Cakespell

by Gaby Triana

  I walk up the steps, but for some reason, I can’t enter the house. I can only stand at the doorway, staring in. A paramedic says something to somebody behind the kitchen wall. I stare at the photo of Nana and Papa in black-and-white, movie stars from another place and time, up on the wall.

  “Miss, I need you to back up, please—”

  “He’s my grandfather.”

  Voices mumble inside the house, men’s, women’s, strangers. My mom appears from behind the wall. The first thing I notice are her cat eyes. Unpainted, crying. Behind her is Frank, concerned. Mom sees me and manages a tender smile. Her fist clenches a tissue to her mouth. She click-clacks down the hall to me. Frank stays behind with a paramedic.

  “Hi baby.” Her arms wrap around me. I feel her shaking.

  Baby. When was the last time I heard that?

  “What’s going on?” It’s my voice coming out of my mouth, but it sounds like an echo from a faraway place.

  She withdraws, eyes down. Her beautiful mouth opens and closes, forming words. Tunnel vision. I feel like I’m going to faint. Her eyes fill up with tears. It’s Papa. Go on home. Frank will drive you. He’ll help you load the cupcakes.

  I hear these words, but from another place.

  I’ve lost him, haven’t I?

  From the sobs pouring from my mother’s chest and the way she leans into me, weak and shaking, I know she heard me. I know in the core of my heart that he’s gone.

  I have to hold her body up, console her, my mother’s straight black hair against my cheek, as if she needs the support more than I do. I remember Papa lying in bed, quilted coverlet up to his chest, eyes shut, gripping my hand, the way I last saw him. When we last spoke. Last night.

  He’s in there right now. Asleep forever.

  My mom is awaiting his transference to the ambulance.

  Go on home with Frank, love. I’ll see you over there in a bit.

  Meaning, they won’t do it as long as I’m standing here, my young eyes burdened by the finality of death. Part of me wants to push past everybody and make my way inside, scurry up to his bedside, and clutch his hand. What would it feel like? Would he be able to hear me? Would his soul be watching?

  I must wander off, because I find myself standing in the small patch of grass in front of the townhouse. I feel my mother’s hands wrap over my shoulders. “Rose, the car is that way, hon. Frank will help you with the cupcakes. I’ll call Sabrina to come help.”

  “I’m not going.” I stare at the long street I just came down, the neighborhood that still looks alien to me. I miss their old house, their old neighborhood, a life left behind. I’ll never see it again. This is it, isn’t it? This is what they call “the end of an era.”

  My mother speaks. “Yes, you’re going to the Battle of the Bakers. Go and have a good time. You deserve to.”

  “Deserve?” I stare at her. “You didn’t want me to before.”

  “Well, you can go now, Rose. Really. It’s okay.”

  For once, I don’t want to. I want to be with Papa. I want things to be the way they were before. What good is having my mom forbid me from doing stuff if my grandfather’s not around to defend me?

  I double over, sobs choking my throat and chest. “Is he in there? Can I see him?”

  “He is, but that’s not a good idea, Rose.”

  “How did he go?”

  “Heart attack…didn’t feel any pain…in bed…” Mom’s words are particles of glitter floating in the wind, wispy and unfocused.

  “While sleeping?”

  “With Sheila. Poor thing. She’s torn up.”

  Wait. My grandfather died while in bed with Sheila? Oh, my GOD. Then he must’ve gone smiling. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Somehow, this feels so appropriate for Papa. “I can’t go tonight.”

  “Yes, you can. You will.”

  “No, I need to be here with you.” I fall against her shoulder. “I have to keep working…”

  “You’ve already baked them all,” she reminds me, wiping my tears.

  “You don’t want me to bake.” I look for more excuses. “You don’t want me involved with the Cakespell.”

  “Rose,” she sighs.

  I only want to crawl into bed and forget about life. Sabrina and Alexandre can sell my cupcakes for me. Dr. O’Dell will understand. I don’t care anymore.

  “The Cakespell has a mind of its own. I’m scared of it. One day, it’s the answer to everyone’s prayers, and the next…it’s your worst nightmare. At least it was for me,” Mom explains.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Besides your father running off with a co-worker?” She scoffs.

  “Oh.” I let her take my hands into hers. Such smooth, delicate, pretty skin, and perfectly painted nails. I can’t remember the last time these hands held mine.

  “It’s fine. We’ve been better off without him. But look at what you’ve done, all the magic you’ve brought to people’s lives, to my life.” She glances back at Frank, looks at me again.

  “I’ve caused just as many problems,” I say.

  “You’ll learn to control it with time. Nana was a master. I wasn’t a particularly good svakha, Rose, but you…” She squeezes my hand. “You are a great one. I’m jealous. You said something to me a while ago that struck me. You asked what was wrong with me, did I want you to be miserable like me. Maybe I did, Rose. Maybe I did.”

  Whoa, an apology.

  “You could be a good svakha again,” I say. “We could be a team.”

  Such a pretty smile, my mom has. When she uses it. “Maybe, we’ll see. Go to that contest and win. Go, because Papa wants you to go. He did the absolute right thing by encouraging you. And win, because…” She takes my face in her hands, runs her thumbs along my cheeks. “Win, because I want you to.”

  I’m all about my mother’s change of heart, but I can’t do this.

  Not today. It’s over. All over.

  I wait by the car, as Frank and my mom file out with boxes full of things from my room and boxes loaded with cupcakes, one after the other. As I slide into the seat of Frank’s car, I’m vaguely aware of Sabrina and Caleb arriving in different cars, everybody pitching in to carry out a thousand cupcakes and drive them to the school for set up. All quietly. All reverently.

  “Is my dress there? The red one?” I ask Frank, as he loads one last box into the car.

  “Pretty sure it is.” He closes the trunk, kissing my mom on the cheek, then sliding into the driver’s seat. “Ready?”

  I nod, staring at my hands.

  But I’m not ready. Still, I have to move on. To make Papa proud whether I like it or not. Wallowing won’t solve anything. They’ll take him to the hospital, wait for the person who examines dead bodies, and do a bunch of paper-signing things that will take all night. My mother will have to endure it all.

  Me, all I have to do is show up to Battle of the Bakers, sell cupcakes with Sabrina, and call it a night. Clearly, I’m getting the better end of the deal.

  When we arrive at my house, I almost don’t recognize my room. It’s been three weeks since I set foot here. The first thing I notice is how much more elegant it is than Papa’s townhouse. Such a show home. No wonder my mother didn’t want me baking here. She put a lot of time and effort into glamifying it, especially the kitchen, anything to forget the domestic pastime that ruined her life.

  I trudge to my room and collapse on the bed.

  Frank knocks on the door. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure,” I mumble into the pillow.

  He walks in, sets down boxes of my stuff, then comes back a minute later, carrying Papa’s full-length mirror. “Where do you want this?”

  It’s Papa’s full-length mirror. His mirror. “I don’t know,” I mumble.

  “I’ll put it here.” He places it between my desk and the door frame, kicking a pile of clothes out of the way to set it down nicely. He admires his placement, lingers in the doorway for a minute, then decides it’s better if he doesn�
��t say anything.

  I’m grateful to him for that.

  “I’ll go get the rest of the boxes.”

  But I also want him to know I’m grateful for him. “Frank?”

  “Yeah?” He pauses.

  “Thanks for coming into our lives when you did.”

  A big smile spreads on his face. “Sure thing, Rose.”

  After the last box is set down, he closes the door, and I sit there a minute staring at my room. I never would’ve thought, when I woke up this morning, that I’d be back home by late afternoon. That my grandfather would be gone. That the time I spent with him last night would be my last. Here today, gone tomorrow.

  I drop my face into my hands and let it all out.

  When my eyes have leaked enough, and my face feels like a swollen tomato, it’s time to get up, rifle through my boxes, and find the infamous red dress. I shower, blow-dry my hair, and begin my makeup as 1940’s as I possibly can get it, covering the dark circles under my eyes with concealer. My hair is half up, half down, with pin curls on either side and combs to keep them in place.

  When done, I slip into the dress, which slides on a lot easier than it did last time. I zip it up, slip my feet into a pair of high black heels, and check myself in the mirror. There she is, Rosie the Baker all dolled up, even better than my poster. A WWII-era goodie goddess with the charm and flavor of ten dozen cupcakes.

  Papa would be proud.

  But something is missing, and I suppose that will always be the case from now on.

  I reach into the box on my bed and pull it out.

  I don’t want to do it, but I have to. I wouldn’t be Rosie the Baker without it.

  Over my head, I slip the straps of Nana’s apron. It complements the red dress like frosting on the most delicious of cupcakes. The pentagram peeks at me as a reminder that there’s more to what meets the eye. There’s magic hidden if you know where to look.

  “Through layered cakes and whipping cream…” Behind my back, I pull the straps and pause, staring at myself in the mirror. Something’s wrong.

  “Bring the Cakespell…”

  It’s not the spell.

  “Onto me.”

  It’s not the apron.

  It’s the fact that Papa isn’t here to tie it for me.

  And never will be again.

  Twenty-Five

  “I’m doing this for you,” I silently tell my grandfather’s spirit, as Sabrina and I arrive at school. I love you. I miss you. I’ll try and make you proud.

  We drive around to the school’s courtyard where a parking spot has been reserved for just us. “Look at this, ladies,” Sab’s mom says, as she drives into the space. “You’re getting the rockstar treatment!”

  As we step out, the crowd begins cheering, “Rosie! Wendy! Rosie! Wendy!” They hold posters and flags, and some of them have even dressed up like Rosie the Baker. From here, I see at least one girl who got the hair totally right. I wave to her, as two TV cameras capture our arrival. The crowd parts to let us through.

  “The mistress of sugar and spice has arrived!” I can hear Dr. O’Dell saying on the microphone. The cheering grows louder.

  My instinct is to flee. I’m not used to all this attention. Had someone told me a month ago that I’d be appearing in public, baking for the masses, wearing a sassy red dress, I would’ve said no way is that possible. But so much has changed inside of me in just the last month, I feel like a new woman. I am done hiding in the broom closet.

  We make our way to a stage on one end of the courtyard.

  “Are you ready?” Sabrina asks, taking my hand.

  I stare straight ahead. “Yes and no. Yes, because I’ve waited for this, but no, because I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “Sorry, Rosie.” She leans her head against mine.

  “Not now, Sabs. I have to stay strong for this.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop saying sorry.”

  “Sorry.” She winces. “I mean…let’s win this.”

  Dr. O’Dell stands onstage ready to greet us. Wendy is there already, hands clasped in front of her, looking annoyingly cute in pigtails, a frilly pink and white apron, and matching pink T-shirt with her assistant. “Man.”

  “What?” Sabrina asks.

  “I wish I would’ve thought of matching T-shirts.”

  “Shirts won’t win the contest, but if it’ll make you feel better…” Sabrina sticks her ample chest out through her tight shirt and smiles big for the cameras. Thank God for her boobs. “Just smile and wave.” She beams for the cheering crowd. “Is this good?”

  “Perfect. Keep doing that.” I smile and wave too.

  “And here she is, our other baker of the evening,” Dr. O’Dell speaks too closely into the microphone, and it screeches. “Rose Zapata, or as you all know her, Rosie the Baker!”

  The crowd erupts into cheers and shouts. Phones go up into the air to snap pics of me. Bright lights shine in my face, and TV cameras focus on me.

  I can’t believe I’m here. I’m too heartbroken to enjoy it. Papa is gone. My rock. My defender. How am I going to live without him?

  Sabrina walks up to Dr. O’Dell and whispers something in her ear. Dr. O’Dell’s expression sours, and I can only assume that Sabs had filled her in on the day’s tragedy. Good, maybe she won’t ask me to talk in front of everyone. The thought of talking in front of cameras is making me queasy.

  Dr. O’Dell holds the microphone away, her mouth close to my ear. “I am so sorry about your grandfather. You are an amazing young lady for being here, Rose. I’m rooting for you, just so you know.”

  I fight back the tears. “Thanks.”

  She brings the microphone back to her mouth. “You know, ladies and gentlemen, this all began when Rose here took it upon herself to share some cupcakes in our teachers’ lounge, the most delicious cupcakes we’d ever had. Who knew this would blossom into this wonderful opportunity to support your school and community?”

  Who knew this would make my LIFE blossom?

  “Then, our lovely Wendy stepped up.” She gestures to my rival baker, and cheers rise from the crowd from Wendy’s camp, a few boos from others. “And said she could do better!”

  The crowd buzzes once again. Standing there looking out at everyone, I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I wish Alexandre were here with us. He’s part of our team, but no, we had to go and have a stupid fight.

  “Needless to say, this sparked some healthy competition.” Dr. O’Dell beams at me, Wendy, Sabrina, and Wendy’s peppy, glittery assistant. “So, that’s what we’re here to do, because we’re all about healthy competition here at Coral Cove High, right? Who’s with me?”

  There’s more applause, and one camera man brings his heavy shoulder camera right up to sweep across the stage. I do my best to smile and rock my ensemble. It’s what Papa would have wanted.

  Dr. O’Dell continues. “So, who will be the reigning queen of cupcakes, the sheik of sugar, the bombshell of baking? Will it be Wendy? Or will it be Rosie?” Her energetic voice grows louder to match the fervor of the crowd. “Tonight, we need your help by purchasing as many cupcakes as you can. Also, don’t forget to fill out the voting forms and deposit them in the box by the judges’ table. We also have refreshments for sale in the back, boys and girls. Spend, spend, spend!”

  We get situated on the stage.

  “The bakers are now getting ready, folks. When you hear the horn, you will be free to start the battle. Be sure to try both teams’ goodies in order to make a fair vote. Don’t just vote for your friend.”

  Yeah, you hear that, people?

  We each have our own tables set up on either side of the courtyard covered in white tablecloths. Someone has taken all the cupcakes out of their boxes and set them up in nice neat blocks according to kind. Tent cards identify the different types of cake, and I can only assume Alexandre made mine, because they look super professional with nice fonts and Rosie the Riveter images. And he’s not even here to
thank.

  Each table has four parents to collect money and help. I have to say, staring at the setup, that my cupcakes, with all their varieties, colors, and decorations, look simply amazing. Papa and Nana…and Sheila would be so proud. I can just imagine these babies sitting inside a bakery display case not too far in the distant future.

  I take my place behind the tables, as my team greets me with high fives and cheers. I feel like a celebrity. I guess I am today. A small paparazzi requests my pose, but my smile feels forced. My eyes are frowning. I have to get into this, so I think of Papa, how he wanted me to succeed, and a genuine smile appears.

  “What do we do, just push cupcakes?” I ask Sabrina.

  “I guess so. Looks like the rest of the team handles sales. Here…” She hands me a pair of latex gloves. Already, my booth has several long lines forming behind each block of cupcakes.

  “Everybody ready?” Dr. O’Dell’s voice echoes throughout the courtyard, mixed with the cheers and shouts. “And…begin!”

  A horn blasts, as Sabrina bursts into action. “Hi, what can I get for you? Those? Those are red velvet. The absolute BEST! One? Why don’t you get two, one for you, one for your girlfriend?” And the customer buys two. Cha-ching!

  “Nicely done,” I tell her.

  “Hi, what can I get you?”

  “Hi, thanks for coming,” I tell another girl at the head of a second line. “What would you like to try?”

  “What’s good?” she asks.

  “Everything,” I laugh. “If you like chocolate, get chocolate hazelnut, if you like coconut, the lemon coconut is ridiculously yummy, and if you like…”

  And it goes on this way for the next hour or so. I have to say, it’s fun promoting my cupcakes. When people ask me if they’re good, I don’t feel snobby telling them yes. I’ve worked hard to make my baked goods delicious. I deserve to be here, and after a while, I actually start having fun.

  Occasionally, I spot Caleb walking around talking to people, but I never see Alexandre. He’s nowhere to be found. I never got to tell him about Papa.

  I glance over to see how Wendy’s table is doing. Her station gleams with pink, shiny, striped, swirly frosting things, which I guess are cupcakes, though they look more like something out of Candy Crush. I can’t imagine that they taste very refined with all that fake stuff piled on top. My cupcakes are about real flavor combinations, less about blinding the customers.