Cakespell

by Gaby Triana

  “Rosie! Rosie! Rosie!” the crowd cheers. A pair of volunteers bring forth a two-tiered cake with a trophy on top to the middle of the stage. It looks terrible, like they gave second-graders frosting and forks to spread it with. I’m just saying.

  People clap half-heartedly, as Wendy strikes modeling poses for the cameras. Dr. O’Dell gestures for me to come join them, if only for a few diplomatic photos. I don’t want to seem like a poor sport, so I stride up to join them. O’Dell moves out of the way, so Wendy and I stand next to each other and pose for the shots, and this will be the end. I can go home now and forget this entire night.

  Just like that, I’ve been stripped of the crown I earned.

  Stripped of my best friends.

  Stripped of my potential boyfriend.

  Stripped of my pride.

  Stripped of my reputation.

  Stripped of my grandfather.

  Leaving me with what? Nothing.

  Wendy waves at the crowd like a queen during a royal parade. So professional on the outside, so evil on the inside. She leans into me and whispers, “I guess your witchcraft wasn’t enough to save you…or your grandfather.” The giggle that comes next isn’t at all funny. It’s in-your-face and take-that. Something that might come out of a possessed doll.

  Before I can think about what I’m doing, my hands fly up, take firm hold of those adorable pigtails, and yank her head down forcefully. Her face splats into the top tier of the ugly cake. She jerks back, face completely covered in frosting. And the cherry on top?—I pull out my phone and snap a pic.

  “For everyone to see later,” I explain. “How does that taste? Good, right?”

  The first voice I hear in the crowd is Alexandre’s, yelling, “YES!” all the way in the back. Then, the courtyard erupts into thunderous applause, as I stalk offstage, feeling the worst I ever have in my life.

  Twenty-Seven

  Outdoor suspension for unsportsmanlike conduct is not as terrible as one might think. I don’t have to face people at school or hear them tell the story of what happened. Also, I can sleep in. It might be punishment, but it was worth it just to have Kirk come up to me in the parking lot and say, “Keep the hundred bucks. That was worth every penny.”

  Surprisingly, my mom doesn’t bother me. No “get up and study.” She knows I have a work packet to complete, and she doesn’t seem to care. As she finalizes details for my grandfather’s funeral on the phone, I keep mine turned off, so I won’t be tempted to troll photos of the competition or see what people have said about me, because I just don’t care.

  Sabrina can suck it.

  Caleb can suck it.

  Dr. O’Dell can suck it.

  Wendy can double suck it.

  Everybody can pretty much suck it.

  I’m in bed watching An Affair to Remember, tissue stuffed up my nose, when it all hits me. My grandfather is never coming back. The only grandparent I ever got to know. The one who understood me. What will happen to Sheila? Will she find a new boyfriend, or was my grandfather her last? Is heartbreak easier for old people, or harder, because they know they have less time with their loved one?

  My mom peeks her head in to ask if I want to come to the townhouse with her, but there’s no way I can see that house again. Though I do want to do something special for his wake. “Can you get me a few things from there?”

  “Sure, what?”

  When I think about my grandpa, I think of love, support, structure, dedication. I think of all the black-and-white photos of him and Nana in the house, the ones in frames and the small square ones with the white borders stuck into his mirror. Life is a photo album, and the pics featured in it are the highlights. His house is full of amazing highlights.

  I know what I want to do for him.

  Drying my eyes and blowing my nose, I turn off the movie. For the first time all day, I force myself out of bed.

  You know life is precious when you’re holding your grandpa’s hand one day and the next, you’re walking through the doors of a funeral home to say goodbye. The parking lot is packed with cars. The guests inside are busy talking. The place is gorgeous with a garden in the back, a gazebo, wrought iron bench, pretty flowers, and statues. A great place to catch some air and feel numb by a fountain.

  Frank carries my cake into the reception room and sets it down gently on a table next to the sign-in book. People gather around to admire my three fondant tiers of silver and white. Each tier is decorated with sugar-printed photos of Papa. Each has a silver or gold fondant frame around it, plus I made those little black corners, like the kind used in photo albums long ago. From all around the cake, Papa smiles joyfully, frozen moments in time.

  The cake came out pretty—my best ever. The photos are of him and Nana when they were young, another one of him kissing her on their wedding day, and another one with my mom and my two uncles. I even included a good one of him and Sheila on the side. But my favorite one is of him and me when I was little. Little Rosie sitting on Papa’s lap, a big bowl of vanilla ice cream in front of us. Our smiles say it all.

  We were the joy in each other’s lives.

  I stand a few feet away near a potted tree where I overhear people’s comments without them seeing me.

  “This is just beautiful.”

  “Amazing.”

  “If only he could see this.”

  “He can.”

  And my favorite… “I wonder where they had this made.”

  My eyes water up. My work is mistaken for a real cake designer’s because I am a real cake designer. Age doesn’t matter when it comes to talent. And if it weren’t for Papa, I never would’ve believed that.

  A tall woman with long, silver hair in a braid dabs her eyes. Another man whips out his phone and takes snapshots of it. So many people I haven’t seen in a long time are here, all of them saying nice things to me, but I feel so alone. Where are my friends? Do I even have any left? I wish they were here. My uncles arrive with their wives and my cousins, who I rarely ever see. Their being here makes me feel strangely possessive of my grandpa, as though I alone knew Papa and deserve to be here.

  As polite and well-meaning as everyone is, I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I just want to be with Papa one last time. Walking up to the open casket, I kneel on the little bench for praying, and I’m suddenly aware of two things—one, the hush that spreads through the room as I approach my grandfather, and two, how empty the casket feels.

  Yes, it’s him. Those wrinkled, spotted hands folded over one another. That’s his face, though his skin is pulled back, and his nostrils look longer than I remember them. That’s his dark gray hair, but that’s not how he combed it. The tears I wipe aren’t the tears of how much I’m going to miss him. I cried those yesterday. I said goodbye to Papa’s soul the night I held his hand.

  No, these are the tears of how a body stops being a person when their soul no longer lives inside of them, when it rises into the night and dances among the stars. That man in the box is only a shell, an empty vessel dressed in nice clothes. Our souls make us who we are. We only borrow the human form the way we might borrow a car, and when the journey’s done, we leave that car behind and try some other form of travel.

  Still, I touch his cold hand one more time. “Thank you, Papa, for being the best. You will always be with me.” I wait, eyes closed, in case any energy wants to pop into my brain, but I don’t hear him. He’s gone for now.

  When I stand, I feel my mom’s hands around my shoulders. “Your friends are here.”

  They are? When I turn to see them, they look like Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion, Sabrina and Caleb clinging to each other, arm in arm. Not like a couple, but supporting each other before the Great and Powerful Oz.

  “Hi.” Sabrina sort of smiles. Testing the waters to see how pissed I am at her.

  “Hi.”

  “The cake is like, whoa,” Caleb says. His eyes are still beautiful, but they’re not really golden anymore. More like tarnished brass.

  �
��Thanks. We’re going to cut it soon.”

  “Everybody will love that.” Sabrina smiles.

  “Hopefully, the Cakespell went easy, and nobody will be sobbing into their slices.” Though I believe the Cakespell stopped working Nana’s way the moment Papa wasn’t there to tie my apron anymore. Now I’ll have to figure out how to infuse my own energy into the cakes I bake—but my way.

  Sabrina lets go of Caleb and comes over to hug me. “I’m here for you, Rosie. I brought Caleb, only because he asked if he could come with me and my mom. I’m over him, okay? I am.”

  “Sabs, I don’t care. Seriously. I’m over him, too.” I don’t ever want to force somebody to like me. The guy I love should appreciate me without even trying, and Caleb doesn’t know what’s in my heart.

  Tears rest at the lashes of her crystal blues, making them sparkle even more than usual. I love her. I always will. But I can do without her sucky matchmaking skills. I’m a fourth-generational svakha, for crying out loud. I can do it myself.

  My mom stands at a podium holding a microphone, looking as beautiful as ever in a pair of black pants, silver top with thin black scrollwork on it, like an elegant cake herself. She thanks everyone for being here, a hundred people from what I gather. It’s no surprise. He touched the lives of many, and at the senior community alone, I can vouch for at least five of them that he touched.

  When Mom is done talking, she passes the mic to my uncles, so that they too, can say fake-wonderful things about the man they barely knew. Meanwhile, I await my turn. When they’re done, Papa’s kids melt into the crowd, as well-wishers pat them on their backs for a job well-done.

  Then comes Sheila who says a few words. A vision in a chiffon green dress that highlights her red hair and green eyes, she’s movie-star gorgeous. She doesn’t hog the limelight, but I appreciate all the nice things she has to say about Papa.

  “Papa, if you could only see your woman,” I whisper. “She looks beautiful.”

  When Sheila finishes, she sees me waiting by the podium with my notes and my gift bag and gestures that the mic is all mine. But first, she opens her arms for a big hug, and I gladly fall into them. “He adored you so much, Rosie,” she whispers by my ear. “You made him so very proud.”

  “So did you,” I tell her in case she feels like the oddball in the room with the least amount of time having known Papa.

  I take the podium, hating the sound of my voice filling the microphone. “Thank you all for being here. It just goes to show the kind of man my grandfather was. But what can I say about my grandfather that hasn’t already been said? I guess I could start by saying…he was the first man I ever loved. The only man, actually.”

  Soft humming noises filter through the room.

  “So that should tell you how much I’m going to miss him, right?” The crowd murmurs and nods. “You can imagine how hard it’s going to be for any boyfriend I ever have. He’s going to have to measure up if he wants to fill Papa’s shoes. I know there’s one out there somewhere in my future. My grandfather wouldn’t have left me without knowing that there was.”

  Silence. Nods. Sniffles around the room.

  In the corner, Caleb watches me. I feel good knowing I said all that without thinking of him once.

  “So, please keep talking about him. He’ll always be with us if you do. Share his pics, his jokes… I made a cake to honor him. Please have a piece. You’ll feel my love for him when you taste it, because, well, that’s what I put into it—love. But if you feel like you want to cry, that’s okay, too. It’s all in there.”

  And I didn’t need the Cakespell for it either.

  I take the gift bag in my hand and pull out the tissue paper. “Some of you know about my family’s…tradition,” I say for lack of a better term. “You know how my grandmother was a master svakha, how she changed the lives of many people because of it.” I reach into the bag and slide out Nana’s apron. “For me, it all started with this.”

  “Rose?” I hear my mom nearby trying to get my attention.

  I smile at her to let her know it’s okay. I’m not going to divulge details about our family. I’m not going to embarrass her. I just don’t need the apron anymore. From now on, people will recognize my talents for the simple fact that I worked hard for them, not because of magic. I don’t have anything against it—I’ll still focus my energies when I want to manifest something in life, but I don’t need the apron.

  Somehow, it belongs with Papa. It always did.

  “Guys,” I tell Papa’s friends and loved ones. “We make our own magic. My grandfather did.” I look at Sheila. She beams at me. “We can do it too.”

  I step away from the podium and head to Papa’s casket. Neatly tucking the straps of the apron into the folds, I hold the fabric close to my face and breathe in its magic one last time. “Thank you, Nana and Papa,” I whisper, “for letting me borrow it.” Then, I reach over and place the apron inside the casket with my grandfather’s body. I hear quiet gasps throughout the room and more sniffling.

  This apron will go with him wherever he’s headed, which means Nana will get it back. She just better have some heavenly cupcakes waiting for me the day I’m reunited with them. I take one last look at Papa and walk away, entering the garden for fresh air.

  Sabrina, Caleb, and Mom have the good sense not to follow me. Pushing through the doors, the night air feels cool, a nice welcome to our usual warm fall weather. I take a seat on a stone bench and stare into the trickly fountain by a hibiscus bush.

  I’m fine, really I am.

  He lived a wonderful life, and I’m a better person for having known him.

  Someone pushes through the doors. I hear their footsteps following me out here. I turn to get a look, but whoever it is, they’re backlit from the floodlights on the building.

  “He’s proud of you, you know,” a voice says.

  A silhouette outlined in bright white cuts through the darkness. When it reaches my spot, I see him. Wearing dark pants, a tweed jacket over a white shirt, red bowtie. A vision of 1940’s perfection. In the feeble garden light, his dirty blond hair shines from the gel slicking it back, and he holds a bouquet of yellow roses tied with a purple ribbon. His smile lights up the whole garden. Butterflies flutter inside of me. I’m surprised by how I feel, but then again, not. I’ve always had a kind of crush on Alex, but I was too distracted to notice him this way. He’d always shown interest in me, just not the way I expected.

  “Alex.”

  He stops in front of me and gives me a sad look. “Sorry about Papa. He was a great man.” Then he hands me the flowers and opens his arms for a hug.

  “Alex, you always know what’s in my heart. Sorry about the other day.” I stand and take in his hug. God, he smells so good. I could stand here hugging him all night.

  He squeezes me tight. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “We’re still friends?” I hope the worst is behind us now, and we can return to our regularly scheduled program, only I kind of don’t want the regular program. I kind of wish he would like me the same way I like—

  He retreats a few inches, far enough to let his eyes search mine. “Of course.” Taking one of my hands, he links his fingers through them. “But…is this okay?”

  He’s holding my hand. Alexandre is holding my hand. It feels nice, warm, safe. “Uh…yeah. Actually, it is.”

  Reaching out, he caresses my face. I feel like I’m losing air from my lungs. “What about this?”

  I’m good with it. I nod, at a loss for words.

  He closes up the space between us until I can almost hear his heart pounding. “I missed you, Rose. I was thinking about that, about what it really means, and I realized…that it was pretty significant. That’s why I got frustrated the other day, but it wasn’t at you. It was at myself for not having the courage to tell you. You know what I mean?”

  I nod again. Yes, yes, I know exactly what he means, because I’ve been feeling this way, too. I can’t speak. He’s taken my words and breath aw
ay. Why did I waste so much time pining over Caleb when Alex was by my side the whole time?

  “I think I’m in love with you, Rose. Every day that I don’t see you or talk to you, the day drags. I want to do things with you, for you. I want you to like me the way you like what’s-his-name.”

  “Caleb?”

  “Yeah, don’t say it. You know. I’m trying not to think about him right now.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So, maybe this is crazy, but…” He slides his hands up my arms, a very nice, warm feeling, and then one slides up and cradles my face. The inside of my body turns to girl mush. I never stopped to think about him this way before, but now that I have… “Would it be okay…if I kissed you? Just once? Or is this a bad time?”

  I think about all the times he’s been there for me, our movie night, the websites and flyers that he made...it was all because he liked me and was hoping I’d like him back, but I was too busy being stupid and blind. It’s definitely not a bad time.

  A kiss would totally make my day. I’m at peace, it’s a beautiful night, and he’s looking ever so dapper and gorgeous. “Sure. But Alex, I thought…”

  He leans in, eyes cast down at my lips. He pauses. “You thought what?” Slowly, he lowers his face. I feel his warm breath over mine. Nice, clean, goosebump-inducing.

  “I thought…”

  His lips touch me ever so softly, every second a test to see if I’ll accept, if I’m okay with him doing this, if I’ll have him, if I’ll finally open my eyes to the truth. And I do. I do open them—figuratively, of course, because I really close them. I think I’ve always known this would be right in some way. I was just too blind.

  I’ve never kissed a boy before, but I already know this will be good.

  Our lips touch. It’s perfect. Not too long, not too short or quick. Not best friend-like, but not madly in love either. It’s the kiss of two people who connect on the right level with everything that they do. It’s a kiss to signal the beginning of more to come.