Cakespell

by Gaby Triana

  “The power is in me,” I mutter.

  “Yes. Whatever you’re feeling, you’ll transfer to anything you make. In our family, it just happens to be cake, but it could be anything.”

  Is it true? Tracy and Leo were fighting just now outside their house, angry at each other, when I was angry last night. Their guests were angry, too.

  “But my father only remembers the positives of Cakespell,” she continues. “He only remembers Nana’s Cakespell, the happy one, because she’s gone, because he misses her, because he sees her in you.” She reaches out to touch my face, then pulls back.

  This.

  This is the first time she talks to me, explaining why instead of only telling me that I need to accept her demands. Still, I can’t stop baking. The contest is in a week. The next step after this is getting wedding cake orders, my dream orders. I can’t give up now. I’ve manifested the life I want and the future I want—because I can.

  “If—when—you’re older, after you’ve graduated from college, you want to give it a shot again, that’s fine, but not before that. Your grades are suffering—you can’t bake now. I’m going to talk to Papa about this right away.”

  “No!” I shout, blocking her path. “I can’t stop, Mom. You don’t get that I love baking, that it calms me down, that without it, my C’s would probably be D’s or F’s. I feel the energy when I’m creating. My customers do, too. They depend on me…”

  “Customers? Rose, I said no!” she yells. Suddenly, exasperated old LM is back. “You cannot have customers. You are fifteen! Absolutely not. You cannot run a business. It interferes with school, and that’s my final answer. You won’t be going to Papa’s anymore either.”

  “Like hell I won’t.”

  She turns slowly. It wouldn’t surprise me if she slapped me.

  “You said I wouldn’t make money doing what I love, but I did. I proved you wrong.”

  “You proved me right. It’s getting out of control. Caleb, exhibit A. Your attitude, exhibit B,” she says, but I’m not staying to listen. I head to my room to begin packing. “Where are you going?”

  “Out of here.” I shove shirts and jeans and a shoe here, a shoe there, whatever I can grab and fit into my backpack, while she watches in silence. “I don’t care anymore. I just don’t.” I fling away tears, storm for the door. I expect her to come charging to bolt the door and prevent me from leaving, exercising parental control like only Lovely Mother can. But she doesn’t.

  Silently, she watches me leave. Not a word.

  So I go. I go where I’m appreciated and supported. Where I’m free to wield my unique power, a power handed down from the magical women who came before me. And sadly, that’s not here.

  Sixteen

  Biking the last month has given me such super strong legs, I don’t even notice how fast I’m pedaling until I have to suddenly slow down thanks to a car rolling past a stop sign. I brake, skidding off the sidewalk into a bunch of scratchy bushes.

  Ow. Pain.

  I yank my bike up while readjusting my backpack, trying to balance. That was LM’s fault for making me leave. It’s also LM’s fault because it wouldn’t have happened if she’d just let me bake at home. Come to think of it, everything is LM’s fault.

  When I pull into Papa’s front porch, running over a new lighted pumpkin he put out, I’m out of breath. I down my bottled water in ten seconds flat. At first, I assume the car in the driveway is Sheila’s, but now that I hear yelling inside the house, I realize it’s my mother’s BMW.

  Damn. Beat me to the punch.

  I press down on the front door’s latch then sneak into the house and immediately hear arguing in the kitchen. My mother’s rage reverberates off the walls. I hope Sheila isn’t here, getting the full LM experience.

  “You had no right!” she screams.

  “I have every right,” Papa says calmly. “And so does she. It’s a family tradition.”

  “It’s witchcraft,” my mother says.

  “Katherine, you know very well it’s not the evil people make it out to be. Holy water is witchcraft. Prayer is witchcraft. Meditation is witchcraft. Every single one of the world’s religions sends thoughts and messages into the universe in order to get something they want. It’s just energy.”

  “Just energy? Dad, ‘just energy’ nearly made me lose all my friends when I was a kid once they all found out what Mom did.”

  “We lived in the wrong community, Katherine,” Papa says. “Things are different now. So much more is accepted. You should see Rose’s support system—her friends. She’s a smart and talented girl. Have you seen what she can do? Come, I’ll show you.”

  “You don’t need to show me. I’ve seen it.” I can only assume he begins showing her pics of my cakes on his phone from how quiet they get. “Yes, I know, Dad. Very talented, but she can’t bank on talent alone. She’s a girl without a father, and I’m only one parent. Your college fund is the only thing she has. She needs to keep her grades up, or she won’t get any partial scholarships. I don’t make a ton of money, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Well, you look like you do. Nice house, nice car…”

  “It’s for appearances, Dad. I’ve explained to you. I have to play the part of successful realtor, or nobody will hire me. You know this.”

  “Meanwhile Rosie is as real as it gets, and everyone hires her.”

  I feel a surge of pride deep in my chest. My grandpa really gets me.

  Lovely Mother sighs. There’s a long pause. “You don’t understand, Dad. I need Rose to focus on school. So she has a foundation. Yet she’s taking cake orders, already working. She has her whole life ahead of her to work, Dad! Her whole life!”

  “She’s doing what she loves. It’s not work to her.”

  “Maybe not yet. What about when it consumes her? What happens when it gets out of control, when some crazy guy bangs on her door at two in the morning needing a cake to save his marriage? Or when her husband takes her cake—her very own, charged-with-magic cake—from her own hands, and gives it to someone else to fall in love with him? Huh? What about then?” My mother breaks down into light sobbing.

  Did that stuff happen to her?

  “I’m sorry, Katherine. I hear what you’re saying, but it doesn’t have to be that way for her. She doesn’t need to take every order either.”

  “But she will,” Mom says. “It’ll be all or nothing for her. ‘All’ would be fine after college, but you had to go and tell her about it now. You had to go and give her Mom’s apron. You turned her into a svakha without my consent.”

  “She’s an excellent svakha!”

  “She’s a girl, Dad! She has no business controlling people’s lives. It was fine for Mom. Mom had nothing better to do, but those were different times. Rose is going to have to work if she wants to make it in this world. I can’t have her practicing the family’s magic!”

  Quiet for a half minute, Papa finally sighs. “I find it disturbing that you’ve only come here to complain. Not once have you visited me in three months.”

  “Is that what this is about? Was this your way of getting me to come visit you?”

  “No. This was my way of spending time with my granddaughter, something you should be doing,” he retorts.

  “Well, congratulations, because now she wants to live with you.”

  “That may not be such a terrible idea.”

  “Are you kidding? You, in charge of making sure Rose is prepared for the world? Dad, forgive me, but you can barely take care of yourself. You thought keeping the five-bedroom house would be a good idea! You were barely there for me as a kid…how are you going to be there for Rose?”

  “I’m retired, Katherine, in case you forgot. I can watch over her. Let Rose stay for a while. She needs a break from you. She needs encouragement. She needs an outlet. She needs love, for Pete’s sake.”

  Pause. There’s only one thing I can think of when my mom is that quiet, and that must be she’s seriously considering it. She�
�s been beat. “I do give her love,” she says. “It may be tough love, but it’s love. She needs goals.”

  “She has goals!” Papa shouts. “They’re just not your goals!”

  Mom scoffs. There’s a tapping sound on the dinette table. Her nails clicking as she fumes. I’m about to walk in there and tell them that it’s my choice what I do with my life, that I want to bake and I want to live at Papa’s, when the chair slides back.

  “Fine. You have her for a while. But if anything happens to her, if her heart gets broken, if she fails her classes, if it all becomes too much for her…it’s going to be on your head.” Her keys jingle, and heels click-clack out of the kitchen.

  I retreat into an alcove as she whooshes past me.

  “It’ll be fine, Katherine. Give the girl room to breathe.” Papa turns down the hallway without seeing me. “For goodness sake.”

  Is that it? So I get to live here? Part of me likes the idea. It’ll give me a new start and something to think about other than Caleb and Sabrina. But part of me watches my mother pause at the door, hand on the handle, head lowered and sobbing, and I feel terrible.

  Like I’m abandoning her. Like my dad abandoned her. I love her, of course. But I need this reprieve. At least for a little while. And, honestly, so does she.

  Papa’s guest room is about as generic as it gets with its full-sized bed, standard issue wood furniture, and boring white blinds. I’m going to have fun dressing this place up, making it my own. A few old movie posters, an old radio, some candles, and I’ll steal that full-length mirror from Papa’s room. I’m sure he’ll let me borrow it.

  I tiptoe down the hall to his room. He’s at his computer. “Hi.”

  He looks at me over his glasses. “Hi, pumpkin. You all settled in?”

  “Not really. I didn’t bring much this time. Didn’t want to shock Mom.”

  He rubs his forehead. “I think she means well, Rose. She’s just watching out for you.”

  “I guess. But she can’t control everything.”

  He nods. I can tell he’s thinking more, but I don’t feel like discussing it. “Do you mind if I borrow your mirror? The oval, vintage one. My room doesn’t have one.”

  “That was your grandmother’s.” He has a sad, faraway smile.

  “I only want to borrow it. It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

  “You can have it.”

  I blink. “I can?”

  “You can have anything of mine, Rose. It’s not like I’m going to need them much longer.” He turns back to his computer.

  “Ugh, stop talking like that.”

  “It’s true. Just a natural part of life.”

  “Still.” I walk over to the mirror and try lifting it by the stand. “Just let me know when you want it back.”

  “Okeedokee,” Papa says.

  Gripping the mirror, I crab-walk through his doorway, down the hall, into my new room and place it next to the nightstand. It reflects too much light from the window, so I move it to the other side of my bed. Perfect. I stare at the photo of Nana stuck into the edges and at the purple and yellow scarf tied to the stand.

  I wish I could go back in time, to look like Nana did in this pic. Nobody dresses up fancy anymore. I rummage through my bag and pluck out what I’ve been avoiding. The red dress Sabrina bought me. I appreciate that she was trying to help me.

  I turn on my phone plug-in speaker. Wartime music comes on.

  I head into the bathroom, set up all my hair and makeup stuff neatly into the drawers and spend the next hour working my hair into hot rollers, releasing the curls and spraying them, combing it into a gorgeous pinup style. I don’t put on makeup very often, but when I do, I look nice. I go easy on the eyes, not too vixen, more sexy, then I really seal the look with a hot, red lipstick.

  I slip the dress up my body, and yeah—

  That’s the clincher right there.

  Had I dressed this way around Caleb the last couple of months, he might’ve asked me out. Sabrina was right, I’m more powerful than I give myself credit for, and this dress brings that out.

  Do I have the courage to go to school looking this way?

  Maybe not in this dress, per se—I think I’ll save it for the Battle of the Bakers—but I can buy new tops and shoes to go with my jeans while still using this retro style for hair and makeup. What if people laugh? I’ll ignore them. Better yet, what if my look inspires someone else to be who they are?

  I smile at Vintage Rosie in the mirror.

  I can easily win Battle of the Bakers. I can easily win back Caleb, too. I can easily become a famous cake designer, the youngest ever to score her own Netflix show. Yeah. I can do this. I didn’t come from a long line of witches for nothing.

  Seventeen

  Wendy Rivera is way more intimidating up close than lurking behind Caleb. Sitting in Dr. O’Dell’s office, going over contest details, the “albatross” has perfect medium-length hair and a porcelain doll face. Her posture is impeccable. She nods perkily every time the principal explains one of the contest rules, but if I ask a question, she glowers at me.

  She keeps talking like an annoying adult too. “That makes total sense, Dr. O’Dell. I’m with you two hundred percent.” Dr. OD smiles a lot, no doubt thinking that Wendy is such a mature young lady.

  I’m glad I came to school in my new hair and makeup. Wendy’s eyes rove over me every so often, like she can’t decide what’s worse, having to bake against me or the fact that I’ve upped my game with a more kickass appearance.

  Dr. O’Dell drones on. “Bring whatever you like, cakes, cookies, brownies, enough to sell for three hours. Here are your rules and regulations.” She hands us each a stapled packet. “Look it over. Make sure everything is homemade, nothing from a professional bakery, be here by 5:00 PM to set up, you’re allowed one assistant…am I forgetting anything? Oh, yes, look your best! It’s possible a news crew will show up. Any questions?”

  I raise my hand. “Who’ll be judging?”

  “A few teachers and students. Also, everyone at the bake sale will have a voting form to fill out. Our judges will count those at the end of the night and combine with their scores.”

  Wendy raises her hand. “Can we put up flyers around school for people to vote for us?”

  Dr. O’Dell thinks about it. I hope she’ll say no; this isn’t a popularity contest. But instead, “You know what? Go for it. Anything to make people want to attend and help out is fine by me. Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition, is there?”

  Damn it.

  What’s to keep this from turning into a popularity contest?

  Dr. O’Dell stands, our cue to get out of her office so she can talk to the parents waiting outside. Wendy gathers her things and extends her hand to me. “May the best baker win.” She flashes the most perfect row of teeth I have ever seen on a human being or any species for that matter.

  “Yeah, good luck.” I shake her totally limp hand.

  My teeth are just as nice.

  During lunch, I take my tray to a bench in the hallway where it’s quiet, except for a group of freshmen practicing a dance around the corner. After a few bites of my chicken burrito, I pull out my Rules and Regulations packet to read in peace. I worry about my super-behind Spanish project due in two days. I worry about the baking-a-thousand-cupcakes thing. Gah, I hate to admit this, but I’m starting to feel overwhelmed.

  I can’t focus on Chile’s government, nor am I in the mood to review all these rules. In fact, all I can think about is what I’m going to bake for the Battle of the Bakers. My menu will determine everything. Wendy might get the F-boy vote, but I have the baking chops, which gets the hungry boy vote, plus the smart girl vote, plus the teacher vote.

  I pull out my purple pen and open to the next page in my homework notepad.

  For the first time in days, excitement rushes through my veins. Let’s start with the classics—vanilla, chocolate, and red velvet. What else. I need inventive, kickass cupcakes that will blow e
verybody’s mind out of the water:

  Just then, what sounds like a herd of happy gazelles stampedes down the hall. It starts through the double metal doors and heads my way in the form of a giant crowd. Not just any crowd. A crowd comprised of lots and lots of chatty girls with one guy right in the middle, looking a little besieged.

  Skinniness and doofy face, Kirk, the hundred-cupcake order guy, has a harem of women following him. My eyeballs fall out of my head. He got what he wanted. Look at them—all in love with him alright, trying to touch him, talk to him, smush their faces next to his while simultaneously taking selfies with him.

  Well, I’ll be damned. It worked. He tries escaping their caresses and kisses. I watch with fascination behind my binder. As he gets swooped away by the girl-tide, he recognizes me sitting here and salutes. “I owe you, cupcake girl.” He gives me a thumb’s up. I warily return it, then he flows down the hall with the wave of babes.

  Actually, he does owe me. About fifty bucks.

  I’m so relieved that the spell worked for him. I cannot imagine what might’ve happened had my anger and disappointment been baked into those cupcakes like I did to Tracy and Leo’s cake. In fact, I made those when I made Caleb’s mini-cake, so love was definitely in the air at the time.

  Where was I? Ah, yes…

  The hall becomes quiet again except for the distant cafeteria noises. Suddenly, someone’s displacing the air next to me. Alexandre, settling onto the bench. “Mademoiselle… What are you doing?” He peeks at my list.

  “Strategizing.” I show him my plan to rule the baking universe, one cupcake at a time.

  “Excellent. What about a coconut-lemon combo? To add something citrusy in there.”