100 Days of Cake Read online

  Gut punch of guilt. Mom will probably have to pay for the session, and even though Dye Another Day is going, like, gangbusters, we’re not one-percenters or anything. Plus, Dr. B. had promised to bring in some of his favorite old mix tapes for our session. Feeling that much worse for disappointing all these people yet again, I roll over.

  Time is kind of gooey on the life raft of my sleigh bed, and I sleep on and off. Our old house had those popcorn ceilings, and sometimes V and I would stack chairs on our beds and pinch off the little plaster balls between our fingernails. But in the model home, the ceilings are smooth and free of cracks. Just blank nothingness. I wonder what it would feel like to blend with the ceiling, become one with that.

  Elle—except she looks like Miley Cyrus—and her kid brother are chomping up a line of cakes like Pac-Man. Alex and T.J. are doing “I’m Not the Father” dances, and Mom and V are performing a mother-daughter tap number with feather boas. I’m just standing there.

  Not participating.

  Because even in my dreams I’m pathetic.

  When I wake up, I’m sort of hungry. Mom and V are both at work, so I head to the model kitchen to see if we have any non-cake food. The best I can find is a couple of string cheeses and half a tuna wrap Mom must have had for lunch a few days ago. It has that too-cold-fridge taste.

  The formal dining room isn’t on the way back to the stairs and my bedroom, but I go there anyway, and have a seat on one of the plush chairs.

  One of the few things we did bring from the old house is this framed ten-by-twelve family photograph of all of us that hangs over the sideboard. In the picture I’m in an OshKosh jumper holding this little doll that the photographer gave me; baby V is just blue-green eyes (like Mom’s and Gram’s and mine) peeking out from a swaddle of embroidered blankets; Mom, not even thirty, and so achingly beautiful; and Dad with his high-sloped forehead, wavy mouse-poop hair like me, and these giant hands as big as catcher’s mitts. He’s got one on Mom’s forearm, the other protectively on my shoulder—so large that his fingers reach all the way down to my elbow.

  I was three (well, almost three—the accident happened the day before my birthday) when he died, and there isn’t much I really remember besides those hands and his voice, which was this incredibly deep cannon, like a DJ’s on a classic rock station. A voice that made everything, even Dr. Seuss books, sound important.

  As much as I love my mom and her misguided attempts to cure me with baked goods, I wonder—a lot, actually—how things might have been different if Dad hadn’t gone out that day. If he could have offered a different perspective to balance things out. Wonder if he could have shared stories about his own childhood and filled in all those blanks. Wonder if maybe, just maybe, his hands would have been big enough that they could still hold me up even now.

  I’m back in the sleigh bed when Mom knocks on my door around six. She asks if I’m okay and if she can come in.

  “I kind of just want to be alone,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” She’s got the nervous syrupy voice again. “I was thinking maybe you could help with today’s cake.”

  I tell her I’m pretty tired, which is somehow true, despite the fact that I’ve been sleeping for hours and hours.

  “Okay. I think that you’re really going to like it; it’s red velvet.”

  “Mom, maybe we can skip it today—”

  “Nonsense.” She makes it sound like I’m suggesting that she not show up for my wedding day.

  An hour or two passes, and then there’s another knock on my door, Mom announcing that she’s finished baking. I don’t say anything.

  “Okay, sweetie?” she asks. “You awake?”

  I say nothing and hope that’s enough of an answer. “Maybe I can just slide it under the door,” she says. Then she’s trying to shove a three-inch-high plate of cake through the inch and a half of space between the bottom of the door and the floor.

  “Oh, shoot,” she says. On my side of the door there is now a plate with red crumbs and a smear of cream cheese frosting. I can only imagine what kind of mess happened on her end.

  It’s actually really funny, like something that Rose might try on the Golden Girls. I should get up, open the door, hug my mom, and tell her that I love her. I want to.

  But I don’t do that.

  And I hate myself for it.

  DAY 18

  Buttermilk Cake

  It’s still a million degrees outside, but from the way Alex and Elle are yapping on and on about the ACT versus the SAT, you’d think that it was fall and we were all back in school already. (To be fair, it will probably still be a million degrees then; central Florida is really freaking hot.)

  We’re sitting on the steps of Elle’s front porch, while her eight-year-old brother repeatedly rams his bike into the mailbox post as if he’s stuck on a difficult level of a really lame video game. When the force is enough that Jimmy actually falls off the bike, Alex turns nervously to Elle.

  “Um, should we maybe do something?”

  “My mom’s free-range when it comes to parenting,” Elle explains. “She believes that we should let him discover things on his own.”

  I’m pretty sure that Mrs. Lovell hasn’t put that much thought into it and just doesn’t care, but I would never say that. Elle can get sensitive about stuff with her mom.

  “That’s cool, I guess.” Alex doesn’t look convinced.

  The three of us have never hung out like this before, but when Alex and I were closing up FishTopia for the night, he asked where I was headed. When I told him Elle’s, he kind of invited himself along. Under normal circumstances I would have protested hanging out outside the aquarium of FishTopia, but it was literally 104 this afternoon, and his Ford Fiesta is air-conditioned. And I still feel bad about blowing him off the other day, no matter what Dr. B. says. Also, with Elle there I figured it wouldn’t be a date-date so things couldn’t get too weird.

  Of course Elle was all excited when Alex and I showed up together, and the minute Alex went to the bathroom, she asked if we were together. She looked genuinely bummed when I told her no.

  But now the two of them are talking and talking and talking about school and college applications. They’re so animated and alive, they don’t notice that I haven’t said anything in forever.

  Alex is going on about how he really wants to go to a music conservatory program, but his father is this macho guy who would never be okay with that. “I’m trying to see what places have okay music schools so I can double major,” he says. “I might be able to slip that one past my dad if I got an econ degree or something, but everything is just so expensive.”

  Elle is nodding. “I hear you. Like, Columbia has a great environmental studies program, but unless I win the lottery, there’s no way. So I’m probably going to FSU like everyone else . . .”

  I’m really glad they are getting along so well, but it’s like I’m watching them from above, like they’re on a TV show, playing the roles of optimistic teens excited about the next phase of their lives. Everything they’re saying is from some script that no one bothered to send me.

  This past spring I gave up Facebook cold turkey because of all my senior “friends” posts. I’m a USF Bull! Just signed up to be all that I can—go army! Don’t hate, but I got into Georgia! Karla said yes!!! Like everyone had to decide everything about the rest of their lives by June 5.

  “Have you looked into student loans?” Alex is asking Elle in their TV-show conversation going on beneath me. “It might be worth it if that’s really your first choice.”

  “My dad might make too much money—”

  A crash. Metal on concrete.

  Jimmy has knocked over the big silver garbage cans on the curb and has somehow managed to get his head and upper body stuck in one of the bins. From the opening, his summer-scabbed legs jut out.

  “Ugh.” Elle sighs. “This is the second time he’s done that this week.”

  She heads over to unstick Jimmy, and Alex turns to
me, laughing.

  “This just a normal day for that kid?” he asks.

  “Yeah, he is pretty much a rabid possum,” I say, and Alex laughs harder, and then I start laughing. The floating/watching sensation is gone; I’m a part of this world again.

  Until Alex asks, “What about you, Mol? What are your big college plans?” Crap.

  “I’m just waiting to see how the year goes,” I say, which isn’t a total lie. I’m definitely waiting for something. To change the subject, I tell him about JoJo going totally ballistic a few days ago when a woman on Maury broke up with her man because she found a tooth in the house that he couldn’t explain.

  “The best part? JoJo actually said the same thing happened to her! Like how is this a thing that actually occurs in real life.”

  Alex starts cracking up. “This is why I only cheat on my girlfriends with toothless women; significantly cuts down on the chance of getting caught.”

  “All I know is, I’ve worked with JoJo three days, and I’m already having nightmares about Maury. You were even in one.”

  “You’re dreaming about me now?” Alex moves his eyebrows up and down suggestively. “Exactly what kind of dreams are we talking about?”

  Feeling heat on my cheeks, I swat his shoulder. “It wasn’t that kind of dream.”

  “Are you telling him about your dream where I was eating all your mom’s cakes?” Elle asks, back from a successful Jimmy extraction.

  “I was entertaining both of you ladies in Molly’s dream?” Alex puts an arm around each of our shoulders. “Nice!”

  “It WAS NOT that kind of dream!” I say, but I’m laughing now too. “Freaking Jimmy was in it!”

  Alex pulls back his arms and crinkles his nose in faux disgust. “Now, that’s just sick.”

  The two of them tease me about my stupid dream for a solid five minutes.

  “Can we please talk about anything else?” I ask. “Alex, how’s the band?”

  Clearly this was the right question. He bursts into the kind of radiant smile usually reserved for toothpaste commercials. “I’ve got a whole newsletter for you. First off, we’ve changed our name. We’re now Headless Naked Ken.”

  “I love it!” shrieks Elle. “It’s a complete dig on our plastic culture and unrealistic standards of female beauty.”

  “Eh, something like that.” Alex tilts his head; clearly none of that had anything to do with the name change. “The other day we were playing in our drummer’s garage and found some of his sister’s old dolls without their heads. We thought it sounded pretty badass.”

  Elle looks tremendously disappointed.

  “But even bigger, we have a gig on Thursday night!”

  He explains how the manager at McCloud’s Music and Coffee called this morning to see if the Flaming Dantes (the manager wasn’t aware of the name change) would be able to fill in, because both the drummer and the bassist for Sinking Canoe (some local band I’ve never heard of) have mono and had to pull out of the show. “I mean, I know it’s not the Viper Room, but it’s kind of a big deal for us.”

  “What? That’s awesome,” I say.

  “We are so there!” Elle gushes.

  “Seriously?” Alex says, but he’s looking at me, not Elle.

  The thought of McCloud’s and people like Chris and the Hot Topic girls and maybe Meredith Hoffman makes me itchy. But Alex is looking at me with these big wounded-puppy eyes, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings one more time. And who knows, maybe Thursday will be a good day? Maybe all the therapy will work, or maybe Mom’s cake tonight will be the magic bullet and I’ll wake up and be back to the old me?

  “Sure,” I say. I remember Dr. Brooks telling me that I shouldn’t waste my time feeling bad about Alex and his issues, but I still feel really crappy about it.

  That nervous tic starts, where I twist my fingers all together.

  Alex puts a hand on top my finger ball, and I feel this little pulse of electricity, like something from physics class. I look up at his face.

  “Promise?” he asks.

  “Yeah. I promise.”

  DAY 20

  Tunnel of Fudge Cake

  I do actually intend to go to Alex’s gig.

  I’m not on the schedule at FishTopia today, so I spend pretty much the entire day in the model-home family room bonelessly slumped on the couch, watching reruns. Roseanne episodes with both Beckys; Three’s Company with all three of the hot blond roommates (they were never recasts like Becky, but different characters written in when one actor would leave because of a contract dispute); and finally the Golden Girls block starts. They air this one weirdly sad episode where Dorothy’s brother—who happens to be a cross-dresser—dies, and Sophia has a hard time grieving for her son because he wasn’t what she thought a son should be.

  The antidepressant commercial with the attractive family and their dog comes on again. Ask your doctor about . . .

  Maybe I should.

  Maybe I will . . . if I’m motivated enough to go to my next appointment.

  An hour before Elle is supposed to pick me up for the show, I go upstairs and shower under the big brass rain showerhead (another upgrade). Everything is going okay-ish until I pull open the double doors of my bedroom closet (yep, an upgrade) and realize I have absolutely nothing to wear.

  There are a few dressy-ish sleeveless tops and a couple of long flowy skirts, which I guess would be okay, because Elle is driving, so I don’t have to worry about anything getting caught in Old Montee’s spokes, but when I take them down, they look all wrong, too froufrou, like I’m trying too hard. Maybe my uniform of shorts and a tank top would be okay since it’s just a coffee shop? But my favorite cutoffs have crossed that line from worn to just dirty. And what if those Hot Topic girls are there all cool and judgey. Or Meredith Hoffman?

  Stupid tears sting my sinuses. A part of me knows I’m being ridiculous, but it’s like this loop in my head that I can’t stop. How can I not own anything appropriate?

  The panic ratchets up to the point where it’s hard to breathe.

  Still wrapped in a towel, water droplets skiing down my hair onto my shoulders, I sink down to the floor of the closet. Hanging clothes tickle the bare skin of my back.

  The ring of my cell phone in yesterday’s shorts pocket startles me. Checking the screen, I see it’s Elle.

  Man, she is going to be pissed.

  “I can’t go,” I say when I finally answer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t feel well.” This isn’t really a lie. My head hurts, and my digestive system seems to be digesting itself. Plus, I still can’t breathe that great.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Molly. Alex will be crushed,” she says, and I can hear just how disappointed she is too. “We promised—you promised—him we’d be there.”

  “You can still go; you should go.”

  “Alone?” she scoffs. “Besides, he’s your friend. You’re the one he’s totally in love with.”

  Tears of frustration. That grapefruit bunched in my throat. I channel Dr. B.

  “That’s his issue, not mine,” I croak. “Can we just drop it?”

  After a second she sighs. “Fine.”

  “Will you just tell Alex I’m sick or something?”

  “Sure.” Her tone is softer.

  An hour later, when I’m still in the towel in the closet, Elle comes in.

  “You didn’t go to the show?” I sit up and make sure I’m mostly covered, even though Elle has seen me naked a million times in the locker room after swim practice.

  “I guess it’s not really our summer to party.” She shrugs. “Your mom said we should come down and try the cake.”

  I put on the dirty cutoffs and tank top, splash cold water on my face so I look less puffy, and we do.

  The cake part is very rich and weirdly sticky, but the fudge in the middle is pretty solid. Elle eats a good half of the cake herself, and Mom is practically glowin
g because I don’t hate it—even if I can’t seem to get it off my fingers.

  “Crazy good!” Elle is saying, reaching for another piece from the kitchen island.

  “I’m glad you like it.” Mom smiles. “Maybe it would be better in winter when you want something warm.”

  “Yeah.” Elle shrugs. “Right now I kinda want to chop off all my hair.”

  She points to this cool braid that my mom has snaking around her head. “I wish I could do something like that.”

  “We can definitely do that.” Mom touches Elle’s curls. “That would be really pretty, I think.”

  With fingers as quick as sewing machine needles (I’m guessing), Mom twists up Elle’s hair. She doesn’t even need rubber bands or spray or anything to keep it in place; she’s that good. She leaves a few spiral tendrils out around Elle’s face, which looks sweet and feminine. Elle practically squeals when she sees it in the mirror.

  “Can I do yours too?” Mom asks me.

  She used to do this for V and me all the time—try out new conditioning rinses or give us fun cuts from pictures we picked out of the magazines in her reception area, but it’s been forever. If it helps with the heat, I’m willing to try. So I shrug, and she goes to work on my head.

  As Mom finishes, Elle sucks in her breath. “Wow, Molly, you look amazing.”

  I blush, and when I go into the powder room to check it out in the mirror, I can see that it is nice. But it makes me look really different. Without the mouse-poop frizz all crazy, you can see a little more resemblance between me and Mom and V.

  Gingerly dotting the braid with my fingertips, I wonder if this is who I am.

  DAY 21

  Angel Food Cake with Cherry Sauce Topping

  Alex looks kind of like Joseph Gordon-Levitt. But he so doesn’t have JGL’s acting ability. It’s sparklingly clear that he’s really hurt that I didn’t make it to his show, but instead of just saying something about it like a normal person, he’s doing a comically bad job of trying to act as though nothing is wrong.