Wicked Sweet (21 page)
Authors: Mar'ce Merrell
Disappointment
.
.
“S
o … me and you in Africa building schools, brick by frickin’ brick.” Parker sways as he stands, misses the first time he reaches for his camp chair. It’s been another hour and I’ve lost count of how many beers. I’m doing a little better than him, more practice and good genes, I guess.
o … me and you in Africa building schools, brick by frickin’ brick.” Parker sways as he stands, misses the first time he reaches for his camp chair. It’s been another hour and I’ve lost count of how many beers. I’m doing a little better than him, more practice and good genes, I guess.
“What about Jillian?” I lock our camp chairs in the shed. We start walking toward my house.
“Jillian? Jillian will probably be, I don’t know, teaching kids how to read under the shade of a boaboa tree. They have boaboa trees there, don’t they? Or maybe it’s Joshua trees. Or maybe, like, both. Making bricks is man work.”
“Dude. I was talking about tonight. You said you were going to her house.”
“Tonight?” Parker stops. He stares at the bottle in his hand. “I can’t go over there tonight. I’m drunk. Bad role modeling.”
“You’re not gonna call her, are you? She’ll know you’re drunk and you know what that means …”
“In the doghouse.” He has to stop to whiz in the bushes. “Man. What am I gonna tell her?”
“You fell asleep.”
“That’s pretty good.”
“You’re the one who told me every guy gets one get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “I’ll play the sleep card. So let’s go to your house and play Halo.”
“My house? Nah …”
“We can’t show up at mine. Relatives in town.”
As we walk Parker starts in on his new favorite topic, his legacy, and by the time we get to my garage, I’m thinking I’ve listened long enough. We shake hands and I watch him weave down the sidewalk like a squirrel following a nut on a string.
I don’t know that my mother is in the living room when I open the door or when I close it as quietly as I can or when I slip off my shoes to carry them in my hands. It’s the Ogre that’s got me acting all burglar in my own house; still, I freeze when I hear her voice from the dark corner.
“Will,” she says. “I’ve been waiting up for you.”
“Mom. Why are you in the dark?”
“I have a headache.”
“Oh.” I set my shoes down and move to the living room, shuffle to the couch. I can make out her outline in the chair opposite me. The orange light from the heating pad she puts at the base of her neck glows. “Is he gone?”
“To work.”
“Oh.” We’ve been waiting for him to leave for seven years. I was ten when I walked in on them fighting. I’d been at Parker’s house for dinner and I heard the Ogre yelling at her as I walked up the front steps. He didn’t stop when I slammed the door or when I stood in the kitchen doorway.
We don’t need a goddamn new couch or a new color on the walls.
My mother wiped her eyes with the kitchen towel. I’d heard him yelling at her before and I’d decided weeks before that the next time I would do something.
Bullying is wrong,
I told him
, I learned about it in school. And you have to stop.
I remember that
pounding feeling in my chest. It felt great. Warriors must have felt just like this, I thought. The Ogre moved a step closer to me. My mother told me to go to my room, but I stood my ground in the kitchen. I pulled the biggest knife we had from the wooden block on the countertop. For five seconds or so I was in power, the kid with the weapon, and then, the Ogre changed his battle strategy. He turned on my mother.
You trapped me. You got yourself pregnant. Now you’ve turned my own son against me.
Put that knife down (my mother’s voice had never been so angry), and go to your room. Hours later, in the middle of the night, she told me that I needed to be good, that if I was bad and acted up again my father would leave us. I was never sure why that would be such a problem.
We don’t need a goddamn new couch or a new color on the walls.
My mother wiped her eyes with the kitchen towel. I’d heard him yelling at her before and I’d decided weeks before that the next time I would do something.
Bullying is wrong,
I told him
, I learned about it in school. And you have to stop.
I remember that
pounding feeling in my chest. It felt great. Warriors must have felt just like this, I thought. The Ogre moved a step closer to me. My mother told me to go to my room, but I stood my ground in the kitchen. I pulled the biggest knife we had from the wooden block on the countertop. For five seconds or so I was in power, the kid with the weapon, and then, the Ogre changed his battle strategy. He turned on my mother.
You trapped me. You got yourself pregnant. Now you’ve turned my own son against me.
Put that knife down (my mother’s voice had never been so angry), and go to your room. Hours later, in the middle of the night, she told me that I needed to be good, that if I was bad and acted up again my father would leave us. I was never sure why that would be such a problem.
“Tuesday,” she says. “Your dad’s party is on Tuesday. You need to bring that nice girl, Chantal. And you need to wear a tie.”
“I might be coming down with the flu.”
“You’re going.”
I play over in my head what I think about whenever my mother wants me to do something to make the Ogre happy: the Ogre missed my hockey games so I quit the team. He never went to a parent-teacher conference so I slipped up and got C’s in the ninth grade. Sometimes when I’m drunk, I just don’t care. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”
“To make a point.”
“And that is?”
“You complain about your dad and the ways he’s failed you.” Her words are scripted, but her voice is weak and wavering. I want to tell her I know she’s trying to make me respect him but it’s way too late. “Your dad points out everything that’s wrong with you, not to mention the shortcomings he sees in me. Not once do you stop to consider that you are just like your dad. Both of you are letting me down.”
I open my mouth. I’m going to say, he’s the adult, but I stop. It’s one night. In a year, I’ll be graduating and move away. The Ogre is worth less to me than a lightbulb is to a bat. When I get elected class
president my mother will realize she’s chosen the wrong side. That I am the smart one, the one with charisma. I’m the star to hang onto.
president my mother will realize she’s chosen the wrong side. That I am the smart one, the one with charisma. I’m the star to hang onto.
“Okay. I’ll be there.” I put my shoes back on. Make a big show of walking to the front door, opening it up, and slamming it behind me. She doesn’t try to stop me from leaving.
Surprise Visit
.
.
I
am finishing the final secret admirer note for the I Like Him, I Like Him A Lot, Cake—a splendid white meringue frosting decorated with thin-piped daisy petals and a center of highlighter yellow nonpareils—when the doorbell rings.
am finishing the final secret admirer note for the I Like Him, I Like Him A Lot, Cake—a splendid white meringue frosting decorated with thin-piped daisy petals and a center of highlighter yellow nonpareils—when the doorbell rings.
I look at the oven clock. It’s well after midnight. No one rings our doorbell at midnight unless it’s an emergency, or my mother. The pile of evidence still sits in the corner. I open the linen drawer in the buffet and pull out our Thanksgiving tablecloth, drape it over the KitchenAid and ingredients. I’ll tell my mother there’s a surprise under there if she asks. And … the cake … well … I’ll tell her that someone dropped it off for me, but I refused to eat it.
Now she’s knocking at the door. She must have her keys in her luggage or she wants to surprise me. But she’ll think I’ve been asleep. I tangle up my hair, yawn to get that sleep look going, and shuffle to the front door. I don’t look through the window at the top, I want to avoid that first look where she’ll figure out I’m pretending. Head down, I open the door.
“Were you asleep?”
That’s not my mother’s voice. I jerk my head up. Crud. It’s Will.
“What are you doing here?” I move to the space between the door and the wall, cut off the view to the inside.
“You’re … uh … cute like that. Bed head. Uh … can I come in?” He moves a step closer and I smell beer on his breath.
“No.” I change my voice to a whisper. “My parents are asleep. They’ll freak. What do you want?” I have got to get rid of him.
“Tuesday night. There’s this thing for my dad. A party. And I’m taking you. I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”
“No.” I say it because it’s the first word that comes to my mind. No. He’s too … invasive … and I think … unsafe. It’s all I can do to even stand at the door.
“What do you mean, no? We have a deal. You’re my fake-girlfriend.”
“No.”
“You want me to put the kibosh on the summer project?”
“Like you could do that.”
“I could.” Maybe he’s watched a whole lot of intimidation tactics in cop shows or terrorist movies or something, but it’s the way he stares at me, convincing.
“You can’t force me to go. And you showed up here without calling, that’s against the rules.”
He considers me. I see his jaw clench. I don’t cave in, but I feel goose bumps orange-peeling my arms.
I remind myself that every school year since the seventh grade I have created a path from the beginning of my school day to the end that ensures I will avoid Will. He is dangerous. Dangerous.
When he finally speaks, his voice is different, a little less commanding. “Just … just come for my mom, okay? That’s the only reason I’m going, for her. She likes you.”
I remember: but I have a plan. He can’t hurt me.
“I’m drunk. I have no pride.”
Even though my stomach is in knots, I agree. I can do this. “Okay. Tuesday night.”
He smiles and with that smile I know I’ve been had. It’s the same smile he put on the night of the party right before he attacked me
with that kiss and his tongue. Disgusting. But this time it will be different. This time I’m in charge.
with that kiss and his tongue. Disgusting. But this time it will be different. This time I’m in charge.
I fight the lump in my throat as he tells me among other things to wear a dress, and mascara and lip gloss, and sandals. At least we’ll be in a public place. And what could go wrong at the Moose Hall with his mother and his dad both at the table? My one assertion, “I’ll meet you there,” comes at the end of Will’s instructions. I close the door and lock it behind me before he can dispute it. Then I turn my back to the door and scrunch down to the floor, until I am a tightly held ball of doubt.
What am I doing? This will be the second date of my lifetime. Again, with the person I dislike the most.
I wonder how I should spend my last night of freedom. Correction: my last few hours, since my mother will arrive at ten tomorrow morning.
Nigella, what would you do?
Follow your heart, darling, and waste not another promising minute. Worry is an emotion you can easily live without.
It’s either foolishness or courage that propels me off the floor twenty minutes later and guides me to the pile of baking implements and ingredients. I carry them to the garage and settle them into the trunk of my dad’s SUV. I set the I Like Him, I Like Him A Lot Cake on the floor of the passenger’s seat. The keys, found in my dad’s desk drawer, jingle merrily. Or maybe they jingle a bad omen. Either way, I start the ignition, press the garage door opener, and put the car in reverse.
I’ve driven my dad’s car five times as practice for my driving test, which I haven’t taken yet. So, technically, what I am doing is illegal. I back out six feet and press the button to close the garage door. I shoulder check before I ease out of the driveway, push on the brakes, and shift the car into drive. My dad would say that at this second I’m
definitely at the line between right and wrong. My mother would say I crossed the line just thinking about driving my dad’s car. However, at 1:27 A.M. with less than nine hours before her arrival, I need to make the best use of my remaining minutes. My plan is to stick to the less traveled roads, to drive just under the speed limit, and to keep the vehicle going in a straight line at all times, except when I have to turn. If I get stopped, I’ll tell the police officer it’s an emergency. And it is. Without space to bake, I will be forced to revert to the old me.
definitely at the line between right and wrong. My mother would say I crossed the line just thinking about driving my dad’s car. However, at 1:27 A.M. with less than nine hours before her arrival, I need to make the best use of my remaining minutes. My plan is to stick to the less traveled roads, to drive just under the speed limit, and to keep the vehicle going in a straight line at all times, except when I have to turn. If I get stopped, I’ll tell the police officer it’s an emergency. And it is. Without space to bake, I will be forced to revert to the old me.
The Final Delivery
.
.
I
make four turns, stop at five stop signs, cross one highway, and navigate through two stoplight-controlled intersections. Other drivers honk at me four times and six vehicles pass me. I give them lots of room. I drive mostly on the shoulder of the road. I know this is attention-getting driving, but my fear of oncoming traffic keeps me away from the middle of the lane. Fortunately our town policemen are probably monitoring the last of the Friday night cruisers, not driving along Third Street where they could easily spot a girl without a license. I park in the driveway of the little house my dad uses for his office. I unlock the back door, walk through what used to be the mudroom for the railway men who lived here when the house was built.
make four turns, stop at five stop signs, cross one highway, and navigate through two stoplight-controlled intersections. Other drivers honk at me four times and six vehicles pass me. I give them lots of room. I drive mostly on the shoulder of the road. I know this is attention-getting driving, but my fear of oncoming traffic keeps me away from the middle of the lane. Fortunately our town policemen are probably monitoring the last of the Friday night cruisers, not driving along Third Street where they could easily spot a girl without a license. I park in the driveway of the little house my dad uses for his office. I unlock the back door, walk through what used to be the mudroom for the railway men who lived here when the house was built.
In the tiny kitchen, I find the one-door refrigerator. I add my buttermilk and unsalted butter to the empty shelves. The KitchenAid barely fits under the sink but the flour and sugar fill up the empty cupboards. The baking pans are next and as I search for a place to hide them, I remember there’s an oven here. I touch the dial for the oven, the dial for the temperature. A month ago, I wouldn’t even have noticed this appliance. I pull out the drawer underneath and set my nine-inch round, eight-inch round, and Bundt pans on top of the broiler pan. I only remembered a microwave here, but maybe that’s because all
I’ve ever eaten here is popcorn, after school. I doubt the real oven even works, but I turn a burneron, and twist the oven dial to 350 degrees.
I’ve ever eaten here is popcorn, after school. I doubt the real oven even works, but I turn a burneron, and twist the oven dial to 350 degrees.
“If you can resist this,” Nigella said in one of her cooking shows, “you do not deserve to eat.” She was talking about fried chicken, but I know Nigella. She’d say I can love cake more than chicken. She’d say I can love whatever I want.
I imagine the KitchenAid on one end of the small counter, leaving just enough space for a decorating station. The air above the burner is hot and inside the oven my hand definitely feels warmth. But my mother wouldn’t let me bake here any more than she would at home. It’s a matter of principle she’d say
. Only yours, only yours.
I turn the stove and oven off. It’s nearly 2 A.M. and I’ve still got to deliver a cake and clean up the kitchen back at my house. I need to focus on my first plan instead of dreaming up a new one.
. Only yours, only yours.
I turn the stove and oven off. It’s nearly 2 A.M. and I’ve still got to deliver a cake and clean up the kitchen back at my house. I need to focus on my first plan instead of dreaming up a new one.
I wear black for the delivery. I am in my dad’s car on Third Street, ten blocks from the home of Lauren, my next cake messenger, when I see what I least expect: a ball cap I recognize, a flip of hair that is only his. He’s walking to his car a block ahead of me on the right-hand side. I have seconds to react. I crank the wheel right at the intersection, but I forget to press the brakes, and the speed and the panic combines and two wheels of Dad’s car are riding on the curb and I’m headed for a bush. A big bush with, crud, don’t let it be true, a telephone pole on the other side of it. I slam on the brakes and the bumper hits something, but I can’t stop to look; what if Mitch heard the noise, what if he’s walking toward me. I find the R on the shifter and I press the gas pedal enough that I roll back. In D for drive, I manage to get off the curb and I’m driving forward. At the end of the block, I take a left. At the end of that block, I take a left. I pull over to the side of the road. I remember the cake. It survived the incident (I can’t admit it was an accident) although the frosting on one side is going to need some repair work
. I need to get out of here. I need
to get out of here.
This was my final delivery and instead of feeling victorious and calm, I’m panicked. I turn right and try to recalculate how I’m going to get to Lauren’s house. That’s when I see Mitch’s car up ahead.
. I need to get out of here. I need
to get out of here.
This was my final delivery and instead of feeling victorious and calm, I’m panicked. I turn right and try to recalculate how I’m going to get to Lauren’s house. That’s when I see Mitch’s car up ahead.
The only way to explain my next choice is to point out that in my perfectionist brain, I try to find a way to compensate whenever something goes wrong. For example, if I miss three questions on a math test, I’ll not only correct my mistakes, but ask the teacher for extra credit to make up for my less than 100 percent. Tonight my extra credit is Mitch.
I think about what would happen if he knew I was the Cake Princess. Would all that radio love he sends out for her transform into long, meaningful looks? Or my first real date? I’m so focused on my daydream, I’ve almost forgotten my near crash. I follow him at a safe distance all the way to his house, a trip that takes me through town and up into the subdivision near the ski hill. He parks in his driveway. I drive up two blocks and park on the street. My adrenaline-fueled panic has turned into an anticipation that flutters in my stomach. I get out of Dad’s car, walk around to the passenger’s side, and rescue my cake. I repair the frosting on the side of I Like Him, I Like Him A Lot Cake with my fingertips and start sneaking my way to Mitch’s front door with the cake.
His street is at the edge of town where the houses emerge from the forest, their wide lawns plonked with rock fountains. It’s too far out for streetlights, so tiny lanterns sprinkle the paths from driveways to front doors. The inky darkness out here nearly blinds me. I’m not afraid of the dark, but I’m terrified of what lives in the dark: bears, coyotes, cougars. Mostly. As I approach Mitch’s house I hear his car door opening, closing, feet on driveway.
I move deeper through the shadows until I reach the edge of his yard. The porch light is off. I step lightly on spongy grass to the door. I could set the cake down, put the cardboard box over it, and dash in
the darkness. I could be home in ten minutes. I set the cake down with the secret admirer note attached, cover it with the cardboard box, and sneak across the street to a black spot in the neighbor’s yard, where I can … what? Spy on Mitch.
the darkness. I could be home in ten minutes. I set the cake down with the secret admirer note attached, cover it with the cardboard box, and sneak across the street to a black spot in the neighbor’s yard, where I can … what? Spy on Mitch.
A light shines in an upstairs room. It’s got to be Mitch’s bedroom. The curtains drift in and out of the open window. I sit on the grass beside a massive rock fountain and wait—a slightly troubling moment of unrequited like.
Come close to the window.
His shadow moves, arms stretch up and out. His shirt flies past the window. His shadow bends.
A pair of jeans is next. The curtains get in the way, then, clear.
The shadow moves. Oh God, it’s not a shadow. It’s him, his naked back and his white boxers. Right in front of the open window. I hold my hand over my mouth to keep all sounds from leaking.
And he’s dancing. Dancing? His knees dip, he moves side to side.
Well, he is in drama, right? Maybe all actor boys dance by themselves at 2 A.M.
And his right arm is moving up and down. Repeatedly. In rhythm.
No. Oh. No.
Oh. God. He’s going to face me. Well, not his face, but his … I hold my breath, squeeze my eyes shut. And then force them open.
God.
It’s a guitar. I breathe again, all in one rush.
He’s playing Guitar Hero.
In his boxers.
I watch as he spins around and strain to hear the song he’s playing, but now I see he’s wearing headphones. I could probably call his name and the neighbors would come out running before Mitch would hear me. If I threw rocks at his window, I’d have to break the glass to get him to notice. But I want him to notice.
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