by Gaby Triana
“Wow, dude. I can’t believe how much detail you put into this. You’re truly an artist. This is incredible.”
I feel my face turning pink and red and maybe a little green. “Thank you.”
“She’s going to love it.” His gaze shifts from the cake to me, and then…he presses two fingertips to his lips, reaching out with one sexy, strong arm to splat a kiss onto my forehead.
OMG. Do not vomit, Rose.
There are laws against how endearing one boy is allowed to be, and I’m pretty sure Caleb has violated them all. “Thank you, Rosie. I’ll catch you later. I owe you huge.” Sly smile and a wink.
He’s so silly. He could always present the cake to me right now since we’re here together, but I know he’s drawing out the anticipation. “Caleb,” I call out, “Keep the cake flat on the car floor, not in the seat, and don’t put your backpack anywhere ne—”
“Rose,” he interrupts. “I know how to transport a cake.”
“Right.” I forget that Caleb is not only the Divinity of Love, but also my delivery guy. And soon to be my senior boyfriend. HELLZ YEAH!
I spend the entire morning at school asking for permission to use the bathroom. I’m officially out of pee. Señora Fuentes even says to me, “Estás pálida, Rosa. Ve y toma agua,” which I think means, “States of my palisades, Rose. The letter V drinks water.”
To make things tenser, Sabrina texts every ten minutes to ask if Caleb has asked me on a date yet, or at least professed his deep affection. I keep reminding her, through the eloquent use of angry emojis that if, in fact, such an occurrence were to take place, she’ll be the first to know. She has not texted since.
But Sabrina might get a front row seat to this miraculous event, because now comes the first of two moments where I cross paths with Caleb—after Spanish and before lunch, at the same time I wave to Sabrina heading down the opposite hall. Oh, yes, the stars will align.
Staring at the clock, listening to Señora Fuentes’s boring voice, I feel like a horse waiting to bust out of the gate. The period bell rings, and I sprint, galloping past other equines toward my finish line.
Obsessively, I fluff my hair over my shoulder, smash my lips to smooth out my lip gloss, and suck in my stomach. I’m a diva, a goddess, a sophomore snagging a senior, a girl about to become a woman…fine, maybe not so much. And my extra effort this morning is garnering admirable looks from quite a few boys. That’s a first.
Yes, it’s a new day, a new life.
I’m approaching the intersection where I always spot Sabrina. There she is. I wave. Her whole bouncy being lights up. She waves back. She hunches up her shoulders, asking, Where?
I don’t know, I mouth.
Suddenly, I spot him way over to my left down the hall, waving hello and running his hand through his hair with one hand, balancing my little white cake box in the other. He better not drop that thing.
My stomach lurches into my throat like on a rollercoaster drop. My heart pounds in my ears, blood swooshing like the rhythmic chugging of a train pulling out of Holy Shit Station. He finds me and grins in that “hey, girl” way.
I smile.
He approaches me. Sabrina watches from her end.
I may vomit after all.
I have waited for this moment for so very long, since Kindergarten, to be exact, when that new second-grader-next-door began zooming by my house every afternoon on his power wing scooter. I love him even more now than I did then.
Why, yes, Caleb, I would love to go out with you. I thought you’d never ask…
He stops at the crossroads and looks around, reminding me of a meerkat sitting atop his little hill, keeping watch over his grasslands. Does he not see me? I’m right here. I wave to him, but it’s like he’s forgotten something. Like someone has reprogrammed him to turn left instead of right and head down the opposite hall.
Is he too nervous to go through with it?
He did order that cake for me, didn’t he? I mean, he touched my hand…he looked deep into my eyes. He even splatted a kiss on my nose.
As quickly as my heart surges, it plummets when I spot Caleb moving farther and farther away from me. Where’s he going? In direct line with my view is Sabrina still poised and waiting to see what unfolds between Caleb and me. Slowly, her expression of bemusement darkens. Her eyes widen then look away. He walks toward her.
Not me.
Sabrina gets a move on, pretending she’s not spying on us. But then…
Caleb waves to her. He calls her. She stops. His lips move. He needs to tell her something. Sab’s face is wrought with surprise. She smiles shyly and says something, glancing over at me. He reaches for her arm and rubs it. Caleb rubbing Sabrina’s arm, as I watch dumbfounded. Rubbing her arm. The arm of my best friend.
I hold my breath.
His lips form words, and from the way Sabrina blushes and hooks her hair behind her ears, he’s paying her compliments. It’s true she’s gorgeous, and he’d be stupid not to be smitten with her. Of course he would. It’s Sabrina.
He hands her the white box.
My box.
With my cake inside.
The one I made and decorated with webs and spiders.
For me.
Because the signs all pointed to him liking me.
Obviously, I’m a moron.
How could I be so blind? She can’t possibly like him back, can she? She even asked what do I see in that guy. Besides, she’s my best friend.
And yet, I watch in slow motion as she holds out her hand, and accepts—yes accepts—my cake. My enchanted, spell-infused cake, the one she knows will make her fall in love with him.
Own it, claim it, you’re a goddess.
Empty words from an empty soul.
The pounding in my ears is the last thing I hear before my own, unfiltered scream. I charge straight at them. She can’t accept that cake. Must not accept that gift! At what point does the Cakespell begin to work, when the gift is given or when the cake is tasted?
“NooooooOOOOOOooooo!” I charge.
The stunned hallway crowd parts like the Dead Sea. A few phones lift, ready to take pics of me running like a bull. All I see are Sabrina’s eyes and Caleb’s mouth half open, his tongue poised in mid-sentence, his face turned, eyes growing exponentially bigger and confused as I plow toward them.
Through unabashed rage, I tackle my best friend, cake box, and all. But Sabrina is more solid than she appears, muscular traitor that she is. I have to yank her backpack to bring her down with me. Cries of “what the…” echo all around me, as the crowd gasps.
The box tumbles on its side, pops open, and a crack in the mini cake’s orange fondant exposes cream cheese frosting underneath. One pumpkin breaks loose and rolls across the linoleum floor.
“Are you kidding me?” Caleb glares at me.
“What the hell, Rose?” Sabrina fumbles for balance then shoves me hard in the shoulder to get me off her. She pulls herself into a sitting position.
“I’m sorry. I…the cake…it was for you.” I babble.
“I see that. But what on Earth?” Sabrina barks, neat and perfect ponytail now disheveled on the side of her head.
Something about her question, or maybe it’s her tone, pokes the fire inside of me to flare up again. “You were accepting that cake, that’s what!” I shout.
“Why can’t she accept a cake?” a random guy asks.
“Shut up,” I yell at him.
“What do you expect me to do?” Sabrina asks. “He’s giving it to me. You want me to be rude and refuse it?”
“Yes!” I scream. She knows about the Cakespell. She knows how it works. My eyes bug out at her, so she can catch onto my meaning. I lean into her. “What happens when someone accepts my cake? You know. Which means you like him,” I grit through my teeth.
Her lips press together. She fumes and struggles with words. “So what? So, I like him. There, I said it.”
GASP.
“You do?” Caleb’s eyes light up, a
nd we both glare at him.
“But so do you, Rose,” Sabrina adds. “Which is why I haven’t said anything. You’re my friend. Doesn’t that come first?”
“Apparently not,” I growl.
“Ladies,” Caleb interjects, a tad too amused for my taste. That’s when I scramble to my feet and shove him.
“Ladies?” I shove him again. “You think this is funny?”
“Rose, stop it. I had no idea it was for me,” Sabrina says. “Honest to God.”
“Which was fine until you accepted it.” Ugh. So this is why Caleb comes over to my house, delivers cakes for free, all so he can see Sabrina? I have been SO STUPID.
Sabrina rearranges her backpack over her shoulder. “I may like him, but I won’t go out with him without your blessing,” she says, heading for the school’s exit door.
“My blessing? How could you even ask me that! You know how I feel, have felt, for the longest time!”
“Ooo, drama,” somebody says.
“I know, but Rose…you don’t do anything about your feelings. You keep them all inside. You expect life to stand still while you try to decide when might be a good time to make your feelings known.”
Darts. To my heart. One after the other. Fftt, fft, ftt.
How can she say that? So I’m supposed to be okay with her dating Caleb, all because I haven’t pounced on him fast enough? Because if I snooze, I lose? Because the early bird gets the worm? I mean, it’s painfully clear who’s the colorful hummingbird here and who’s the fat, overfed pigeon.
I don’t have time for this. And you know what? I can’t go out with Caleb anyway. I’m a busy woman with cake orders to fulfill. Fifty more cupcakes tonight, as a matter of fact. No time for dates with stupid, misleading boys. “I’m done,” I say, ramming Caleb in the arm, as I plow past him.
I hate him.
And I hate her.
And that makes them perfect for each other.
Fourteen
Papa ties my apron then rests his hand on my shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I grunt, ripping open my sugar and flour bags. Through layered cakes and whipping cream… Back to work, work, work. If I keep working, I won’t have to think.
“Alright. I’ll be at the movies with Sheila. Just text if you need me.”
“I didn’t know you knew how to do that.”
“I’m old, not an idiot.” He grips Alexandre’s shoulder in a thank-you-for-staying-with-her gesture. “See you kids later.”
I’m left at the counter while Alexandre sits at the kitchen dinette tapping away at his laptop. He doesn’t say much, but it means the world to me that he’s here. He knows what happened. The whole school knows. I work quickly, nervously, with shallow breaths. My hands unwrap, unfold, scoop, measure, pour, scrape…
How could I be so stupid and blind? I let Sabrina convince me that he might like me. Meanwhile, she harbored secret hope that he’d like her all along. Whatever. Who needs those two?
I hate this spell now, but my business depends on it. I have to come through for my customers, as much as I want to crawl under the covers and nap until graduation. Their smiles and satisfaction mean so much to me. Sliding my thumb over the little sewn pentagram inside my apron pocket, I whisper, “Through layered cakes and whipping cream, bring the Cakespell onto me.”
“What?” Alexandre mumbles.
“Nothing.”
A few minutes pass with the KitchenAid running on high. When I turn it off, I hear, “Rose?” In the reflection of the window, I spot Alexandre looking at me.
“Hmm?”
“You don’t have to discuss it with me, and I won’t ask you to, but when you’re done with those cupcakes, we need to get you out of this house. It’s Friday night.”
“No.”
“Come on. There’s that theater downtown that plays all the old movies you like for a very economical price. Ever been there?”
I don’t answer.
“You’d adore it. After your customer picks up, want to?” His voice sounds so hopeful, I have to glance over my shoulder to get a look at his face. Yep. Puppy dog eyes. I appreciate Alexandre even more now, for reading my thoughts and making me go out instead of sulking at the S.O.L. For not asking questions. Like Papa.
“Whatever. I guess.” I scrape down the sides of the mixing bowl.
“I’ll take that for a yes.”
Sigh. The men I love are either related to me, not attracted to girls, or attracted to my best friend. Triple sad Rose.
Two hours later, I’ve packed a hundred cupcakes, half vanilla, half chocolate, into boxes of twelve with a few leftover, all by the door in shopping bags. Kirk, my customer, a junior at school, sounded desperate when I talked to him on the phone. But when the doorbell rings, I open to a dorky skinny guy with a smirky smile. “You Rose?”
“Maybe.”
“Hey, heard about your fight today.”
“Yeah, thanks for mentioning it.” I should punch him in the crotch. “Anyway, here are your cupcakes.” I hand him the first bag, and Alexandre helps issue out the other two.
“Wow, these are great.” Kirk reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. “Thanks. A hundred okay?” he asks with an air of privileged teen.
I stare at the five twenties in his hand. “Whatever was on your order form.”
“The order form says one-fifty,” Alexandre says.
“All I have is a hundred,” Kirk replies.
Acting like you’re out of money is real losery. “Whatever, just give me.” I accept the hundred, sticking it in my pocket. It’s better than no money, even though other bakeries sell cupcakes for three, sometimes four bucks each. And yes, I see you, Alexandre, shooting me critical looks in my peripheral vision. Leave me alone.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what are all these cupcakes for?” I ask. “Your order form didn’t say.”
“Ah, the million dollar question.”
“Or hundred dollar, in this case.” I smirk.
He laughs, the sarcasm lost on him. “Well, when I heard about your reputation, I figured what the hell, I’ll try it.” He scans the front yard to see if anyone is listening, then takes a secretive step toward us. “I’m gonna give these out to a hundred ladies at school. Increase my chances, if you know what I mean.” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down.
Who wiggles their eyebrows?
Alexandre and I exchange weirdo-alert looks. “Wow. No way,” I say, and Alexandre coughs into his fist.
“Yup.” Kirk taps his forehead to show us that only a genius such as himself could’ve thought of such a thing. He flips his wallet closed then shoves it back in his pocket. “Wish me luck!” He grabs the bag handles and leaves. Part of me wishes I could watch him pass the cupcakes out to see what happens, but part of me hates all humanity.
“Good luck,” I call out to Kirk. “And thanks.”
“Yes. Best of luck to you,” Alexandre echoes then lowers his voice. “Because you will need it.” He chuckles, which in turn makes me giggle. Together, we watch him go. “Freak.”
“Concur.”
“Come on, let’s ditch this place. I checked movie times. A Streetcar Named Desire is playing at eight. My mom can drop us off.”
A Streetcar Named Desire is one of my all-time favs! Depressing as hell and perfect.
The Colonial Theatre is the oldest theater in Coral Cove and probably the coolest building I’ve ever seen from the outside. I can’t believe I didn’t know about this place sooner.
The theater has one of those old-fashioned marquee things out front that says “Golden Era of Hollywood Every Friday” lit up with light bulbs and red neon. There’s exactly one car in the parking lot. We’re literally the third and fourth people to arrive, judging from the two already inside and the one girl in the ticket booth munching on her nails. I wonder how this place even stays in business.
“You’re going to love this,” Alexandre says, as we reach the ticket booth. “Every time I c
ome here, I think of you. Two, please,” he tells the girl.
“You think of me? Every time you come here? How often do you come here?”
“Several times a year. The projectionist is this quaint, old guy. I love watching him thread the reel. It’s all so mechanical. And yes, I’m always thinking how you’d appreciate the architecture and old-school technology here.”
“Aww.” I lean my head on his shoulder.
“Thank you, enjoy the show,” Ticket Girl pushes two tickets toward Alex, then resumes biting her nails.
Alexandre opens the door for me, and we head inside. It’s the first time I’ve ever been out with him, I’m ashamed to say. Here’s this guy who’s been my friend for the last eight years, but it’s taken a fight with Sabrina for me and him to finally do something together. Bad Rose. “Popcorn?”
“Would it be a movie without it?”
“That’s what I thought.”
We visit the empty concession stand. There’s no one, not even an employee to help us. Two seconds later…whoosh…Ticket Girl slides into position, becoming Concession Girl. “May I help you?”
I laugh so hard, I cling to Alexandre’s shoulders and cackle behind his back.
He orders popcorn and two sodas then pays Concession Girl, handing me the popcorn. “Crazy Rose. It’s good to see you laughing again.”
“What do I owe you?” I ask when I finally catch my breath.
“Owe? Rose, I’m a gentleman, not an animal.”
“You sure? ‘Cause I’m filthy rich now.” I pull out the hundred bucks still in my pocket and lift them toward his face.
He pushes them back down. “Yes, I know. It’s the only reason I hang out with you.” He offers me his elbow. “You’re my sugar mama.”
I laugh again. I have to say, I’m having the most fun with Alexandre. I squeeze his arm appreciatively. We enter the theater, and all laughter dies away, replaced by awestruck silence. I stop walking to let my eyes adjust and take it all in. Red, velvety dusty seats, walls with wood paneling and scrollwork that reminds me of a brown, classic wedding cake. And there’s a stage—an actual stage—like where plays perform. On the right side, an old-timey organ sits lonely.
