dresses. It’s an act, of course. I really just want to watch this fight.
“Ma’am, you’re in the realty business, so you can appreciate this,” the A/C guy says. “You could find a dozen companies to do it for cheaper, but they don’t guarantee their work. They won’t come when you next need them, and if they do, they’ll charge you $400 for a can of Freon. You’ll end up getting what you pay for. We guarantee a quality installation. This is Florida. You can’t skimp on A/C.”
Yes, one point for A/C guy!
My mother shifts to a new stance, sticking her hip out. She’s happy to rebut. “Mr….I’m sorry what was your name again?”
“Frank.”
“Mr. Frank…”
“Just Frank.” He smiles. As much as I’m sure he wishes this were an easy sale, I can also tell he’s taken by LM’s deceptive external beauty. Men always are. He probably finds her abrasiveness “cute” and “challenging.” Poor man.
LM sighs. Clearly, she prefers to use his last name to keep them on cold and formal terms, whereas using “Frank” forces the edge off her. Two points for Frank! “Frank,” she tries the name out, displeased by its taste, “you were recommended by the insurance company, or else I would most definitely be using my people. If you could somehow find it in your tiny heart to give me a better quote, or perhaps throw in some extra services, I might consider paying this exorbitant fee.”
Hmm, not bad, LM. One point for Team Evil.
He laughs off the “tiny heart” comment. A man not taking my mother seriously, because he believes she might only be cold and heartless on the outside. Three points for Frank! “Most certified places charge a thousand dollars more for this same unit, Mizzz Milkovich, and remember, your hoses all have leaks, which need replacing too, but I’ll talk it over with my supervisor. Perhaps we could throw in your first annual inspection?” Frank has a really cute smile.
Just one? How about a monthly inspection! Weekly, even! Come on, Frank, we could use your face around here more often.
But my mother is not convinced, and frankly, Frank, neither am I. Frank loses one point. “Just one inspection? You know, I’m a single mother working hard to raise a teenage daughter.”
Frank glances at me as though I’m a troublemaker. I wave.
“I don’t make a million dollars, I don’t get any support from her father, and I don’t need this.” She gestures to the door. His cue to get his cute butt moving. I’m sad that Frank has lost the battle. I’m also sad that I’ve been a burden on my mother.
“I’m sorry you feel this way, Mizzz Milkovich, but I understand. I’m a single parent of a teenager myself.” Oh? Handsome Frank is single? “Regardless, I’ll talk it over with my supervisor, and I’ll be in touch with you shortly. Have a great evening.” He heads for the door.
Frank, take me with you! We’re not all bad witches!
The door closes, and I induct him into the Rose Pity Hall of Fame along with Sabrina, Papa, and anyone else who’s ever known Katherine Milkovich. My mother says nothing the whole time he’s leaving. She even shuts the door quietly.
“Who needs that guy, huh?” I swivel back and forth on the counter stool. “Pfft, men! If I were you, I’d bounce on over to Home Depot, grab all the materials I need, and just do the installation myself. We’re perfectly capable women who don’t need guys around, right? Pfft, loser.”
S
he glares at me. “Be quiet.”
Oof. Too much.
I expect some baring of teeth, maybe even a growl or hiss, but that’s it. She seems faraway, broken, soft even. Every so often, my mother changes into a compassionate being for a few seconds. Maybe this is a good time to ask her about her baking days?
She slumps against the kitchen counter. Her boobs rise inside her low-cut top designed for deal-striking with the likes of clueless men like Frank. They fall with the release of her sigh. “Well, that didn’t go as I expected. Clearly, he knows nothing about business.”
Or maybe you should start using more than boobs to get people to like you.
I clear my throat, tap my fingers on the counter. “Speaking of business…a little bird told me you used to bake. Is that true?” I watch her face carefully. And her hands. In case she reaches for the steak knives.
Her gaze slowly rises. A dark shadow moves across her face like the eclipse of a beautiful, frosty moon. “Who told you that? Papa?” She says Papa like Papa might say Katherine.
“Maybe. Is it true?” I ask.
As she stands there contemplating, the real question forms at the back of my throat. More and more I’ve been talking back, saying what my heart needs to say to her. I let the question out, before I lose my nerve completely. “Do you know about Cakespell?”
Her eyes widen. Only a moment. But I see it. It comes and then it goes. Then, she narrows them again, and if I have any chance of her answering the baking question, it’s gone now. I ruined it.
She yanks open a drawer, and I think she’s going to take out that steak knife after all, but she only throws a stray spoon into the cutlery tray, and slams it shut again. “Never,” she says, her voice unruffled and icy. One perfect pink fingernail shakes, betraying her. “Mention that word again.”
Ten
Something is different at school today. I don’t want to say that people are noticing me, because they still walk by me as though I’m invisible. But every so often, someone’s eyes linger just a second longer, or someone else lets loose a flimsy smile. And just now—someone says, “Rosie, the Bakerrrrr,” as they pass by.
This goes on the rest of the day, until one girl actually stops me in the hall. She has reddish hair and brown eyes, but it’s her death grip on my arm that makes me really notice her. “Rosie, right?”
“Yeah?” Ow, that’s my decorating arm…
“Did you get my email?”
“No.”
“Please,” she shakes my arm, “I need you to read it and write me back okay? You can call me too, whatever, just please don’t forget. Please. Bobby, I’m Bobby.”
“Okay, I won’t.” I slide my arm slowly out of Bobby’s death grip.
“Thanks.” Her lips press into a sad smile, and her eyes reflect hope. What the heck was that about? She rushes away, skittish, checking down the cross hallways, then running past them. That had to be the most social interaction with a total stranger I’ve had in years.
How would she know my email? I barely even know my email, I never use—ohhhhhh. Never mind. Alexandre’s bio and new email address of mine he posted yesterday. I book it home before anybody else has the chance to claw my arm. Although I have to admit, that was kind of cool.
Huffing through the front door, I head for my room, turning on the fan and aiming it straight at my head. October 1st—a week later, and the A/C is still not fixed. I can’t imagine that my mother, Queen of Hair Excellence, likes the humidity that has taken permanent residence in our house. So that leaves only one reason it’s not fixed yet—no money.
I check the school website to find that Dr. O’Dell has announced the Battle of the Bakers date for October 26th at 7 PM. Already, there’s a ton of comments cheering for Wendy and a few lonely ones for me—one from Alex, one from Sabs, and a few from the teachers who ate my cupcakes.
I can’t shake the smidge of attention I got at school today, how people are starting to know me by name, how they know things about me. It’s making me cringe but feel like I have a superpower at the same time. Then I remember Bobby.
I text Alexandre.
What’s the username and password for my new email address again?
U: rosiethebaker
P: isawsum
Ha, ha. Thank you Webmaster, I reply. He sends a blushy happy face, lots of sparkles, and a thumb’s up.
So, here I am, logging into my very first business email account ever, [email protected]. And—holy baby Jesus—I HAVE FIFTY MILLION EMAILS! The subject lines say things like: “Rose you have to help me,” “Your in my English class,” “Can you make me a cake??” and “NEED A BIT OF YOUR MAGIC!!!”
That one makes me cringe.
Nobody knows about the Cakespell. Nobody but Sabrina, that is. And Papa. And apparently, LM. I read emails one by one. Someone from my Ge-sucketry class needs a birthday cake this Saturday. Someone else wants cupcakes for tomorrow night, and “how much because I only have $10.” Yeah, right! Mrs. Norman from World History wants to sample different flavors for a baby shower and wants to know if I can bring them to school on Friday.
All these orders for this upcoming weekend? They have to be kidding. How am I supposed to do this when I have a book report to write? I need order forms. I need someone to reply to everyone. Papa will kill me for overusing his kitchen, and my mother will flip the hell out if she finds out.
The scaredy cat in me wants to reply “I can’t” to everyone, but what kind of future businesswoman would I be if I did that? My brain feels like a wobbly clay vase spinning on a too-fast pottery wheel. I have to call in the troops.
I commit my very first act of business ownership—calling a meeting. I fire off a group text to Sabrina, Alexandre, and yes—Caleb. He’s my delivery man, isn’t he?
Tomorrow night at the SOL. Be there, or be fired!!!
You can’t fire a slave. (Sabrina)
I shant be late, m’lady! (Alexandre)
What’s SOL? (Caleb)
On Wednesday night, I park my bike and knock on the door to the Secret Operation Location. Papa’s feet shuffle again, as I down what’s left of my water bottle. “Put another nickel in…”
“I’m dying out here!” I gasp.
Two locks unlock, and the door opens. “You’re looking slimmer, Rose.”
“Am I?” I check my tree trunk legs, which do look firmer, or maybe that’s because they’re sweaty and shiny.
“Yes, indeed. Not that you need to, but it does accentuate this part.” He wraps his hands around my waist.
I withdraw, holding the water bottle close to me. “Papa, stop.”
He lets me in and closes the door. “Thank you is the correct response.”
“I…” Always feel so odd taking compliments. “Thank you.”
He smiles. “That’s better. You’re welcome. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“A business meeting. Everyone will be here in five.”
“And so it begins,” he says, flip-flops shuffling down the hallway. “So it begins…”
Sabrina arrives first. Then Alexandre, and finally Caleb, one right after the other, until they’re all sitting around Papa’s dinette in the kitchen, phones in their hands, sharing random texts and posts.
“Shall we begin?” Nobody hears me. I clear my throat and try again. “Shall we begin?” Whoa—I sound administrative even to myself.
Alexandre snaps to attention, his big brown eyes alert and ready. Caleb gives one last sneer-smile at whatever is on his phone, then he puts it down and looks at me. Sabrina folds her hands and gives me a perky, proud smile.
Nothing to be nervous about. These are my people. Just talk…
“Thank you for coming. As you know, Dr. O’Dell announced the Battle of the Bakers a few weeks from now, and thanks for your kind comments.” I smile at Alex and Sabs.
Caleb is clueless. But not for long. Soon, I’ll have him in the palm of my hand.
“Because of this and someone’s thoughtful placement of my pic alo
ng with a bio on the school’s site,” I fake-angry squint at Alex, “I have received an influx of demands for cake.”
“Yeah!” Alexandre pumps his fist in the air. “Rosie the Baker, creating romantic tension amidst the teachers.”
Caleb points at me. “Wait, that was you? The teachers kissing?”
If he only knew those cupcakes were meant for him that day. “Uh, I couldn’t possibly be responsible for their kissing,” I stare down at the table, “but I did bring the cupcakes they ate before that happened, so some people think it was because of me.”
“That’s pretty dope,” Caleb says sexily. So sexy, he is. Sigh.
“Yeah, dope,” Alexandre mocks his word choice.
Sabrina bounces in her seat. “The point is, that it’s time to get our asses in gear. Rose needs our help.”
“Yes.” Though I was going to say that without Sab’s help. “Now everybody wants cake. I have four orders for Friday and this weekend, but I also have a bunch of assignments due, and as if that weren’t hard enough, my mom can’t find out about any of this.”
“I’m still delivering, right?” Caleb’s splayed legs shake, and he bites his nails.
“Of course.” I smile at him then look away.
“Okay, good. Unless you need me to help you in the kitchen, or whatever. Whenever you need me, I can come.”
Really? He wants to help me in the kitchen? “Actually, that’s really sweet, but—”
“Rose doesn’t like anybody helping her in the kitchen,” Alexandre butts in.
I glare at Alex, then soften my look for Caleb. “Yeah, it’s true. It’s because—”
Sabrina jumps in, “What? Where did you hear that? Rose loves help in the kitchen. Don’t you, Rose?”
“Um, guys,” I hold out a hand, “I can talk. For myself.” They all look at me strangely. I surprise even myself. “Actually, Alex is right. I like being alone in the kitchen. No offense.”
Sabrina stares at me then slaps her forehead, pretending she has an itch. I know I just thwarted her matchmaking attempt, but I got this. I’m the newest svakha, a kitchen witch, the original gangster. Whatever that means. I can do this.
