100 Days of Cake Read online

  When I’m getting ready to leave, he reaches into the black messenger bag by the side of his desk and pulls out a DVD. “I almost forgot your homework.”

  On the front of the box there’s a picture of a dark-haired woman and the guy from Hot Tub Time Machine looking about a million years younger.

  “Maybe we should watch it together,” I suggest. “You know, so you can make sure I get all the cultural references.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll be able to figure it out on your own.”

  “I don’t know. Will there be mix tapes? Come on.”

  “Well.” Flipping up his wrist, he checks his watch. “My next appointment isn’t for forty-five minutes, if you want to start it.”

  I nod, and Dr. Brooks turns the oversize computer monitor on his desk around so that the screen is facing the little couch where I’m sitting, and he slides in the DVD. I’m wondering if he’s going to try to turn his chair around so we’re both facing the screen, but he just plunks down on the couch, Pickles’s crabitat and three feet of space between us. I say a silent prayer that I don’t smell putrid from biking.

  Am I crab-blocking you? Pickles seems to be asking. I’d tell Pickles to stop being ridiculous, that Dr. B. is engaged and my doctor and Mom’s age, but Pickles is a crab and all.

  The movie is okay. Of course it’s about high school graduation, which flips on my panic button. And of course the girl in the film is the ridiculously beautiful valedictorian—because that’s so relatable. But the Hot Tub Time Machine guy’s character doesn’t really have much of a life plan, which is cool. Every time someone gives him shit about his future, I fall in love with him a little.

  Still it’s kinda hard to concentrate. He might be Mom’s age, but Dr. B. smells sooo amazing—like the woods with a dash of cucumber.

  When he notices me peeking over at him, he smiles, all excited in a way that makes him seem much, much younger than my mom. “It’s good, right?” he asks.

  I nod, a little dizzy from his smell. Life is so unfair.

  A knock.

  Initially I think it’s part of the film, but then I realize it’s coming from outside the office. Hesitantly the door opens a crack, and a young woman, maybe early twenties, pokes her head in.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Brooks,” she says, looking from him to me, to the screen where the gorgeous valedictorian is trying to break up with the Hot Tub Time Machine guy by giving him a pen. “I was just wondering if we’re still on for our appointment?”

  I jump off the couch as if this girl knows exactly what I was thinking.

  “Oh, of course, Jenny.” Dr. B. is on his feet, turning off the movie. “I’m so sorry; time just got away from us.”

  DAY 32

  Mocha Madness Cake

  A few days after Alex joined the mile-long parade of people telling me that my lack of ambition is an affront to all humanity, we’re back at FishTopia. Pickles watches from his crabitat as Alex and I toss the smiley face stress ball back and forth and discuss which type of fish each of the Golden Girls characters would be.

  It feels sort of normal, but Alex is bending over backward to avoid mentioning any subjects with even the most tangential connection to the future.

  “Blanche would be one of the idol fish,” Alex says. “Flashy and just a little high-maintenance.”

  “Yeah, and it’s already wearing mascara.”

  “Exactly. Dorothy would be . . .” Alex pauses for dramatic effect. “A brown clown goby.”

  This makes me laugh. “Why?”

  “Because it’s a good, reliable fish and gets along well with everyone.” He nods with authority. “It’s the first fish you get for the tank, the one you know you can always count on.”

  It’s dumb, but something about this makes me giddy happy.

  We’re both standing there, still grinning these goofy grins, when there’s a pounding at the window. On the other side of the glass, Elle is flailing her arms wildly and shouting something.

  Alex curls his hand in a Come on in gesture, but Elle shakes her head.

  “She, um, can’t come in; Elle believes FishTopia is a jail for fish.” Damn, it sounds even dumber when I have to say it out loud. “It’s some kind of animal-rights thing.”

  Alex rolls his eyes. “I have a friend like that.”

  Still practically vibrating with excitement, Elle presses a blue brochure for something up to the window. Since there’s no one in the store (as always), Alex and I head out to get the 411. The second we’re through the door, Elle grabs my arm and starts pulling me toward the side of the strip mall.

  “Sorry, Alex, but I have to borrow your princess for a few minutes,” she says, giving him a wave.

  “Whatever’s clever,” he says, but it seems like he’s a little miffed. I guess the two of us were having an honest-to-goodness moment and it wasn’t all in my head.

  “Elle, we were in the middle of some—” I start, but she swats my objections away with her palm.

  “I know. I’m sorry and all of that, but look!” She holds up the blue brochure, which it turns out is from Columbia University.

  For pretty much ever Elle has been talking about how she wants to go there, but even if she got in, there’s no way her mom could afford to send her anywhere out of state, and her dad can be a jerk about paying for stuff. So unless Columbia is having a clearance sale, I’m not entirely sure what all the commotion is about.

  “Guess what!” Elle is literally bouncing up and down.

  “You got a new brochure?”

  “My mom and dad had an actual conversation—like, without almost strangling each other—and they figured out that if they each pay half the tuition and I get a job to cover books and living expenses, it’s doable for me to go to Columbia!”

  “That’s great,” I say, but I feel kind of like this time in seventh-grade gym class when Elle and I weren’t paying attention during a dodgeball game and I got socked right in the gut with a red kickball.

  “I know, right?” Elle is still gushing. “My mom is even setting up a trip to New York so we can check out the school in the fall. College tour, interview, the whole works.”

  I’m telling her that I’m happy for her, and I am. This is what she’s wanted for so, so long, and it’s amazeballs that her parents—who haven’t agreed on a single thing since the first Jurassic Park movie—were able to work together on it. But even as I’m congratulating her, I realize I’m crying. Pretty soon it’s so bad that, even though Elle and I have been best friends since kindergarten, she can’t understand any of what I’m saying.

  “Oh, Mollybean.” It’s been centuries since she’s called me that. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Why are you apologizing?”

  “I don’t know. You’re sad.” Folding me into her arms, she smells like sweat and organic lotion and excitement. “Please don’t be sad.”

  “No, I’m totally psyched for you.” Garbled by sobs, it doesn’t sound all that convincing. “On BFF law, I swear. I’ll just miss you.”

  “You’ll come with me,” Elle says with sudden decisiveness—trying to fix another problem for me like she’s always done, since sharing her crayons back in kindergarten. “There’ll be so many cute boys in New York, and they all recycle and eat locally sourced food. . . .”

  I’m nodding and telling her that it will be epic, because this is a big deal for her and she’s so happy.

  “. . . And we can go on double dates, and it will be just like Sex and the City and Girls only more eco-conscious and with fewer gender stereotypes.”

  “Yeah, that would be completely off the hook.”

  I need to get away from Elle and her plans and her optimism and her amazing life that is all shiny and full of potential and nothing at all like mine. Because I ruin everything for everyone.

  “I’m so happy for you,” I say, “but I should probably get back to the store, before Charlie fires me.”

  “Yeah, you need to save up for New York!”

 
; “Right.”

  Elle tells me to call her when I get off work. “Maybe we can ‘grab a slice’ to celebrate!”

  Before going back into FishTopia, I try to pull myself together, but it’s completely obvious that Alex has seen everything. To his credit, he doesn’t say anything about how I look red and runny-nosed and ridiculous. He doesn’t ask why Elle was flipping out, doesn’t ask if I’m all right or if I want to talk about things. He just picks up the television remote.

  “Golden Girls is starting in a few minutes,” he says.

  Climbing onto our counter, I bob my head in agreement, because actual words seem like way, way too much to attempt at the moment. And even though the temperature is still roughly the surface of the sun, I grab the hoodie from my backpack and zip it up to my chin. Without another word Alex climbs up next to me.

  It’s the episode where Sophia convinces Dorothy and her ex-husband, Stan, to pretend they’re still married so they won’t offend Sophia’s priest brother when he visits from Italy.

  We’ve seen it at least three times, but Alex ardently laughs along with the laugh track, like he’s trying to prove that he really, really wants to be here sitting next to me watching sitcoms. To show that he isn’t exactly like Elle—just counting the days until he can start a shimmering new life of college campuses and frat parties and other magical things away from Coral Cove and FishTopia and me. That he would rather be here than at a Ruby Tuesdays with pretty girls like my sister and Meredith Hoffman.

  “I’m thinking Rose might be a dottyback,” Alex says when a Tampax commercial comes on. “You know, with that big eye, it always looks sorta baffled by stuff.”

  “Yeah, that’s a really good one.” I force myself to chuckle.

  Inside his crabitat Pickles scurries over his favorite rock, completely oblivious.

  DAY 33

  Baked Alaska

  Because Alex has his SAT prep class (vomit!), he and JoJo switch shifts on Wednesday, so she ends up shutting things down with Pickles and me. For the evening shifts, she’s a game show girl. Family Feud, Jeopardy!, and Wheel of Fortune. It’s not the Golden Girls, but it’s a marked improvement over Maury. We lean on the counter and let Pickles crawl along the register.

  Vanna White has only turned around the Ns and the Ss, and JoJo calls out “Baby needs a new pair of shoes.” It takes six more spins of the wheel before anyone on the show can solve it.

  I just look at her. “Seriously, how?”

  She raises her shoulders. “I’m good with that stuff.”

  “Have you ever thought about trying out for the show?” I ask.

  “Really, CCH?” She gives this dismissive laugh, and I feel bad for putting stupid pressure on her the same way people are always doing to me.

  As we’re cashing out the register, her boyfriend comes to the store to pick her up. He’s cute in this dumpy sort of way, and he holds her hand and seems excited to see her—not the type to leave another woman’s teeth sitting around at all.

  When I’m opening the model-home garage door to park Old Montee, the same Mini Cooper that picked V up last week pulls into the driveway to drop her off. The same troop of slightly older girls are inside, their perfectly applied eyeliner somehow still intact, despite the heat.

  Veronica, on the other hand, doesn’t look like the girl on a poster for a rom-com anymore. More like a made-for-TV movie about troubled teens or a sitcom’s “very special episode” where someone tries drugs for the first time and usually dies. Unlike her friends, V’s lipstick is smudged around her mouth, and on her tight white top there’s a stain that looks like soda or beer. She smells vaguely of alcohol and reeks of cigarette smoke. I have to fight back a cough, just being near her.

  “Hey, sis-tah, whaz up?” she slurs, and her eyes have that sleepy boozy look to them. Noticing Pickles in his crabitat, she gives this goofy smile and taps the plastic. “Did you and your lobster buddy have a good day?”

  “Dude, are you drunk? It’s, like, eight o’clock.”

  “It’s eight twenty-two.” She taps the stylish silver watch she got with her Jaclyn’s Attic employee discount. “No, maybe it’s eight twenty-four.”

  “Are you?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Drunk.”

  “What’s it to you?” V’s blue-green eyes (my eyes, Mom’s eyes) narrow.

  “Uh, you’re my little sister.”

  “Really? When was the last time that mattered? To anyone? All everyone ever cares about are your problems. And YOUR problems are so big and bad that they’re everyone else’s problems now too.” She’s swaying more and getting louder.

  “V, that’s not—”

  “God forbid anyone else in this house ever need anything.”

  “What is with you?” I have absolutely no idea why she’s being so hateful. Even just a few years ago, we were thick as thieves. Before Mom hired the other stylists, she was always working until closing time, so V and I were on our own a lot, and V used to come to me for everything—help with her homework, questions about junior high friend drama, how to use tampons when she got her first period three years ago.

  “V, I’m always around if you want to talk—”

  “Yeah, right. Like you’re ever there for anyone.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Like, did you even notice that Mom hasn’t gone out with Toupee Thom for weeks?”

  Thom Marin, the lawyer with the horrific hairpiece and an office above my mom’s salon. For a while they were seeing each other several times a week, and for Valentine’s Day, Mom let us stay at Gram’s (something she hates to do) while Thom took her to Sanibel Island for a romantic weekend. But now that Veronica mentions it, I realize that he hasn’t been around lately.

  “They broke up?” Mom was weird when I asked her if they were going out a few weeks ago.

  “With all her baking and worrying that you’re gonna Robin Williams yourself, she doesn’t really have a whole lot of free time anymore, does she?” V says.

  “What are you talking about?” I’ve never said anything about making hokey family films or killing myself. “And I thought you didn’t even like Thom?” The last time we talked about Thom, V claimed she would insist he ditch the rug if he and Mom got married. “All you ever did was make fun of him.”

  “What difference does it make what I think?” she says. “Mom liked him.”

  I open my mouth and then close it.

  “Look,” V continues, “if you really want to do the good sisterly thing, go eat your freaking cake and distract Mom while I take a shower. You know, have my back for once.”

  With that, V pushes past me into the house and jogs up the stairs.

  After a few seconds of shock, I follow her in. The whole place smells like a bakery exploded, which is absolutely nauseating combined with the oppressive temperatures. More than anything, I want to flop onto my life raft bed, but of course Mom calls me into the kitchen, all excited. It’s late enough that she’s had time to clean up, so the kitchen is all sparkling model-home perfect again. On the cake plate in the middle of the marble-countered center island is a weird white dome.

  “Voilà!” Mom says with a dramatic jazz hands–type gesture. “It’s baked Alaska!”

  “So that’s why it looks like a little igloo. I get it.”

  Mom giggles nervously. “Oh, you know, I didn’t even think about that, but it makes sense. You’re so perceptive, Mol.”

  Guilt washes over me. Yeah, so perceptive I don’t even know when my mom loses her boyfriend, I think.

  She starts to cut me a huge chunk, explaining that she’s impressed it turned out as well as it did, because there’s ice cream inside, so you have to be careful how long you bake it, or else the entire inside will melt. “I have to admit, I’m a little proud of myself with this one.”

  Cutting herself a piece, she sits next to me and pours us both glasses of milk like we’re five.

  “Mmm,” Mom is saying. “I think the meringue gives it a really unique flavor,
right?”

  “Definitely.” For once I’m actually not lying. The baked Alaska tastes unique—not good, mind you, but most certainly bad in a way that’s new and different from anything I’ve ever tasted. Even though the AC is cranked up, it’s still sweltering in the house, which actually works to my advantage since the ice cream melts away.

  “Actually it’s pretty awful, isn’t it?” Mom admits.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “So whatever happened with you and Thom?”

  “Thom Marin?” Mom asks, surprised, as if I’m referring to some other guy she dated for two years.

  “Yeah. Did you guys break up or something?”

  She shrugs and looks away from me, unconsciously smashing meringue with her fork. “It just kind of fizzled out; that happens.”

  The whole week before she and Thom went to Sanibel, Mom was so cute, debating what clothes she should bring. She must have packed and unpacked her overnight bag six times and even consulted V and me. Is that little red dress too much? Do you think that I should bring jeans in case we’re not going out fancy, fancy?

  “So it wasn’t because you spend all your time worrying about me? Not because of A Baker’s Journey?”

  “Of course not. Why would you even suggest that?”

  Obviously it’s true. And somehow it’s worse that she’s lying to me about it. Worse that she feels like she has to walk on broken glass around me. Like I’m going to splinter into a million sad pieces if she tells me the truth.

  “Besides,” Mom adds, “other things are just more important at my age.”

  V is right; I am pathetic.

  “Mom, you know I’m not asking you to bake these cakes, right?” I ask. “Like, you realize that this isn’t some medically sanctioned treatment for depression?”

  “I know that. I just want us to spend time—”

  “This isn’t going to make me better; nothing is going to make me better. So you should start going out with Toupee Thom again, and maybe every once in a while check in on what V is doing. She seemed pretty upset when she came home.”