by Gaby Triana
The two people we saw before sit near the front now, heads touching. Behind and above us is a whole other level, a balcony, and smack in the middle of the balcony, the projection booth aglow and ready. “Wow. Like stepping back in time.”
“Told you.” There’s a smile in Alex’s voice.
If I close my eyes, I can almost hear the footsteps and chatter of a packed theater audience, organ music playing in the background. This place used to be someone’s Friday night hot spot long ago. It used to be a place of fun and innovation in film. It used to be someone’s RPX theater. But now, it’s a ghost of itself, an aging movie star, a still beautiful one in her faded glory.
“This is nothing. Wait until the movie starts.”
He leads me to seats smack in the middle of the room. It’s hard to see where you’re going when your eyes are roving everywhere. But once we sit, the big square-ish screen in front of us takes center stage. In his seat, Alexandre turns and waves to an elderly man staring out the projection booth window. “That’s Mick.”
“Hey, Mick.” I wave to the man. I never thought I’d ever see the face of the person responsible for playing my movies back at the multiplex. Super cool.
We’re sitting there quietly munching on popcorn when Alexandre says, “Alright…now that I have you captive, I’m only going to say one thing regarding today’s debacle.”
“Ugh.”
“I know this is easier said than done…” His hand pauses in the popcorn bucket. “I don’t think your focus should be on that guy right now.”
“You mean Caleb.”
“I mean Shit for Brains,” he says.
I laugh.
“I think you have a fantastic opportunity going on with your cake business. I know it’s underground right now, but you could really make a name for yourself. Some people graduate from college and still can’t break into any industry. But you so easily could, if you worked diligently at it. Which you do. So if I were you, I’d focus on your talents, and the right man will come at the right time.”
Hmm.
That sounds reasonable and mature. No point trying to make someone love me who’s in love with someone else. But every time I think about Sabrina’s words—you don’t do anything about your feelings—it hurts. Because she’s right. I take too long to say what’s on my mind. Had I told Caleb that I liked him, had I started to lose weight sooner, had I come out of my shell months ago, maybe it’d all be different.
Alexandre mumbles, “You’re too good for him anyway.”
“Thank you,” I tell the side of his face, because he’s staring at the movie screen.
He hands me my drink. I have to let it go. The Caleb-Sabrina issue, not the drink. “You are very welcome,” he says softly. “It’s true.”
The lights in the theater dim, and my happy brain cells finally come out of hiding at the sight of the big, white screen lighting up with the words, Warner Bros. Pictures presents… The Pulitzer Prize and New York Critics Award Play…
“See all the scratches on the film?” Alex points to the screen. “That’s how you know it’s real.” He loves film, the real thing, imperfections and all.
There’s something comforting and nostalgic about the clicking sound of the film reel in the projection booth going tick-tick-tick-tick at a hundred miles an hour, even though I’ve never seen movies this way before. But I feel like I have. Maybe in my past life.
We watch Streetcar in total contentment for the next hour and a half, and I have to say, I don’t think about Caleb that much, except maybe when Stella and Stanley are having their famous fight in the French Quarter, and for just that scene, I feel like it’s me and Caleb up there in larger-than-life black and white…
I sit glued to my chair in the upper apartment, as shouts of “Hey, Stella!” reverberate off the walls of our little courtyard. He means Rose. Stella is just my nickname. My sister, Blanche DuBois, sometimes known as Sabrina DeButt, waits behind me, hoping I won’t give into weakness. But this is how it has always been between me and Caleb. He leaves me, and I run upstairs to the neighbors’. He returns home drunk when he’s ready and calls for me.
And I go.
My sister tries to stop me, but it’s no use. I’m out the door, gripping the iron lace handrail of the stairs, pausing to take him in. He’s remorseful, a man on the verge of insanity without his woman, blubbering at the base of the gently-sloping stairs over the pain he’s caused me. He needs me. I need him. And besides, he said he was sorry.
I must go to him.
In his ripped shirt, he cries, drops to his knees. I hate myself for giving in to his theatrics, but what other choice do I have? It’s him who I’ve always loved. I smash my fingers through his hair, pull him close. He melts into my chest, holds on for dear life. “You gotta believe me, baby.” Oh, I know he’s sorry for what he’s done. I knew he’d come back to me, too.
Strong, lean arms hoist me off the ground and whisk me away…back to our apartment…to our life of pain, as Sabrina watches on. Or maybe it’s Alexandre. Yes, let’s make Alexandre my sister, watching with disgust from the apartment above, appalled that I took back the man who hurt me. Why…how…could I allow this heartbreak to happen again?
Fifteen
Sunday morning, I escape before my mom can ask where I’m going. She leans against her car, talking to Frank who brought her home after going out to breakfast. I am sooo happy those two are hitting it off. “Where are you—?”
“Going to bike for a while. Byeeee.” I pedal off. She can’t say anything. I’m biking and losing weight, for God’s sake, her dream come true. She and Frank watch me ride away.
When I arrive at the S.O.L. and park my bicycle on his front porch, I check all texts that came in while I was riding. One is from Alex telling me he had a great time last night, and one is from Caleb, asking, Rosie, you home?
I don’t reply. What does he want? Shouldn’t he be somewhere in magical love with my former best friend? Pffftttt.
Papa has just tied my apron after making Sheila coffee (she slept over last night, a fact I’m trying not to notice). I’ve just recited the Cakespell and cracked a dozen eggs for an anniversary cake due tonight when the doorbell rings.
My grandfather’s feet shuffle to the door. If it’s Caleb, he’ll have to deal with Papa first. The door unlatches, and I hear my grandfather mumbling, his voice rising then lowering, then rising again. Give him hell, Papa.
A moment later, Papa sneaks up behind me in the kitchen. “Rose, someone here to see you. That Caleb fellow.”
So much for giving him hell. “Tell him to go away.”
“Now, don’t be that way. Just talk to him. He seems sorry.”
I slap down my spatula a little too hard and glare at my grandfather. Kidding, never would I glare at my grandfather. Sheila holds her coffee cup close to her heart. “You tell him, Rose. Don’t take shit from any man.”
Papa chuckles. They’re smiling and sharing secretive looks, and it’s not funny to me, old people. Hear me? Not funny.
Deep breath. I turn the corner. Caleb stands in the foyer, a lot like he did the day of our big meeting when he lingered long after everyone had left and made me believe he might like me. Liar. I’m not tongue-tied today. “What do you want?” I ask.
“Wow, you really are mad, huh?”
“I don’t have time. I have an order due in a few hours.”
“Can I help you deliver it?”
“Sabrina is not here, so what’s the point? You can stop pretending you were helping me all along. It’s clear you were only coming over as an excuse to see her.”
“That’s not true. I really like helping you, Rose. And I really am, like, super impressed with this business of yours and how far you’ve come. I can’t even practice my guitar every day, yet you’re legit hardcore.”
I knew it. He never touches his guitar. Slacker.
“What about taking my hands and looking into my eyes? Was that part of your admiration for my baking skills? What
about splatting a kiss on my nose?”
Caleb scrunches his face, as he tries to recall the moment. Whereas I have it emblazoned in my mind. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Because it seems to me,” I interrupt, “and probably to anybody watching, that you liked me, too. Or do you always go around sending mixed signals to girls?”
He sighs. “I’ve been told. I’m sorry. Rose, I know I hurt you. I came here to tell you that.”
“Well, you told me.”
“Fine, I’ll just be going now.”
“Fine.”
It’s actually not fine, and I’m actually about to cry, but I hold the tears tightly back despite the bunch of questions I still have. He turns to leave but pauses at the door and glances at me one more time. “She didn’t eat the cake, you know,” Caleb says.
She didn’t?
He assesses my reaction. His lips look so perfect. I hate him, hate him, hate him. The news shouldn’t surprise me. Of course, she wouldn’t have eaten it. She’s my best friend. She knows better. “She doesn’t like red velvet.” Caleb scuttles off the porch to his car.
Oh. Is that why? Not because she’s too good a friend to refuse my cake, but because she doesn’t like red velvet? Well, both of y’all can go suck it!
I slam the door.
I rush past the curious gazes of Papa and Sheila back to my kitchen. I try to pick up where I left off, but end up leaning over the sink and crying. Making a 20th anniversary cake is not what I feel like doing right now. My mom’s warning about being a slave to the kitchen clangs through my mind. I asked for the stress of running a business, so now I need to shut up, make cake, and stop feeling sorry for myself.
This one’s for my neighbors, Tracy and Leo, who I asked to please keep this a secret from my mom. Tracy promised then ordered vanilla amaretto cake with almond buttercream, her husband’s favorite. She gave me complete creative control—an artist’s dream. So I design a two-tiered cake in teal and light orange with two fishes at the top and a kissy heart between them. I add pearl bubbles all around and dust the whole thing with sparkly turquoise edible glitter.
It’s one of my prettiest cakes ever.
“Oh, my…” Sheila immediately takes pics of it. Even though it came out lovely, I don’t feel like admiring it like I usually do with my other cakes. In fact, I don’t even wait for them to come pick it up. I leave Papa and Sheila in charge of collecting money, seeing that the cake is picked up, and safely placed in the car. I just want to get home, completely ignore my Spanish project by watching an old movie on Netflix, then hit the sack early.
And ignore life.
The way life likes to ignore me.
At school the next day, I don’t see Sabrina, not even once. Everyone is talking about Friday’s big tackle, but it’s not the football game they mean. It’s “that baker girl” taking down another chick in the hallway, which makes me MVP of the Week.
I cannot wait to get home.
I walk up the path to my house to find my neighbor, Leo, running out of his yelling in Spanish. From the front porch, Tracy chucks stuff at him—a shoe, a book, a remote control… “And take this, and this, and this! Go on, get out! I haven’t needed you in twenty years, so why should I start now?”
Whoa, whoa…
I gawk, as do other neighbors poking their heads out their windows or standing on the sidewalk, dog leashes in hand. Are they for real? This is the happy couple I made the cake for? They can’t be fighting. It’s their 20th Anniversary! They should be so in love, ready to renew their vows, jumping a plane for their second honeymoon. Anything but this.
Leo yells something I can’t understand, and Tracy covers her face and bawls against a porch column. Seconds later, Leo screeches his car out of the driveway and drives off. Tracy spots me. “Thank you for the cake, Rose. Everything was fine until we served it, then everyone started fighting. But it did come out beautiful.” She sobs into her hands then disappears into the house. The door slams.
Was there a full moon last night? Because I know that means full potential to witches. It’s also when weird things happen. Did the Cakespell not work this time? Do I have to give her money back? How does this work? I think back to yesterday while I was baking and what I might’ve done differently. There wasn’t anything, except for—
No.
It can’t be. Papa said people fall in love through Cakespell. Then again, Nana was always in a good mood. I doubt Nana ever baked any teen angst into her goodies. In fact, Nana probably never had bad moods, she was happy all the time. I think my being upset at Caleb affected the cake. Papa never mentioned the possibility of any emotion other than love being infused. Then again, Papa said Cakespell has a mind of its own.
If this is true, it would explain why my mother failed miserably as a svakha. She’s always mad, worse than I am.
I tear into the house. I find my mom sitting in her office on the phone, smiling and giggling. Smiling and giggling! “Oh, you little thing…”
Silence as Frank replies.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Big thing.”
Ugh, adults, must you?
She spots me in the doorway and bolts upright, switching out her new giggly face for her old one. “What’s up, Rose? How was school?”
“Why weren’t you a svakha?”
Her face freezes. “Frank, I’ll call you back,” she says, hanging up. “Didn’t I ask you not to bring this up ever again?”
“Tell me. Why didn’t it work for you?”
“I told you, I am not discussing this with—”
“Why?” I yell. “Why won’t you?”
“I heard about you and Sabrina. Her mother called me.”
Wait, so she knows I baked a cake for Caleb? Wouldn’t she be about to blow any moment? “It’s not your business.” I turn around to leave.
“Stay.” She’s ridiculously calm. Oddly. I guess the Cakespell is still working its magic on her mood, because she could easily be a hundred times more upset. “I make it my business to know what’s going on in your life, Rose. I told you not to bake, I tried to dissuade you, but you did it anyway, and the spell backfired on you…”
I’m more shocked than anything at hearing her mention the word “spell.”
“You have no one to blame but yourself. I told you you’d regret it, but you didn’t listen, did you?” Her fingers drum over her arms.
I hold onto the door frame to keep from losing my balance. “I didn’t have any problems with baking until then, and the Cakespell didn’t cause the problem. Caleb has always liked Sabrina, and apparently, Sabrina has always liked him back. In fact, those two didn’t even need a cake to bring them together, and anyway, she didn’t eat it!”
“Yes,” LM says calmly. “But he never would’ve come to you for help, asked you to bake a cake if it weren’t for him knowing about it. How would he even know about Cakespell, Rose?”
He and hundreds of other people know.
Either she doesn’t know about the business, or she’s bluffing. I decide to hope for the first one. “I don’t know,” I lie. “But I’m not gonna stop. I love it too much.”
“You’re being rebellious and ridiculous.”
“I’m being ridiculous? You’re the one busting your ass every day, only to sell one house every blue moon. Yet you keep doing it. Me, I could be making cakes all the time, because there’s always an occasion to be celebrated. I could always be making money. You’re the one without money to pay for a new A/C unit.”
“I have the money. I only wanted to come down on price. You don’t know what I’m up to, Rose.”
“Really? Is that why we didn’t have A/C for like two weeks? Or why you got that bank email? ‘Cause guess what? If you need money…” I’m yelling. And LM is staring at me, wondering where her daughter has disappeared to and who is this vile creature spitting venom in her place. But I don’t care anymore. I’ve had it with her nonsupport. I’ve had it with boys. I’ve had it with shitty best friends. Just about the o
nly people I haven’t had it with are Alexandre and Papa.
“I don’t need money, Rose. We are fine.”
“We are not fine!” I shout. “Stop saying that we are. You’re only saying it because you can’t admit that having an artistic talent could make you money if you’re willing to work for it.” I run to my room and shove my hand underneath my mattress, pulling out my wad of cash in a Ziploc bag. I rush back to her office, but she’s already out of her seat coming toward the door. “Here.” I push the bag of cash into her chest.
Her hand wraps around it. “What is this?”
“What does it look like?”
Her eyeballs pop out of her face. Like they haven’t laid themselves on that amount of cash in a while. “Where did you get it?”
“I worked for it. I busted my butt and had fun doing it. In fact, the orders won’t stop coming in, and look what it got me—money. I hereby donate it all to help pay for our A/C.”
“Where have you been baking? Is this why you’ve been going to Papa’s so much?” Her teeth grind. “What has he been telling you?”
“The truth.” I narrow my eyes. “At least he talks to me. He doesn’t judge.”
“Rose, one thing is baking a cake for Caleb, and another is running a business. I told you you are not to have a cake business, and now you’ve disobeyed me. Your grades are C’s at best! I saw them on the parent portal.”
“But I made money, when you said I wouldn’t,” I shout, turning away, but she grabs me by the arm and pulls me back.
“You are so stubborn. Listen to me…it is not all about money. Why can’t you understand that it’s a curse!”
“What?”
Her face drops into her hands, like she’s said too much. “A curse. It can be. It worked with Nana because Nana was perpetually happy.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She waves a hand around. “Sometimes I wanted to shake her for being that way all the time. To the point where she dismissed my problems too easily. But normal people are not like her, Rose. I’m not like that. You’re not like that. Cakespell’s not just about love. It’ll conduct your fear, your anger, your hatred—everything.”
