by Gaby Triana
I watch him, thinking how much he’s acting like a stubborn old man.
“What?” He waves me away. “I said go.”
I linger in the doorway. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
He gives me a thumbs’ up while chugging down more water.
Wow. I feel like I just got electroshock therapy, whatever that feels like. I flomp down at the dinette table and stare at the baking trays I abandoned, still filled with batter. My stomach crunches, my hands are shaking, and I don’t feel like baking anymore. I only want to keep an eye on my grandfather.
I check the time. I can finish baking later or pull an all-nighter.
That’s what I’ll do.
Turning the oven off, I twist a stovetop burner onto high and grab Papa’s lentil-making pot, filling it with water then setting it back on the stovetop. While that boils, I search the pantry and pull out dry green pea soup mix. My brain shoots off a million thoughts—how will I get these cupcakes done in time? Should I call his doctor, my mom, or Sheila? My stomach squeezes tighter.
Just get his soup ready, Rose.
The doorbell rings. I’m running over to answer it, but then Sheila uses her key to come in. One look at me, and she melts into a flurry of worry. “Oh, Rosie, are you alright? He just told me what happened.”
My face drops into my hands. I’m going to lose it. “No. I’m not.”
“Honey, it’s okay. Come here.” She hugs me a long time, like my own grandmother would have. Then, she leads me back to the kitchen and checks the stove. “What are you making?”
“Soup. He needs soup.” I hold onto the counter and start crying. What if something bad had happened to him? What if he’d died? I wouldn’t have been able to handle that all by myself.
“Honey, I’ll take it from here. You get back to baking. No worries.” I feel my hair being tugged and a kiss lightly planted on my forehead, the light scent of pressed makeup powder wafting into my nose.
Thank you, Sheila. Thank you for taking over.
She leaves me to my work, but I can’t bake. Not my famous banana walnut cream cheese cupcakes, not my cookies-and-cream ones, which I know will push the judges over the top, not my cinnamon vanilla with dulce de leche buttercream. No, the bake-off will just have to do without them.
Sheila can take care of Papa without me, but I need to be here for him, too. What’s the worst that could happen if I don’t finish the cupcakes? Get fired? You can’t fire a slave. An angry mob of students will chase me down with forks? Dr. OD will disqualify me? No, Wendy will win, proving to my mom and the world that I can’t handle stress.
I unlace Nana’s apron and pull it off, hanging it in its place. A minute later, I’m by Papa’s bedside, ignoring his and Sheila’s concerned faces. She whispers on the phone to the doctor, as I gently take his hands.
“You stubborn girl. I said I was fine,” he mutters.
“Just checking to make sure you’re okay. I’ve made a million cupcakes. Don’t really need more.” The banana walnuts would’ve given me an edge, but it’s okay. Papa is more important. “How are you feeling?”
“Fit as a fiddle.”
“How are fiddles fit exactly?” I smile. “I never got that.”
He tries to smile, but I can see he’s not okay.
Sheila nods. “A hundred micrograms, yes…”
I suddenly feel really happy that my grandfather has her, that he was able to find a good woman after Nana, that he found one as loving and beautiful as this lady right here. I feel guilty for not getting to know her better.
“Thank you so much. Buh-bye.” She hangs up and taps Papa on the foot. “I’m going to go pick up a prescription at the grocery store. Will you be okay?”
Papa nods, eyes closed.
“Great. Be back soon.”
After she leaves, it’s just me and him. A calm comes over me as sunlight filters in through the white blinds of his room. His shoes are lined up perfectly against the wall, old photos in their frames on his dresser. Same as always. “I’ve never seen you like that before,” I tell him. “It scared me.”
He nods. “I’m sorry. Getting old is no walk in the park.”
I run my thumb over his yellowing thumb nail, getting hit with a realization—he won’t be on this earth much longer. Maybe a year, two years, ten years. Either way, he’ll be leaving before me, entering the great beyond, the place all of us long to understand.
“I’ll stay with you as long as you need me to, okay? Even if Sheila is here.” I fight back a sob.
His eyebrows pinch together. “Oh, no, you don’t. You have things to do. You’re not going to waste your time taking care of me.”
“It’s not wasting.”
“Rosie.” A hand touches my chin. I open my eyes to see him staring at me. “Listen to me. You know how you asked me once if I had any regrets, and I said no?” I nod. “Well, I do. I have one.”
“What is it?” I wipe my face.
“Nana was always there for me, always there. If I needed something, she’d stop whatever she was doing to help me. If I wanted attention, she’d stop to tend to my wounds or rub my back. If I was sick, she’d stop baking to take care of me. Just like you’re doing now.”
“That’s what I’ve always loved about her, you guys, your generation. You’re so dedicated to each other. I don’t see that anymore. I’m not baking anymore today. I’ve baked enough.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “That’s just it. Nana could’ve been a huge success. She was talented, so popular. Everyone loved her! She could’ve opened her own bakery, but every time she got close, she had to stop. To be a wife, a mother, to be there for everyone else. And…” He closes his eyes. “I allowed it. She could’ve been a huge sensation, she was that good. She could’ve soared, Rosie.” He swipes my cheeks. “But she didn’t. Because I was the man, the Great Husband, a big baby who needed to be first.”
I get what he’s saying. He did to Nana what my mom is doing to me now, holding me back. I suppose that’s why he let me bake here. I appreciate it, but I don’t care. He’s still sick. “I’m not going back to the kitchen, Papa. I’m done for the day.”
“You stubborn girl. You have a competition tomorrow. Go and finish what you started. Be a star. Show them who Rosie the Baker is. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“No.”
“Don’t say no to me, young lady.” He shakes a finger at me. “You’re going to go finish those cakes, and you’re going to win that contest tomorrow—”
“Papa—”
“No Papa.” He gives me a don’t-mess-with-me look. “Don’t you dare argue with me. I’ve let you do whatever you want here. I’ve given you the freedom you wanted. This is all I ask in return.”
Dang it. Guilt works surprisingly well.
I lay my head on his arm and more tears spill. I can’t talk. His hand sifts into my hair, like he used to do when I was little when he wanted me to listen, to let his words make their way through my thick skull.
“Rosie, you have a job to do, young lady,” he adds, running his thumb across my eyelids. “And nobody can do it like you can. Nobody. You hear me? So, get to it.”
Twenty-Three
I can’t argue with the alpha male of the Milkovich Family.
Against my will, I get the banana cream cheese cupcakes done.
The cookies-and-cream done.
The cinnamon vanilla with the dulce de leche frosting done.
Wendy Rivera is SO screwed, and she can thank my grandfather!
I still don’t feel right attending Battle of the Bakers knowing that Papa might be sick or that he might need to go to the hospital at any moment. Sheila was awaiting doctors’ orders when I left this morning. I also called my mom before school to tell her to check on him, but she was in a meeting, so I left a message.
I made sure to dress up—my style—to show everybody who’s boss. I channeled Nana and the movie stars of her youth in a chenille skirt, satin top, pin-curled hair,
and bright red lipstick.
Alexandre sees me leaving the office before first period. His eyes pop out of his head, jaw drops, and a keyboard he’s holding against his chest goes sliding out of his arms.
“You’re dropping something,” I giggle.
He squats and gathers the board back up. “Wow, you look fantastic, Rose.”
“Thanks.” I smile. I can always count on Alexandre.
“No, truly amazing. Not just saying that. Did you talk to Dr. OD?”
“Just came from seeing her. I had news to tell her.” I told Dr. O’Dell that there was the slightest chance I might not make it tonight, if my grandfather ended up going into the hospital. Sheila was waiting to hear from his doctor this morning before I left.
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me you didn’t get to finish. Sorry I couldn’t help you yesterday.”
“Oh, I got it all done, went to sleep at two this morning, but the thing is,” I pause to take a photo with a group of freshmen who stop to say hello.
“Rosie! Rosie! Rosie!” they chant and saunter away.
“Team Rosie is going to take it tonight!” one of the girls says.
Alexandre smiles. “You were saying? The thing is?”
I hook my arm through his. “Walk me to my first class. I’ll explain. My grandfather got sick yesterday. I don’t know what’s going to happen. If he’s still sick when I get home today, I’m not going to the battle.”
“Are you serious?” he says, slowing down slightly. “We haven’t come this far only for you not to show up.”
It’s a bit off-putting to hear him talk about “we” working this hard when I’ve done all the baking, but he’s right about being a team. He’s invested just as much time making flyers, a website, order form, and everything else. “I know, Alex, but family comes first.”
“Is this because you’re nervous? Because you don’t like talking in public?”
“I am nervous, but it’s not that…”
“Can’t your mom watch over him? Or his girlfriend? I don’t see why it has to be you. We need you here.”
Whoa, what? Where is this coming from? I stop cold in the hallway, students shifting their courses to weave around us. “No, Alex. Papa has taken care of me. He’s been my biggest support. None of this would even be possible if it weren’t for him. If he’s really sick, and I hope he’s not, I can’t just leave his side.”
Alex shakes his head. I can see he doesn’t agree, but he’s not me right now.
“Like I told Dr. OD, in case I can’t be there tonight, I need you and Sabrina to sell the cupcakes instead of me.”
He sighs. “If I must. But I want you to have your moment, you know, to shine like a diamond.” My heart warms like a freshly toasted Pop-Tart. “You deserve it.”
“That…” I reach for his hand, “is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.” Alexandre looks like he wants to say a million things, but there’s less than a minute ‘til the bell. “Time to get a move on,” I add.
“Let’s go.”
Except a wave of Calebness comes swishing into our view, blocking our path, then ebbing and flowing alongside me and Alexandre. Suddenly, I’m the crème middle of an Oreo. Alexandre lets go of my arm.
“Hey, you, ready for the big night?” Caleb punches my bicep lightly. Whereas I would normally go mute at this point, surprisingly, I feel more normal around him.
“Mostly ready, barring a few minor setbacks.” I bat my eyelashes, feeling more diva than ever.
“By the way, I love this sixties retro look you got going.”
Alexandre interjects, “It’s forties, the era style she’s achieving. Forties, not sixties.” I can almost hear him add crétin in his head.
“Whatever, dude.” Caleb side-eyes him. “So, Rose, I’ve been thinking…”
He’s been thinking about what? I feel something coming. At this point, I should be swooning. And I am. Unfortunately. But I try so very hard to tell myself not to. Caleb still hasn’t re-earned his spot on my Future Husbands list.
Caleb clears his throat. “After the bake-off tonight, if you’re not doing anything…”
“Ha, ha, you not doing anything,” Alexandre says in my peripheral. I shoot him a look—will you shut up? About to get asked out here.
I turn my attention back to Caleb whose gaze is on fire toward Alex. “Sorry, what were you saying, Caleb?” I place my hand on my hip, Sabrina-style. I shouldn’t be flirting with him after he hurt me. “If I’m not doing anything?”
“Yeah.” He faces me.
Alexandre slows down too but lingers a few feet away. Does he have to wait around while Caleb proposes? I mean, talks to me? Sheesh.
Just then, who should hurry by but Wendy, stopping in her tracks when she spots Caleb. “Hey, you almost done?” She gives me a momentary look of contempt before smiling back at him. “Can I talk to you a second?”
It’s hard not to notice Alexandre’s eyes rolling around in his face. I agree. Her presence at this precise moment is utterly annoying.
“Hold on one sec,” he tells Wendy. “You know what, Rose? I’ll text you. Or catch you after school at your grandpa’s before you leave for the bakeoff. You’ll need help carrying all the cupcakes, right?”
“Yes, I will. I’ll see you later,” I say all smiles. Good, this will give me time to better prepare how I want to react when he finally asks me out.
My tummy butterflies dissipate. That was a close call, even though Wendy was right there, all fake diplomacy, waiting to talk to him. What did she want? Doesn’t she have cow chip brownies to prepare?
I hurry down the hall, Alexandre still by my side. “Well, that was maladroit,” he mutters.
“What does that mean, awkward? Wendy? Yes.”
“No, the whole exchange. You with your googly eyes all over him.”
“I don’t have googly eyes.”
“You most certainly have googly eyes.”
“And what if I do?” The bell rings. My World History teacher, Ms. Newman, is about to close the door, but I need to hear this out. I face him. “Why would that matter to you?”
“Nothing.” He keeps walking. “Forget I said anything.”
“No, tell me,” I call out.
Alexandre crosses his arms over his keyboard. “It matters to me, because you fall for that guy’s shenanigans every time.”
“What shenanigans?”
“His ‘hey, Rose,’” he imitates an overly-sappy Caleb, “and his, ‘you look hot,’ but then, right when you think he likes you, he uses you. First, to get closer to Sabrina, and now…who knows?” He shrugs. “I don’t know what his agenda is, but you’re blind to his BS.”
Is he kidding? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean by blind?”
“Yes, blind. Can’t you see when a guy doesn’t take the least bit of interest in you? What has he ever done for you that he hasn’t asked to get paid for? Nothing, but you still like him. He doesn’t even know what decade you adore. Please, Rose.”
Wow. Where is this coming from? “So what you’re saying is, that Caleb would never actually like me. That he’s only being fake. That I’m not worthy of his attention. That’s what you’re saying?”
“I never said you weren’t worthy. I’m saying he’s not worthy. Of you.”
I stare at him and his agitated forehead. “God, Alexandre, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re acting like a jealous boyfriend.”
“If you didn’t know better? What do you think you know?”
What the hell brought this on? Why did we escalate from zero to sixty in three-point-five seconds? “Nothing. I know nothing.”
“Fine. Keep ignoring the writing on the wall.”
I have no idea what he’s jabbering about. “You’re crazy. And overprotective, which I appreciate, but I’m a big girl. I can handle this without your help, so back off.”
“That’s fine, I’ll back off,” he says, throwing one hand up in the air. “I’ll back off.”
/>
And he does. All the way to his class, skulking without another word, as students around us, overhearing the whole argument, fall back into motion. While all I can do is stand here, wondering what happened, as if a huge box truck has just careened out of WTF Street and run me over.
Twenty-Four
It’s hard to be happy about Caleb nearly asking me out with Alexandre’s little tirade hanging over my head. What exactly am I blind to? Yes, Caleb wasn’t into me before, but it’s possible he’s changed his mind. People can learn to appreciate, can’t they? Wasn’t that my goal all along? To get him to notice me?
Pfft, Alex, pfffftttt.
The whole bus ride to my corner and on my walk to Papa’s, I check my phone obsessively, for texts and voicemails from Caleb. Nothing. I decide to send him and Sabrina reminder texts to please meet me at Papa’s at 5:30 to start loading the cupcakes into Sabrina’s mom’s car. Maybe that’ll prompt Caleb to call, and we can finish our conversation from earlier.
Turning into Papa’s neighborhood, I drag my feet the last couple of blocks, tired from little sleep, tired from today’s drama, when I freeze. An ambulance sits on the street outside the townhouse—Papa’s townhouse, the Secret Operation Location, my second home.
Air drains from my lungs.
Slow steps. It takes me a moment to register the extra car parked in the driveway—my mother’s Beemer. A few steps closer. The lights of the ambulance spin red and white, red and white, circling silently.
I break into a run, cutting across the street, noticing the people standing outside on the sidewalk. Most I don’t know, but also Jasmine of garden kiss fame, hand clasped over mouth. I reach the front walk. The ambulance door is open.
No siren. No hurry.
A driver clings to the door, awaiting his crew. “Miss, are you family? I need you to step back.”
I feel like throwing up.
Did he fall again? Are they taking him to the hospital this time? I need to see Sheila.
“Miss?”
I need to see my mom.
