Cakespell

by Gaby Triana

  “Right there. Her head’s down. Doesn’t look like she feels well,” a guy says in the row right below us.

  “Who doesn’t?” Sabrina cranes her neck. “Coach?”

  What’s going on with the squad? Are they sick off my cake? Please tell me they’re not. I would feel so guilty, and I don’t think I could handle another mishap. It’s not like I felt sick last night or anything. I wasn’t angry at Caleb. In fact, I was emotionally fine, only falling asleep from exhaustion standing at the counter maybe—

  Oh, shitake mushrooms. “No.”

  I can only stare ahead. As spectators quickly resume their seats, I spot Coach Jones, head down on a table at the sidelines.

  “What? What is it?” Sabs asks, following my gaze.

  “She’s not sick,” I whisper.

  “Then what is it?”

  The cheerleaders, all of them, begin taking seats in the first row of bleachers, resting instead of continuing their routine. One by one, they lay down their heads on the shoulders of the girls next to them. One by one, they slump over as though this is a great time for a nap.

  “Coach…the girls…all of them,” I say. “They’re exhausted.”

  Twenty-One

  The witch strikes again!

  Wendy posts this on her Instagram after the football game, eliciting a hundred-some comments from her friends making fun of me. I ignore it, spending most of the day going back to my wallflower ways, blending into the crowd.

  One day, I’m going to be making gorgeous wedding cakes for celebrities, not a thousand stinky cupcakes for a stinky school fundraiser, and I won’t have to deal with this crap.

  I call all hands on deck. After school, Sabrina, Alexandre, even Caleb showed up to help me cut fondant shapes, glitter the cupcakes, and box everything by the door for tomorrow night’s contest. Papa and Sheila can’t believe the team I’ve assembled. “It’s a real bakery in here.” Sheila hangs off my grandfather’s arm watching the busy kitchen.

  I smile proudly. “Yeah. It is.”

  Sabrina and Caleb talk about school the whole time. I wish I could say it doesn’t bother me, but it does. “I know, right?” Caleb says to Sabs, something about Battle of the Bakers. “They shouldn’t do it by student votes next year. They should let the judges decide, and those should only be baking professionals. That way, Rose has a better chance.”

  Ugh, thanks, Caleb. Because Rose is so unpopular.

  “Yeah,” Sabrina agrees. “It doesn’t help that everyone thinks she’s a witch now either.”

  “Hey, guys? I’m right here,” I say, throwing the last of my carrots into the food processor. “Can you talk about something else? I’m trying to stay positive.” I turn the food processor on to drown out their voices.

  “Besides…” Alex taps away at his laptop. “I have proof to the contrary.”

  “What do you mean?” Sabrina says.

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  When I turn the mixer off, Sabrina whispers by my side. “Did it affect them, you think?” She’s talking about the cheerleaders’ sleepy episode last night. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day. A hard knot forms in my stomach. “You okay?” Sabs touches my arm.

  “No.” I rest my head on the counter. At some point, I have to stop baking, stop wearing Nana’s apron, stop infusing the Cakespell, or else the stress is going to find its way into every customer who’s ever ordered from me.

  I wanted to run a cake business, not sell my soul.

  Papa has to face the facts—I am not a happy, peppy Nana and never will be. I am moody, and I am fifteen, and I probably shouldn’t have inherited the Cakespell yet.

  As we work, I’m hyper-aware of Caleb. I avoid his eyes. I don’t want to see any pity there, nor do I care to catch him exchanging googly eyes with Sabrina. But the truth is, my stomach still flips when I hear his voice, when he laughs at Sabs’ jokes, or when he directly asks me, “Rose, you want these boxes all together or sorted by type?”

  “Sorted.” And then I make the mistake of looking up, and I do catch his eyes, and he smiles at me, and while I’m secretly swooning, I feel Alexandre’s disapproving stance from my other side without even looking at him.

  “Guys, come here, I want to show you something.” Alex taps on his keyboard and shifts the screen for us to see. “I created a survey on the school page. ‘Who do you think will win the Battle of the Bakers?’ See? Wendy has forty-eight percent of the votes. You have fifty-one percent of the votes.”

  I stare at the screen. Am I really ahead of Wendy?

  “And one percent say they’re undecided,” Alex adds.

  “Oh, wow.” I had no idea I was in favor. A spike of confidence shoots through me. “That’s as of when?”

  “As of now. It’s up to the minute current.”

  “Yeah, baby!” Sabrina gives me a high five and goes back to sorting cupcake boxes.

  “Congrats, Rosie.” Caleb smiles at me in that brotherly way that’s starting to irk me.

  “Thanks.” I try not to care about him.

  Alexandre points to the computer screen. “Wendy’s post about you and the cheerleader mishap hasn’t affected your rating. If it did, it wasn’t by much. You’re still in the lead.”

  “Weird, ‘cause I don’t feel in the lead,” I say. “I feel shitty about all the problems I’ve caused.”

  Alexandre’s big eyes regard me seriously. “You’ve got this, Rose. Wendy pales in comparison to everyone’s favorite—you. Maybe people like the witch angle.” He winks.

  I smile at Alexandre.

  Then Caleb says, “Yeah, and considering how hot Wendy is…”

  We all look at him. What the eff is that supposed to mean? Sabrina and Alexandre both glare at him, while I tear my gaze away. I don’t have time for Caleb right now. Imagine that.

  “What I mean is, hotness doesn’t matter in this battle,” Caleb tries to fix his idiotic comment. “Not that you’re not hot, too, Rosie. That’s not what I mean.”

  “Shut up!” Sabrina and Alex both yell at Caleb.

  One more conduction of my negative emotions, and the scale might tip in Wendy’s favor. I focus on Alex’s comment about me instead and force that feeling straight into the next batch of carrot cupcakes, knowing that whoever eats them will be grinning from ear to ear, too.

  The doorbell rings. Papa says, “I’ll get it. You kids keep working, and working, and working…”

  A minute later, my heart sinks. I hear Lovely Mother’s voice. “What’s going on here?” She appears at the kitchen counter to behold the cake-making operation.

  “Getting ready for the Battle of the Bakers,” Sabs says, like it’s obvious. Did she forget my mom doesn’t want me doing this?

  “Yes, I see that, Sabrina. Thank you so much. Rose, may I speak to you a second?” Arms cross over chest, and I so do not need this right now.

  “Mom, I’m kind of busy.”

  “Yes. And I’m kind of waiting.”

  I sigh and put down my spatula. “Yes?”

  “Did I, or didn’t I warn you that this would overtake your life?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  She stares at my hips like I have a live chicken clinging to them.

  “What? What’s wrong?” I touch Nana’s apron. “Cake batter?”

  “Nothing. I just…I haven’t seen that in years. I…” Her expression softens, and her cheeks flush. Suddenly, she waves her hands in front of her eyes to dry them. “I didn’t expect to ever see it again, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” I look down at Nana’s crème and green apron with the little cherries. “Cool that it has a new life, isn’t it?” I know how my mom is feeling. I felt the same when I first saw the apron again.

  She dabs at her eyes with her manicured fingertips. Something occurs to her, though, and she leans in to peer inside the front pocket of Nana’s apron. The pentagram is there, same way it’s been for some seventy-five years. Her eyes lock with mine.

  I push her ha
nd away. I don’t want my friends seeing it.

  Any softness melts away, as she remembers her original purpose. “Rose, you can’t participate in the baking contest.”

  So much for sentimentality. “Why not?”

  She sucks in a sharp, impatient breath. “Look, I’m not here to make a scene. I know this is important to you, but we had a deal. I even asked Papa to stick to that deal. The deal was that was you wouldn’t bake if your grades dipped below a C, and right now, you have a D in Spanish.”

  “No, I don’t,” I say, confused. “I did have a D last week, but I just turned in my project, so maybe my teacher hasn’t put the grade in yet. I’m sure once she does, it’ll be at least a C, possibly even a B. That’s why—”

  “It’s not.” She holds up a hand to silence me. “And tomorrow is that event. And I can’t have you sacrificing school for a hobby, Rose. I’m sorry.”

  I point to the boxes by the door. “Do you see that? I’ve already baked six hundred cupcakes, Mom. I can’t stop now!”

  “Is something the matter?” Papa comes around the corner. He’s probably been listening to the whole thing. Everyone has, judging from how quiet my friends are in the kitchen.

  “Papa, please tell her that I can bake. I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”

  “Katherine, she’s been working hard,” Papa implores.

  “Dad, that’s the problem. She shouldn’t be working hard at this. She should be working hard at her classes. Instead, she’s failing one of them.”

  “It’s just Spanish!”

  “It’s important!”

  “I told you that grade is going up!” I yell.

  “Don’t…” She raises her finger at me, her shapely eyes cutting into my skull. “You talk to me that way, Rose. I’m not yelling at you, am I?”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re not listening.”

  “You are the one who’s not listening!”

  “Girls, let’s just stop this,” Papa interjects. “Katherine, haven’t you ever wanted something in your life so bad, it hurt? Can you just imagine for a second what this means to Rose? If she wins this, she wins—”

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars, yes I know,” LM interrupts with a sneer. She looks at me. “Yes, I read the school emails to parents, Rose, believe it or not. I know what’s happening.”

  “It’s not about the money,” I say.

  “It’s about respect,” Papa adds. “From her peers, her teachers…Katherine, it’s an opportunity to shine. Let her. It will fuel her drive to do better in school, not the other way around.” Papa closes his eyes, off-balance from all the arguing.

  “You okay?” I ask him. He nods, letting out a tired sigh.

  My mom scans the mess and sees everyone glancing at her, as they box cupcakes. She’s feeling the pressure. “If I don’t see a C or higher in the gradebook by tomorrow, you’re not attending.” She turns to leave.

  “But what if it’s not posted by tomorrow?” Monday is a Teacher’s Work Day, the day teachers finalize their grades for the report cards. It might not be in by tomorrow, but I can’t push it right now. She’s relenting, and that’s better than anything else she’s said about the topic thus far.

  Her face shifts through concern, unhappiness, but also, the realization that she’s losing power. Maybe Frank has softened her. Maybe I should call him right now and thank him for coming into our lives and taking her focus away from me, because, for once, our discussion has not ended in screams.

  Sheila peers into the kitchen. “Everything okay in here?”

  I watch my mom’s head turn in slow motion, as her gaze lands on the statuesque beauty queen. Her expression changes again from startled, to confused, to hurt. Her eyes question Papa silently. Who’s this?

  “Katherine, this is Sheila.” He doesn’t call her his girlfriend, doesn’t have to. From the way Sheila’s hand glides to Papa’s shoulder, it’s enough. Sheila realizes it and extends for a handshake instead.

  Mom stares at the wrinkled, manicured hand. Sheila, understanding that she’s probably not going to shake it, lets her hand down slowly. I feel bad for her.

  “Mom?” I question. Can’t she be nice for just once?

  The room sizzles with energy. I sense the maelstrom of emotions swirling around my mother’s heart. Seeing her father with another woman, a woman not her mom.

  My mother’s face reddens, something I’ve never seen before. Her eyes well up, and suddenly, they spill over, as Papa, Sheila, Sabrina, Caleb, Alexandre, and I all witness. She doesn’t even wipe them away. They slide down over her jawline.

  Sheila presses her lips into a sad smile. Maybe Papa should’ve prepped my mom for the possibility of one day seeing him with someone new. Maybe my mom feels like people get replaced too easily.

  I touch her hand. “It’s okay.”

  But I can see that it’s not. She misses Nana more than I realized. Her eyelids squeeze out fat tears. She pulls her hand out from under mine, wipes them away. “Okay.”

  Mom grabs her keys off the counter and leaves. I feel her pain as she goes. That had to be a shock seeing Sheila come around the corner like that, much like it was for me when I first saw Papa flirting, especially since she stared at me like I’m Nana’s ghost. I feel bad for all of them. But I have learned one thing—LM isn’t made of stone.

  Those were big tears I saw fall out of her face. Deep sadness. I felt it. My mother loved Nana. Loves me too, or else she wouldn’t have come here to “voice her concern.” She has reasons for being crazy. And since I’m not a mother yet, I guess I can’t understand. Calling her LM doesn’t sit right with me anymore, so I need to stop that. From now on.

  Twenty-Two

  I asked Papa not to wake me in the morning, since I’m skipping school today. So what’s the first thing he does? Knocks on my door and shouts, “Get up, Rosie the Baker! The cupcakes aren’t going to finish themselves!”

  “Fuuuuuudge muffins.” I throw off my blanket, blinking against the brightness. He’s right. I have about two hundred cupcakes left to crank out today—by myself. If I’m lucky, I’ll be done by dinner time.

  I slog out of bed, tie up my hair, extend my arms, and let Papa tie my apron. I yawn, do the Cakespell chant, yawn again, make coffee, start my big band playlist, and preheat the oven while all still in my PJs. “You have Zumba today?” I ask Papa.

  “Nope. Swimming with Sheila.”

  I barely break a smile. “Cute.”

  “Not cute. A power couple, that’s what we are.”

  “Cute,” I mutter.

  By lunchtime, I’ve made good progress, but a noise in the house stops me.

  Turning my music down, I strain to hear. Maybe it was a background noise in one of these old songs I listen to. Sometimes, you can hear people muttering in them. But then, I hear it again. “Uuhhh…”

  I burst out of the kitchen and down the hall, stopping outside Papa’s door.

  “Uhhh…”

  “Papa?” When I peek into his room, it’s empty. But then I spot a pair of legs, Papa’s legs, lying flat in his bathroom. I’m about to run over to him when I remember this has happened before. When I found him lying in the garden with Yasmine. I freeze in the doorway, unsure what to do.

  Are he and Sheila in there? I don’t want to find them doing weird things. “Papa? Sheila?”

  Nothing.

  If Sheila was here, she’d at least reply, wouldn’t she?

  Forget it. I don’t care if Papa is doing it with his girlfriend on the bathroom floor. I have to go in there and see if he’s okay. I run over and pause just outside. He’s alone, wedged between the toilet and the bathtub, wearing his swimming trunks with a towel thrown over him. I drop to my knees. “Papa, are you okay? What happened?”

  His eyes are closed, as he lets out a moan.

  “Papa?” I feel panic rising from the pit of my stomach into my chest.

  His eyes open slightly. “Uhhh.” He grips my hand. I’ve never seen him looking more fragile than right
now at this very moment. “Gloria?”

  “It’s me, Rose.”

  He nods, coming back to reality. “Rose.”

  “Yes, you fell. What do I do? Call 911?” Crap, I left my phone in the kitchen. I don’t want to leave him, but I need to call my mom, an ambulance, anyone. I hate that I don’t have Sheila’s number. I never bothered to get it, because I thought she’d be temporary. What a shitty thing to think about her.

  Suddenly, he reaches out with both arms. “Help me up.”

  “You sure? Maybe you shouldn’t move.” But he’s getting up regardless, so I take a hold of both his hands and pull him to a sitting position.

  He grabs a hold of the tub’s edge. “I was getting my towel when everything went black. Lost blood pressure. It’s happened a few times this year.”

  “Did you hit your head?” I check his scalp through thin hair strands for any cuts or bruises but don’t see any.

  “Don’t think so.” He rubs his head and presses his fingertips into closed eyelids.

  My nerves are a mess. “Do I call rescue? I don’t know what to do.” I feel the sting of tears against my eyes. Why am I so helpless all of a sudden?

  “I’m alright. Just need help getting up into bed. I’ll relax for a while. Tell…” he pauses, thinking for a moment, “Sheila…I won’t be meeting her at the pool right away.”

  “Right away? I don’t think you should go to the pool at all. No offense, Papa, but you don’t look well.”

  “Meh.”

  “I’m serious.” I grab his hand. He places the other one firmly on the toilet lid, while I wait patiently for him to bring his legs underneath him. I’m impressed by how quickly he does it. All his yoga and Zumba have paid off. I stand and hoist him up as best as I can. “There. Did I lift you okay?”

  Scratching his butt, he heads out of the bathroom. “Better than a full Viagra.”

  Really? Okay—he’s fine.

  “Why do you have to say things like that?”

  “Go do whatever you were doing.” He flings my hand away. “I’m fine.” He stumbles a bit before reaching his bed, then pulls back his tightly-made coverlet, sitting on the edge to rest a minute. Grabbing a glass of water and small pill from his nightstand, he swigs back both.