Bee Yourself. Really. Bee Yourself.
I
notice what I have failed to see since our project began: Jillian is separate from me, from the boys. She is always willing to help, she is always encouraging, she is always so damn perfect at knowing where the juice boxes are, finding the Band-Aids, filling up the water bottles. But the real Jillian is missing.
Today, the delivery of Will’s thirteenth cake has him wearing a headband with two bopping antenna, a yellow shirt striped with black duct tape, and a piece of black doweling protruding from his … posterior.
Everyone is laughing at this photo shoot. Everyone. Ollie is laughing so hard, his cheeks must hurt. Jillian told me last week that Ollie should be walking by now and that her brothers said at least a few words when they were fourteen months. I reminded her that all the girls carry him around. They do the talking and the walking for him.
Jillian didn’t laugh then and she isn’t laughing now. Even if I get the boys into the NHL Hall of Fame, my legacy will be tainted. The one girl I wanted to make a difference for is only marginally impressed by my efforts.
I look over during the afternoon practice and she’s on her back, watching the clouds streak the sky. When I gather all the kids in a final huddle, she sits in the center of them.
“We’re going up against kids who are bigger than you, played more than you. But we’ve got what they don’t. Tell me what that is!” I say.
“We can run like hell!” Travis says. The rest of the team cuts up.
“Yep. You can run like hell. And there’s something else. It’s about working together as a …” I wait for the right answer, but the boys are shouting out that they can shoot the ball, they can deke the goalie, they can tell them to stick-a-rubber-hose-up-their-rubber-nose.
“Jillian—you want to help me out?”
“What was the question?” she asks.
“Team. We’re a team,” I say. I finish my motivational speech before they start wandering off. “Get some sleep tonight. Drink lots of water.” We end with a final cheer that half the mountain can hear. When they’ve run off for the playground, I sit next to Jillian, wait for her to talk first.
“They all need new shoes,” she says, finally. “Travis’s big toe is sticking out of his, but he hasn’t complained. Not once.”
“I’ll get them new shoes,” I tell her. I put my arm around her, but it’s like she doesn’t want to acknowledge I have a limb touching her shoulder. “Jillian, what about you? What do you need?”
She doesn’t answer and I realize that things have gotten so bad I’ll be crawling my way back. “Can I call you tonight? I’m worried about you.”
“Um …” The pause is so long I lose my confidence. “Sure, if you want.”
“I won’t let you down.” It’s not much, but it’s a beginning.
Delicious, with a Delicate Crumb.
M
y mother is a not-bad camera operator. A little bossy, but not bad. We finish the footage in just under two hours and I tell her she has to leave.
“I have an eye for detail,” she says. “You need a good editor.” Just when I was thinking things between us might shift.
“Nope,” I say. “I’ve got one. Me.”
I walk her to the door and shut it behind her, after, of course, I agree to turn on my phone and take her call tomorrow. With any luck the next time she sees the Cake Princess will be after the hockey tournament. My dad will be next to her in the stands.
Dressed in my black delivery outfit, I balance the Cheetahs Always Get Caught Cake in my bicycle basket. The last delivery. The final cake. Parker’s house. It’s midnight.
I swing my leg over the middle bar and start pedaling.
“Chantal?” I hear a voice and from my left I perceive a shadowy figure emerging from a nearby bush.
Oh God. Someone knows. A guy. He’s after me. I press the right pedal down and now the left. I’m traveling in the opposite direction.
“Chantal?”
I look back to see who it is. It’s … it’s …
An odd, but perfectly predictable thing happens when the handlebars of a bike are pointed at an angle. The wheels of the bicycle follow that direction—they make a slight turn and collide with a rock that stops the wheel, creating a physics phenomena that I like to call frozen momentum. The rider of the bicycle is thrown over the handlebars, though she lands in the grass. But the contents of the bike basket are not so fortunate. The Cheetah cake lays broken and damaged, chunks of chocolate cake and buttercream, a mockery of utter gorgeousness.
I want to crawl away when I hear the footsteps—I can’t believe what a fool I’ve just made of myself—but I’m in shock. This is it. My failure to function in a social setting has finally caught up with me.
“Chantal, are you okay?”
“Mitch?” I try to be calm, normal. “Why are you downtown in the middle of the night?”
“What do you mean? Why shouldn’t I be downtown? I was at the radio station. I parked my car in a different place tonight because I’ve had this feeling that I was being watched when I left work.”
“Weird.” I look down and see what he sees. Me in black. A cake that’s gone splat.
“And you’re downtown in the middle of the night. On your bike in a black … disguise?” I watch him put the pieces together. “Oh, no, that was the cake? The Cake Princess cake? You were going to deliver it?”
I nod my misery. Now I’ve got to bake another one.
“You’re the Cake Princess!” He smiles. It’s like happy birthday and you’ve won the lottery all in one. “I think you’re great.”
“I know.” I smile back and I’m sure my eyes are sparking like a waterfall of fireworks. “I listen to you on the radio.”
The only logical solution is to regroup, restrategize, and start over with the assistance of Mitch. Could this be a more perfect
situation for a Cake Princess about to be crowned? I so want to call Jillian, but I’m afraid that the magic is time-limited, situation-specific. Mitch and me! Me! And Mitch!
Twenty minutes later, I’ve measured out the ingredients and Mitch is stationed at the kitchen counter with the laptop. We are masters using our tools. The butter plops into the mixing bowl, sugar cascades over the top, and the motor runs. Since I can’t rely on my ability to judge time right now, I set my timer for three minutes. I stare at him. The nerdy black plastic eyeglasses are a pleasing contrast to his short faux mo. He’s one of those kids who gets good grades, but not great ones, because he likes to have fun.
“I’ve got to tell you something.” He scrunches his nose to push his glasses closer to his face and yet he never stops moving his fingers along the keyboard. A multitasker, too!
He presses a button and turns the screen toward me. It’s the final shot, the only one with my face in it. Everything else is about the cake. “You’re great,” he says. “Exquisite. Splendid.” He throws in a British accent.
A multitasker and he thinks I’m splendid! Nigella would be so proud. “You’re just saying that because you made me wreck my bicycle, and my cake.”
“Nope. You could have your own show. I’d be your producer.” His voice gets a little shaky and the air between us vibrates in wind chime music and whispers of vanilla and chocolate. Oh. I want him to kiss me. But he’s watching the video.
“That isn’t my real life.”
“Your whole life is your real life.” He says it as if it’s a simple truth. He’s adding in photos from the lake. We’ve already come up with an extra bit that he’s going to tape, something that will make the Cake Princess’s debut warm everyone’s hearts.
Your whole life is your real life.
I thought I was acting, you know. Pretending. But maybe I’ve been creating.
When he looks up at me I like that it seems as if he sees more than curly, unmanageable hair and my obvious plainness.
Darling, he’s perfect for you.
Nigella, you’re back!
I wouldn’t miss my youngest protégé domestique! But tell me, this young lad who fancies you, will he appreciate your culinary artistry?
“Mitch, have you ever baked a cake?” I ask.
“I burned out my mom’s old-school Easy Bake Oven when I was ten. Put my GI Joe guys in it to melt them down—it was supposed to be the aftermath of an atomic bomb.”
“Would you like a chance to redeem yourself?” I hold out a wooden spatula.
Special Delivery
.
C
hocolate, butter, and vanilla smells continue to drift in through my open window. My stomach grumbles. Not that I’m complaining. I just wish my baking neighbor knew that I am here, alone in my room, wishing for the companionship of a brownie or a chocolate chip cookie. I am not afraid of calories today; I want chocolate. Chocolate would get me started in the right direction.
For the first time in a month, my mother has taken the boys out with her, leaving me all alone. Not that any of us should be fooled into thinking she’s changed her ways. No. She found out that the big hockey tournament is today (even though I told the boys we could keep it a surprise) and when she insisted that she was coming to watch, when she demanded that we all go out for breakfast to celebrate, when she said we are the biggest, happiest family in town, I said, “Screw that. I’m not going. And they all need new shoes.”
So I am alone. Not pretending we are a family we are not. Contemplating my next move. I know the pros and cons of what I am considering. I’ve listed them, scrunched the paper into a ball, and put it between my mattress and the box spring. The phone is next to me. I’ve found the phone number and I tried it yesterday, pretended
I was a telemarketer to confirm that the number matched the person I am, now, getting the courage to call.
I hear a car pull into our cul-de-sac but when the door opens the sound of six little boys high on sugar doesn’t follow. Even though they should be home by now, I bet they’ll be gone for another hour.
Now, the sweet smells from before grow stronger, as if they’re blowing toward me. I turn off the fan and listen. I hear footsteps.
“Jillian. Jillian.” A whispered voice reaches me through the window. I open the curtains.
“Parker?” What is he doing here? He was supposed to phone first. Ugh. I don’t need more complications.
“I brought us a cake. Can I come in?”
“A cake?” And like that, something shifts. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines. I want companionship; well, cake can be companionship. But will he think I’m weak, that all it takes is a little cake to woo me? “Is it chocolate?”
He runs his finger through the icing, licks it off his finger, nods his head. Oh, what does it matter if he thinks I’m weak? Maybe, right now, I am.
“Okay. Go around front, I’ll open the door,” I tell him.
“I want to come in through the window.” He sets the cake down and I see he’s dragged an old ladder from the shed. He props it against the house.
I almost tell him that it doesn’t make sense; that he could drop the cake, but I keep my mouth shut. The guy is made to be Prince Charming. It’s just who he is.
The cake is the absolute best. The name, though, Cheetahs Always Get Caught, makes me think Annelise really could be the Cake Princess. She’s in animal prints every other day and she has a message to send to Parker.
I wonder two things:
1.
Could she bake a cake that tastes this delicious?
2.
What would she think of Parker secretly bringing it to me?
“Isn’t Will going to be ticked off that we’ve eaten a big chunk of the cake you’re supposed to give him?” I ask as I fork my last bite.
“He owes me.”
I run my finger along the plate, squeegeeing the last of the frosting. “I really needed this.”
“Great. Great.” He studies me. He motions for me to close the space between us. I move next to him so that we’re sitting on the floor, shoulders touching, with our backs against my bed. I hope that this is enough, because right now, that’s all the contact I want.
“Jillian …”
From the way he says my name, I know I’m doomed. He wants more than a shoulder against a shoulder.
“I feel like I’ve done something wrong but I don’t know what it is.”
I’m at a loss to say anything, but eventually I come up with some words to fill the silence. “That sucks, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“I don’t mean to be flippant, but it’s just, I guess, I understand what you’re saying.” I do, don’t I? Isn’t this one of my complaints about my mother, I never know how I’ve screwed up.
“So what can I do about it?”
“You have to communicate. Set it down in point form. Make it clear.” I visualize the crumpled list wedged under my mattress.
“Okay.” He reaches for my hand and turns his body enough so that he can watch my face. Hold eye contact. “I really, really, really, really like you. Like, I really do.”
I hold eye contact for as long as I can but the more
really
s he throws in the harder it gets, like looking at a bright sun that I need to
turn away from. “Articulate.” I smirk. His bottom lip shakes a bit and I realize that I’ve gone too far. I punch his shoulder. “I’m kidding.”
“You win. My apologies.” He punches me back. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”
It’s the words
you win
that swing a punch into my stomach. He’s putting up with me.
“We need to start over,” I say. “I am not tough. I don’t normally punch boys and I apologize for the sarcasm. I have never had a boyfriend. And I am scared. And not because there was one too many
really
s.”
While I sneak in deep, cleansing breaths, he tells me that from the beginning he’s wanted to date
me
and that he’s sorry he got so focused on the boys and their hockey skills.
“They’re more important,” I say. “Everyone knows that. They’re so little and vulnerable.”
“Wait. Not more. Just as important. They’re so
noticeable,
but, Jillian, you are, too. You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re beautiful, and, sometimes, like on our first date, when you looked at me, I saw past the puzzle of you and I saw you.” He runs his first finger along the inside of my elbow, makes tracks to my wrist and back again, and I let him. He makes eye contact and I don’t look away. I don’t look away even when I think we might resemble a cheesy romance movie.
“Go on,” I say.
“I saw goodness and … a survivor.”
“Right.” I laugh.
“No. Really. A girl who isn’t going to give up because her nail broke or she didn’t get a free pass to the movies. You say you’re not tough. I don’t think that at all. Not at all.”
He leans toward me. His fingers lift my chin. Oh … it is a cheesy movie scene. I give in. To him. To the kiss. To the feeling that it’s okay to let him get close. It’s good to be me, at least for now.