Cakespell
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: teen witch; cake decorating; baking; Young Adult; teen romance; Witchcraft
Description: 15-year-old Rose Zapata is an aspiring professional baker (with a secret crush) who's only seen love in the movies. But all that changes when she discovers her late grandmother's vintage baking tools in her grandpa's closet. Along with a family secret: Rose is a witch--a kitchen witch. And after accidentally releasing her nana's matchmaking "Cakespell," Rose is the only one who can wield its power. When news spreads about Rose's love-infused goodies, classmates, teachers, and even her crush, Caleb, flock to her door. As business booms, fame does too. Principal O'Dell enlists her in the school'
Publisher: Alienhead Press

A SWEET NOVEL

GABY TRIANA

Copyright © 2018 Gaby Triana

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 9781980775980 (Paperback Edition)
ASIN: B07C1DXYH7 (eBook Edition)

Characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by author.

Proofread by Bette Bourgeois
Book cover and interior design by Curtis Sponsler

Printed and bound in the United States of America
First printing April 2018

Published by Alienhead Press
www.alienheadpress.com
Miami, FL 33186

Visit Gaby Triana at www.gabytriana.com

Dedication

For Curtis -- may the lemon cupcakes that started it all
make their magic forever <3

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Author Links

Also by Gaby Triana

A Note to My Readers

One

“Rose, where do you want this fondant bucket?”

Sabrina helps me put away my baking things while also watching my back. Watching my window, actually, to warn me, in case Lovely Mother comes home unexpectedly. If she does, the plan is to barricade the door, scramble, and panic.

It hasn’t happened in the week since she banned me from baking, but that’s not the point of emergency prep. The point is to be ready in case it does.

What my mother doesn’t understand is that you can’t stop someone from doing what they love. For me, that’s dabbling in the “dark sugar arts,” as she calls it while watching old movies. So, my mission is to get this two-tiered baby shower cake finished and ready for pickup within the next hour, along with the entire kitchen cleaned up, all before LM returns from work.

Tall order, but I have to do this.

Customers are depending on me—they don’t care if I’m grounded.

“Right on the counter,” I tell Sabrina. Sixty minutes ‘til the devil returns. I shift into full-steam-ahead mode. Let’s do this.

It’s not my fault that I love baking. Or that baking loves me. Or that people die of happiness when they taste my desserts. Or that I bake while watching classic black-and-white films, listening to old-timey music, and dressing up in 1940’s fashion. I can’t help it—it’s fun and I’m an old soul.

But Lovely Mother insists that baking isn’t my future—a career in STEM is.

Then why do I suck at math and science so much?

I stack the cake tiers and sharpen the dowel rod that will skewer through the middle of them. It’s a skill I learned on YouTube to keep the cake tiers from sliding all over the place during a wild car ride. And that’s my other problem: delivery guy/neighbor (and unbeknownst to him—my future husband), Caleb, doesn’t always drive smoothly. I’ve told him a hundred times he needs to take those corners sloowww, but hey, he’s getting better.

I’m about to skewer the cake when one of the best scenes in Casablanca starts. Mallet in hand, I pause to watch. As usual during my favorite flicks, I begin zoning out. It’s fun to imagine myself dressed as these characters, though in my daydreams, sometimes things go different…

Casablanca—1941.

A sultry moon hangs in the melancholy air. A wedding starts in five minutes. If my delivery man doesn’t get here quick, this buttercream dream is going to melt in the Mediterranean heat. The bride and groom will be doomed to a lifetime of unhappiness. And whose fault will it be for the rest of my life? Mine.

No pressure, Rose.

The lovely French couple chose moi, so I cannot—will not—disappoint them. Covered in scroll piping and Swiss dots, this cake is the cat’s meow, the prettiest thing I’ve ever made—a confection of love, a dreamboat dessert.

But where, oh where, is my lover, er, delivery man? Gosh, I hope he hasn’t crashed out on these cobblestone streets. Just how did I become Casablanca’s premier cake designer when I’m only fifteen? Shh, it’s my daydream.

Plunky notes float into the kitchen from the piano here at Rick’s Café Americain. Moonlight and love songs, never out of date… I gaze out the window. A box truck rounds the corner, rumbling up the street. Jeepers, it’s about time! I shake powdered sugar out of my Veronica Lake hairdo, rip off my pastry jacket to reveal a long, satin gown.

The door flies open. A chorus of violins sing.

“Rose.” Caleb’s chest heaves. Fog swirls around him.

“Caleb…” I ache at the space between us. “My sweet man with a driver’s license.”

He removes his flat cap, presses it to his chest. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Rose. Will you ever forgive me?”

“All is swell, darling.” I swoon at his eyes twinkling like silver diamonds. “The bride and groom can wait. Our love is more important.”

The violins grow louder. “What? I can’t hear you.”

The violins quiet down. “I said—”

“Never mind.” He envelops my hands in his. “My love.”

“My sweet.”

“Do you have any—”

“Shh.” I press a glossy fingernail to his lips. “Leftovers?” I finish his sentence, for we are star-crossed lovers, and I can read his mind.

“Shucks, Rose. It’s like you know my every thought. I’d do anything for your cake. I must say, I have never, ever…” He leans into me. I crane my neck all the way back to gaze at him. “Tasted one like yours in my life.”

“Oh, Caleb!” I reach into the scrap bowl for a chunk of vanilla genoise with almond buttercream and bring it to his lips. “For you, my love.”

“Rose, how you tempt me.” He takes the morsel into his mouth, silky lips wrapping around the cake, his willpower succumbing to my irresistible delights. The piano notes plunk… You must remember this…a kiss is still a kiss. His mouth lowers onto mine, and we—

“Rose?”

Lovely, sweet, perfect.

“Hello?”

A sigh is just a sigh…

“Hmm? Yes?” I look up.

Sabrina waves at me from her window post. “I said your leading man is here? Caleb? Are you even listening?”

I blink. Sharpened dowel rod in one hand, rubber mallet in the other. What was I doing again? Ah, yes, murdering a cake. “Yes. Okay, good, let him in.” I hammer the stake through the top tier, two separator boards, down to the drum, daydream fizzling away. Whew, that was a good one!

Sabrina runs up to me and brushes flour off my face. “You know, Rose, when you’ve got your head in the clouds like that, it worries me.”

“It’s nothing. I was just watching the movie.”

“Are you done with the cake?”

I snip off the excess dowel rod and secure the light pink baby booties I made out of gum paste right on top. Perfect. “Yep.” I check the time. Not a minute to spare. “He has to leave now, or this puppy’s going to be late! Do I look okay?”

“Perfect. Just…shake that flour from your face.” She heads for the door. “And the flower…fix your flower.” She points to her hair.

“Oh.” My rose hair clip. I’ve been trying on more classic looks lately, not only because 1940’s fashion is so pin-uppy beautiful, but because Caleb might see me as more than his little neighbor if I did. I pinch my cheeks to bring out the rosiness. They do that in the old movies. “Okay, ready.”

“Here we go…” Sabrina opens the door to reveal the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. Even across the living room and hallway, I smile at Caleb’s floppy brown hair, green eyes, ear bud wires hanging down the sides of his beautiful, angular face…heaven.

Caleb—so tall, so seventeen. “What’s up, cake girls, girls with cake…” He comes up to the counter and plucks something out of my hair. “Girls wearing cake.”

Sigh. He touched me.

“You’re late, Caleb,” Sabrina says. “You’ve got Rose on edge over here.”

Caleb looks at me. “I’m only five minutes late, Rosie.”

I try to speak, but Caleb is pure kryptonite. But today will be different. Today, I will use big words! “It’s fine, but you do have to leave now. The cake needs to be there by five. Drive like your life depends on it. But not too fast.”

Caleb gives me a surprised smile. “Don’t I always?”

“No, you cause cracks in her fondant like with the last customer.” Sabrina folds her arms over her chest indignantly.

Caleb stares at her perfect boobs for a whole second then shifts his gaze to the cake. “I told you that was an accident. Hey, do you have any scraps before I go? I’m starving.”

Free cake is the main reason Caleb does this job. I would rather he do it to help me out, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Yes,” I squeak then clear my throat. “Yes.” I shove the bowl with cut crowns at him.

He fishes around for a chunky piece.

Sabrina and I exchange glances. Yes, I know he only wants me for my cake. Yes, I’m too nice to him. It’s a start, he’s a free delivery guy, and who knows? He might one day see past the fluffy girl who feeds him. It could happen.

As the scrap moves from the bowl to his lips, I realize something is missing. “Wait!” But it’s too late. He pops the piece into his mouth without the icing. Sacrilege! Nobody—I repeat, nobody—eats cake in my kitchen without the perfect, accompanying buttercream. Cake and frosting go together!

“Open…” I hover my piping bag over Caleb’s mouth.

Sabrina’s eyes widen at me.

“Yes, ma’am.” Caleb laughs, opening his mouth full of half-chewed cake.

I squeeze a perfect swirl of almond buttercream right into his mouth and watch his eyeballs roll into the back of his head. I’ve got you now, Caleb Anthony.

A crooked smile spreads across Sabrina’s lips. “Say it…”

He savors the bite of heaven. “Oh, man. That is good stuff, Rosie.”

I’ve made Caleb happy—my heart is full.

“It’s better than stuff. It’s mad delicious, sinfully sweet. You need Rose in your life. Don’t you, Caleb?” She winks at me. I love my wing-woman.

“Hell, yeah, I do. Rosie, you make the best damn cake.” He tugs on the base, sliding the whole thing towards him, ready to lift it.

“Wait! One more thing!”

Caleb and Sabrina both groan.

I open my pouch of edible dusts and glitter and pull out a tiny jar of baby pink. Twisting open the lid, I sprinkle some all over the cake then blow on my fingers to release it all. Magic! The whole thing comes to life with a sparkly sheen. Sabrina stands behind me and takes pics of my creation on her phone.

There’s a moment of silence, as we stare at the cake before we never see it again. Even Caleb gives it a sad smile. I’m glad the cake amazes him. I just wish, for once, that I’d amaze him.

“You know, Rosie…” He faces me suddenly with smoldering eyes. “At some point…” Caleb takes slow steps toward me. I can almost see the fog curling around him. Is he going to kiss me? Here, now, with Sabrina watching? I never imagined it would be like this, but okay!

“Yes?” My voice shakes.

“I’m going to need more than buttercream.” He stares into my eyes, and I’ll be damned—his have golden flecks in them. Swoon. “At some point…you’re going to have to pay me with actual money.”

Money?

Right.

My heart explodes into a field of scattered stars. I hold onto the granite countertop to steady myself. Wow. Stupid me. His smile fades. Everything returns to normal. On second thought, I don’t think I was ready to kiss Caleb anyway.

Sabrina gives me a sympathetic smirk. I know she wishes I’d reply with some witty comeback, but I can’t. It’s not me. Sabrina strolls up to him. “You know, Caleb, Alexandre said he’d do the same job just for the chance to be near Rose, so if money is what you need…”

“Alexandre?” Caleb scoffs. “I don’t think so.”

He has a point. Though my other best friend has never confirmed being gay, we all sort of know he is, just like we know the sun will rise, the moon will shine, and I will never learn to speak for myself.

“Besides, that dude doesn’t even have a car.” Caleb carries my cake toward the door.

“He would walk to deliver Rosie’s cake.” Sabrina cocks an eyebrow. “Miles, actually. Everyone is replaceable, Caleb.”

“Fine, just don’t give Alexandre my cake scraps. Cake scraps are mine. Promise me, Rosie.”

My mouth opens but nothing comes out, so Sabrina takes over, “Hmm, I don’t think Rose would be amenable to—”

“I promise,” I interrupt.

Sabrina gawks at me with huge blue eyes full of guilt trippiness.

Ugh, so I gave in. Leave me alone. I toss a filled pastry bag, paintbrush, and tiny ball of fondant into a Ziploc bag and follow Caleb out the door. Sabrina gestures for me to put the bag in his back pocket.

I shake my head. I can’t touch his butt!

Her mouth is a thin line. Do it!

Fine! I catch up to him, pull back on his jeans’ pocket, and shove the bag in.

“Whoa, thanks for that.” He laughs. “What is it?”

“Emergency repair kit. If you see any cracks, wet the fondant with a little water and press it into the crack. Then use the brush to smooth it out. Like caulking.”

Caleb’s eyes widen. “Okay, then.”

I cut him off at the pass and open the hatchback of his beat-up Honda. As he stands there, I arrange towels in the back into a nice cushiony pad next to his guitar case. Sigh, he even plays guitar. “I’ll text you the address. It’s five minutes from here. And here’s gas money.” I slide a five-dollar bill into his hand

He looks straight into my soul. “Don’t worry, Rosie. I got this.”

As much as I love making cakes, I hate the stress of delivering them. And despite the cracks, Caleb has done a pretty good job so far of getting them there safely. “I trust you.”

He closes the hatchback and heads to the driver’s seat. “I’ll text you when I get there.”

I open my mouth to say thank you, I love you, please marry me…

“And I’ll let you know if everyone liked it.”

You’re my true love, Caleb. One day you’ll realize…

“And I won’t forget your money this time. Yes, I’ll patch it up if anything happens. God, Rosie, stop telling me what to do!” He laughs and slams the door. “Bye, Sabrina,” he calls just before his window shuts completely.

Sabs clings to the door frame in an effortless pose. “What do you see in that guy?”

“He’s perfect.”

“He’s going to ruin your stellar reputation with his driving.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re hopeless.”

We watch him back out of the driveway, as my gaze scans the street for signs of my mother. Alexandre Bourret arrives, crossing the street, dark blond hair needing a trim, laptop bag strapped across his back. He pushes his nerdy glasses up with his free hand, swerving out of Caleb’s way just in time.

Caleb rolls down the window. “You—computer kid…you’re not taking my cake scraps.”

“Crétin.” Alexandre sneers before heading up my walkway in a bouncy mood. “Good afternoon, mademoiselles.” While he and Sabrina enter the house, I watch Caleb’s car disappear down the street.

One day, I’ll have the courage to tell him a million things. How I adore him. How three out of every four men end up marrying the girl next door, so he’s bound by statistics to be my husband, how we’ll have three children, live off the French coast with a dog named Chichi, and how he’ll love every inch of me happily ever after.

I haven’t told him yet. But I will. I totally will.

“Rose?” Sabrina croaks.

“Hmm?” I turn and immediately see the problem.

“Your mom’s home.”

Two

The engine sound of LM’s BMW groans into our driveway before I can close the front door. “Crap!”

“Crap!” Sabrina jumps into action. “I’ll barricade the door. You and Alex start cleaning. Go, go, go!”

Alex and I bolt into the kitchen, as Sabrina opens the foyer closet door so it smashes up against the front door. This is a good strategy since my mother has always hated that flaw in our house’s design. We throw ourselves onto counters, wiping powdered bits of excess fondant into the trash, scooping rolling pins, shape cutters, flower tools, scissors, pizza cutters, and tossing them all into a plastic bag to hide in my room.

Ugh, why did I spend so much time trying to flirt with Caleb?

Keys jingle at the front door. It opens but hits foyer closet. “Rose? You left the…door open…again.” She fumbles with the barricade.

“Crap.”

“Crap.”

“Merde.”

“Sorry, Mom! Be right there!” Rags fly across the kitchen, dirty pans go airborne, clanging on the floor. There’s only so much we can do in ten seconds. We’re almost done getting rid of the last cake stuff, but she frees the door herself.

Patent leather heels click along our tile floor. When she sees the three of us in mid-scramble, she cocks her head. “What are you all doing?” Lovely Mother strolls in, straight long black hair matching tall, skinny pants. She drops her beloved designer bag onto a counter stool and eyes the mess. “Rose? Is that a cake pan?”

“Yes, we were just clearing out the rest of my things. Since I’m not baking anymore, you know.” I give her a nervous smile.

“Then why is there powdered sugar on the counter?” LM’s gaze zeros in on me.

“Scouring powder, Mom. We were deep cleaning. To surprise you.” I eye Sabrina who’s closest to the powdered sugar.

“Yup,” Sabrina chimes in, sopping up the sugar with her wet sponge. “Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere…” She sings the Barney song. I almost die.

“Well, thank you,” LM’s tone softens. “I do love seeing my kitchen clean.” Her attention returns to her phone, giving us a momentary relief from her scrutinizing gaze.

I hate to tell her, but it’s my kitchen. She never actually uses it for anything other than storing water, ginger root, and kale. Its state-of-cleanliness should be none of her concern.

“Did you finish your Math project?” LM looks up with a raised eyebrow.

“Almost.” Haven’t even started. “That’s what we were going to work on just as soon as we finished…you know…cleaning.” I glance at Sabrina and Alex, making sure we were on the same lying wavelength.

They nod.

I nod.

We’re good.

“Good,” my mother says. “Just because it’s a teacher’s workday doesn’t mean you can relax. You should be studying.” Suddenly, her eyes snap to something on the counter. It’s clear and see-through, and ugh, we didn’t hide it in time. She walks toward it, just as Alex tries to snatch it away. They both lift the wobbly impression mat at the same time. “Rose?”

Alex shakes the plastic mat for making patterns on fondant. It makes a woozy noise. “What is this thing?”

“It’s an impression mat. Thanks for finding it!” I yank the mat out of their hands. “Now I can get rid of it along with everything else.”

“Rose?” Lovely Mother is not buying it. Her sharp eyes cut into me. “And this?” She crouches to pick up a flower cutter from the floor clearly covered in powdered sugar. Freshly used. Forget it—I’m dead. “Were you baking again?”

“Not technically, no. Today, I decorated.”

“Rose? Why would you be decorating when we had an understanding?”

I laugh nervously. “It’s amazing the mess a cake can leave behind, isn’t it? Like having a baby. So much chaos for such a cute little end product.”

“Rose?”

“Mom…” My shoulders droop in defeat. “I had that baby shower cake to make, remember? I was already contracted before you asked me to stop. I couldn’t back out of it. It’s unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional? Rose, you’re not a real baker. You’re a student.”

Out of the corner of my eye, Sabrina and Alex wince in pain. “They’d already paid their deposit. I couldn’t back out of it,” I explain.

She scoffs and throws up her hand. “And how much did they pay you this time—twenty bucks? Barely enough to cover your materials, not nearly enough for all the time you wasted on this?”

Wasted? “Fifty bucks,” I clarify. “Which is a lot. For me.”

“Fifty bucks, twenty bucks, it’s not that big a difference.”

“It’s big to me. And a start.”

“A start to what?”

“Owning a business.”

“A cake business?” She presses a hand to her chest. “No. We talked about this. For one, you don’t know the first thing about business. You need math and organization for that, two skills you’re lacking.”

“I can help her with that,” Alexandre interjects. Bless his heart, but can he just stay out of it? I glare at him. Alexandre goes back to sweeping. My mother stares at him like she just realized he was here.

“Mom, I’ve already learned a lot.”

“This isn’t learning. This is slaving away at a time when you should be focused on school. Making a holy mess of my kitchen so someone can avoid paying real money at a real bakery is not learning.”

Ouch. Thanks so much for that.

“I’m sorry, Rose, but I made myself very clear last week. No cake sketches lying around, no butter thawing on the counter, no grease in my sink, no baking, decorating, nothing. And yet, you haven’t kept your end of the bargain.”

“What do you have against baking?” That’s all I want to know.

She stops her fuming to stare at me.

“It’s just baking. It’s fun.” I shrug.

“Will fun pay the bills? Will fun get you through college?”

“It’s better than stripping,” I point out.

Sabrina and Alex drop their heads. I am doomed. Finished. Rose was a nice girl and we loved her while she was here.

My mother cranes her neck, and I know she’s summoning her inner velociraptor. “Is that supposed to be funny? Are you being smart with me right now?”

“I’m just—what if I don’t want to go to college?” There. I said it.

Her jaw drops. I’ve just uttered her worst nightmare. “Great. So I’m paying college fund fees for a daughter not interested in pursuing a decent career. Just great.”

“I never said that. I said, what if.”

Okay, I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe I’m not college material. Maybe, because I have this pretty decent culinary talent, I can start capitalizing on it right after high school or go to a pastry arts program. Is that such a bad thing? It’ll save her a ton of money, and I’d be doing something I love.

I didn’t mean to open this can of worms, especially with my friends cowering in the corner. I feel bad that they’re just standing there. “It was just a hypothetical question. Sorry I went against your word.”

She picks up her purse and heads to the hallway. There she pauses. When she looks back at me with hard anger in her eyes, I know the jig is up. “Here’s what you’re going to do…”

Ugh, here we go.

“You’re going to finish cleaning. Then, you’re going to work on your math project. Then, you’re going to make me a list of three other interests that don’t involve domestic skills, interests that might actually provide you with a reliable income in the future, so you won’t need to depend on anyone whenever the economy decides to tank. Got it?”

“Mom—”

“And then, you’re going to take all this baking…stuff.” Her eyes rake across the kitchen. “And you’re going to get it out of the house.”

“No.”

“No? I’m sorry, what? Rose Zapata, you’ve made enough cakes. It’s time to focus on school, or so help me…”

“Mom—”

“Gone. All of it. No more orders. Your schoolwork is all that matters.”

“I can’t! I have another order for next Sunday!”

“Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? Return the money.”

“Mom, please! It’s not just about the money. They won’t have enough time to find another baker who does the kind of stuff I do. Not for the same cost.”

“I fail to see how that’s my problem, Rose. My only concern is you and your future. I want it gone. I don’t care where you put it. Sell it for all I care.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I can’t say anything, can’t defend myself, can’t anything. I feel like Ariel when King Triton blows up her grotto. Why can’t she get it that I love baking? Doesn’t she want me to be happy?

“You just want me to be miserable like you.” My words shoot out of my mouth like darts—foop, foop, foop. I hear Sabrina gasp.

Maybe, I almost hear my mother think, her impeccably painted cat eyes studying me.

“I want it all gone by dinner time,” LM says, ignoring my question. Then, as if she might actually be a human mother with a fleshy heart beating inside her ribcage, she adds, “I’m sorry. I know you hate me now, but you’ll thank me later.” She disappears down the hall, heel clicks punctuating her departure.

I hang my head. For a moment, I can’t breathe. Then, the tears spill over.

“Man. Talk about a bad day at work.” Sabrina hands me a napkin.

“Why does she get like that?” Alex rests his hand on my shoulder. “It’s just a cake.”

The million-dollar question. “She doesn’t like messes.” But even I know there has to be more.

“But this wasn’t even, like, your biggest mess. I’ve seen bigger.” Sabrina plays with my hair. Of course, it has nothing to do with messes. It has to do with her will against mine. About fitting me into her mold. About turning me into her.

Well, I’m not her. I’m me. And that’s just how it is.

Sabrina and Alex go back to helping me clean. I’m grateful to have them with me. Together, we make the kitchen sparkle and shine. As if I was never here at all.

On Papa’s doorstep, I stand surrounded by boxes of all my baking equipment. My grandfather is seventy-nine and lives in a tiny townhouse my mother found for him after Nana died. He washes the same plate and cup every day and makes lentil soup every Thursday. On Fridays, he calls to see if I want to come over and have leftovers. I always wonder why not on Thursdays when he actually makes the soup.

I wave at Sabrina and her mom in their car. Sabrina gives me that sad smile, lips pressed together, the sympathetic one. I ring the doorbell again. “Hello?”

A pair of slippers shuffles toward the door. “Put another nickel in…”

“The nickelodeon,” I mumble the secret password then wave to Sabrina’s mom, so she can drive off.

Two locks come undone, and the door opens. Half bald, wearing workout shorts, a white undershirt, and flip-flops, Papa stares at me. “You’re a mess. All that crap coming in here?”

I’m the mess?

The smell of lentil soup, his concerned face, and the framed photo of him and my grandmother on the wall behind him make my heart ache. Black and white, glamorous Hollywood couple. It makes me smile with nostalgia every time I see it. Except now. I fall into his arms and start crying.

“There, there.” He pats me on the back. “The evil witch.”

It takes me a whole minute before I can gather enough words. “She’s not evil, Papa,” I sniffle. “She just doesn’t like messes.”

“Don’t defend her, Rose. I know my daughter.” He takes out a handkerchief and wipes my nose. “You’re welcome to bake here, pumpkin.”

“I can?” Waves of relief wash over me.

“Can’t stop someone from doing what they love.” He sighs, heavy and long, like an air mattress with a small hole in it. “Come on. Let’s get all these boxes in the house.”

I love my grandpa.

Papa used to be a classic alpha male from back in the day, the kind of man who single-handedly made all the household money, just so my grandmother could stay home and raise the kids. I say used to be, because ever since Nana died, he’s a whole new person. My mother reminds me every day how their way of life is “no longer relevant in today’s world,” and “it’s not good for us modern women.”

Correct me if I’m wrong, but Nana must’ve been in heaven having a husband who could pay the bills by himself. That way, she could take care of the house, kids, and anything else she wanted to do. What’s so terrible about that? That’s serious jackpot.

According to my mom, though—everything. “That type of marriage creates a dynamic where wives feel helpless without men. Then men feel they can rule women. Because of that, we all need to work, if only to preserve our dignity.”

Pardon mon français, Lovely Mother, mais that sucks!

I sit at his kitchen table, staring at my bowl, thankful that he doesn’t ask a million questions. Shunned. Evicted. From my own kitchen. Papa says I can bake here, but how will I get away with it every weekend without LM finding out?

Through the window and across the backyard is a nice view of the clubhouse and pool with a few old people sitting around it. “That’s the new pool, huh? Maybe you could go swimming every day,” I suggest.

“I do.” Papa ladles soup into my avocado green bowl. “With Sheila every morning in her red bikini to greet me.”

I know this Sheila. She lives down the street. She gardens and rocks an awesome body for an old lady. Even I can’t rock a bikini, and I’m only fifteen. But I don’t want to think about my grandfather having feelings for her. “So you swim with her? That’s good exercise.” I pick up my spoon.

“She’s good exercise alright.” He returns to the stove. “Gooood exercise.”

Ew. I burn my tongue. “Papa, please. It’s bad enough you’re the hot bachelor of the seniors’ community. I don’t need to hear details.”

He sits opposite me at the kitchen table and leans forward like someone might overhear us. “She says I look like Dirty Harry.”

“Papa, I mean it. I don’t need to hear that stuff. Really.”

“Dirty Harry, Rose. Clint Eastwood? You watch all those movies from my time. You should know him. Ahh… never mind.” Thin tendrils of curly steam rise from his bowl. Thoughtfully, he blows on it for a while. “When’s your mother coming to see me?”

“I don’t know. She had a closing today.” Lies. I just don’t want him to feel disappointed thinking my mom doesn’t care about him enough to visit. Honestly, though, I’m getting tired of covering for her.

“Too busy to visit the old man is what she is.”

I don’t deny it. I just go on pretending to love lentils. “Mmm.”

“Good, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

We eat in silence, fine by me. “Rosie, I’m sorry you’re having trouble with your mother. It was a matter of time, I guess.” He pours sweet tea into two glasses. “We didn’t raise her to be the way she is, but she is who she is.”

Understatement. She’s so different from us. It’s like Papa, Nana, and I are on one side of the Venn Diagram, and my mom is all alone on another.

“Why is she always so mad?”

He shrugs. “It’s everybody’s nature to want to be different from their parents, to be themselves. Even you. You don’t want to be anything like her, do you?”

Hell no. I shake my head.

“Right. Well, Katherine’s always considered herself the newer, more improved model of Nana. The problem is…” He stares into his soup as though the rest of his thought floats there.

“Is?”

His face reflects a different man. Not the loverboy of a moment ago, but a man who loved a woman once upon a time. “Nana was perfect the way she was.”

I watch his crinkly eyes and fuzzy eyebrows twitch. This man never, ever tried to dominate my grandma. How could my mom even suggest that?

“Do you still believe I’m like her?” It’s been eleven years since she died. I was four. I forget what Nana was like sometimes.

He snaps out of it and examines me. “Sure you are. Like her twin, with differences, of course. But Rose, you need to know something.” He dips his bread into the lentils. When he glances up again, he’s in listen-to-me mode. “Your grandma was a magical woman.”

That’s so cute. “Yes, I know, you keep telling me that.”

“No, really. She was a magical woman.”

“What?”

He leans in and whispers, “She had powers. Your grandmother was an enchantress.”

Oh-kay…

In fourth grade, my teacher made us watch a video of Edgar Allan Poe dramatizations. “The Tell-Tale Heart” had an actor playing the old man character who looked bat-shit crazy with a mad spark in his filmy gray eyes. That’s how Papa looks right now.

“Papa?” I lean into him. “Is it happening? Are you…you know…going senile?”

He chuckles. I love that he doesn’t take me seriously. LM would’ve lost it by now. “And a real knockout of an enchantress, too, I might add.” He winks his bad-boy eye at me.

He’s right. There’s a photo of Nana in his room where she’s leaning against a palm tree in the 60’s, wearing a sexy one-piece, and she was pretty hot. “Okay, but what do you mean she was an enchantress? You mean she cast a spell on you, a temptress of a woman, that sort of thing?”

“No. Yes! No.” He points his spoon at me. “She was the best damned baker anybody ever knew, that’s what she was. Her desserts made people beg for more. She could make folks fall in love just by baking for them.”

Aw, so adorable. “For a second there, I thought you meant she was really an enchantress, like having witch powers. Papa, you’re so funny.”

His eyes grow so big just then, I have to swallow back my laughter. He goes past Edgar Allan Poe crazy straight to The Conjuring crazy. “Laugh, Rose, but it’s true.”

I can’t help it, and let out a howl. Lentils fly up my nose.

“Go ahead, get it out.” He waits while I choke on food. “For me, it was easy. I was already in love with her. But Lois wouldn’t give Eddie the time of day until he brought her some cookies Nana sold him. They’ve been together ever since. And Douglas and Lillian? Doug would’ve been a bachelor his whole life had Lilly not given him a cake made by Nana the very day before he left for college. They’ve been married fifty-five years now!”

I have no clue who these people are. I grab a hold of my laughter and calm down, clearing my throat. “It’s probably just a coincidence,” I wheeze through my choking fit.

His gaze holds mine a long second, then he goes back to drinking his soup.

Uh, oh. I’ve hurt his feelings. I put down my spoon.

Fine. So, my grandmother was considered a matchmaker in her day, like a magical cupid who flew around shooting people through the heart. “Then that’s one way Nana and I were different. My cakes don’t make people fall in love,” I sigh. “If they did, Caleb would be totally in love with me. He’s eaten enough of it.”

“Who’s eaten enough of it?”

“Nobody.” Only the love of my life. He just doesn’t know it yet, because I can’t seem to make him notice me as anything beyond the little girl who’s always lived next door.

Papa studies me a long time, like he’s trying to figure out whether or not to say something. Finally, a certain peace comes over him. He’s decided. “Go inside my closet.”

“What?”

“Get up and go to my closet,” he repeats. “There’s a trunk in the corner, under the dry-cleaned suits. It’s brown. It has your Nana’s kitchen things. Baking pans, whisks, all that stuff. You may as well have them. Go.”

“For serious?” How cool is this? I thought those things were long gone! “I didn’t know you had her baking stuff, Papa. Why didn’t you give them to me before?”

“Believe me, I wanted to. But when we moved from the old house, your mother put it all in a pile to give away, and I rescued the damned stuff. She doesn’t know I hid it all. She didn’t want you to have it.”

“But why?”

He says nothing. Just stares straight ahead.

“Is Nana’s apron there? The one with the little cherries?”

He smiles faintly. “Yes.”

“Yay!”

“But Rose…”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me you won’t tell your mother. She’ll take it all away. She wasn’t a fan of your grandmother’s…” He searches his mind for the right word, but all he can come up with is, “baking.”

“Papa, please. You know I won’t. But what’s the big deal with me baking anyway?”

He leans back in his seat. “Just open the box.” I jump up without finishing my soup. But the moment I rush past him, he grips my arm then softens it into a gentle hand hold. “Not a word about this to anyone. Hear me? No one.”

Three

The second I run to his room, he snaps out of a trance. “Stay out of my middle drawer!”

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.

An adventure! In my grandpa’s closet! I reach his room and pause at the door. If the rest of his new townhouse is modern and sterile, Papa’s bedroom is the antithesis.

His furniture is the same dark wood bedroom set he and Nana had in the old house. The varnish has faded in spots. In others, hearts and initials are etched in. Pics of Nana and the family adorn the dressers—my great-grandparents, him and Nana as youngsters, pics of my mom and uncles as babies, some in black and white, some in old, faded color like real Instagram filters. Papa’s shoes are perfectly lined up along the wall. Tied to a full-standing mirror is a purple-yellow scarf.

The closet door is slightly open.

Inside, treasure awaits, and I’m Indiana Jones.

For a minute, this isn’t my grandfather’s bedroom. It’s a cave rife with dangerous traps, ones that, if I’m not careful where I step, certain death will overcome me. I take slow steps…closer…closer. I see my prize in my mind’s eye, a golden statuette, gleaming under a single, solitary beam of light.

I’m almost there.

I hop over stepping stones, reaching the closet and flicking on the light, knowing the entire closet’s contents might crumble at any moment if I’m not careful.

There it is—only it’s not a golden statuette. It’s a brown trunk, the kind with brass accents. I’ve never seen it before. I love it! I part his dry-cleaning hanging in the closet and kneel on the carpeting before the trunk. Why didn’t he tell me about this before? Vintage baking tools? I would’ve killed to have these before. He knows Santa never brought me that Easy-Bake Oven I asked for every year when I was little.

He knows!

I slide aside a brass button, and a little latch pops up. Slowly, I hoist up the trunk’s lid, trying to keep it from crashing down on my fingers. I almost expect a flood of golden light or evil apparitions to come fluttering out. The lid creaks when it reaches a certain point then holds itself up.

I peek inside.

Whoa—STUFF.

A brown paper bag contains discolored, cloth piping bags. In a rectangular plastic box with clear lid are a million metal piping tips—star tips, basket-weave tips, shell border tips, old school buttercream tools. Two old rolling pins, the wood suuuper smooth, like they’ve seen a lot of action in their lifetime. Cupcake trays, six muffins each, a small yellow box full of copper impression cookie cutters. Christmas tree shapes, Santa shapes, star shapes, you name it.

I pull it all out of the trunk, scattering stuff around me. But where’s the big ticket item? After a few more sturdy whisks, wooden spoons, heavy glass bowl, and seen-better-days spatulas, I find a neat package at the bottom of the trunk wrapped in crinkly yellow tissue paper. Gently, I pull it out, feeling its lightness.

I close my eyes, envisioning the apron before I even unwrap it.

Beige with light green ruffle trim and tiny embroidered cherries, front pocket divided into two sections with green stitching all around. I was four when I last saw this. I’ll never forget it—it was always eye-level with me.

Carefully, I unfold the tissue.

As soon as I lift up the edge, the little whisks and red cherries emblazoned in my memory come to life. Tears come. Suddenly, she wafts into my mind, like the sweet scent of banana streusel muffins. Nana stands at the counter, spooning batter into a tin. She doesn’t speak. Just smiles, as I wait for the goodies in the oven to finish baking, so I can sink my baby teeth into them.

It’s a dream.

I wipe my eyes and hold up the apron. Yep, this is the one. It even has the same yellow stain in the bottom right corner. A piece of my family’s history right here. I definitely see myself wearing this with my blond hair done just right—a 1940’s pinup girl. But I can’t do it. I mean, who am I to wear my grandmother’s legendary apron?

I run out of the closet but screech to a halt when I spot myself in the full-length mirror, holding the heirloom. Another photo of Nana—Gloria Lovelace Milkovich—stares at me, tucked into the inside edge where the wooden frame meets glass. My reflection and the photo meet in one place. In the pic, she’s wearing this very apron, smiling at me from the kitchen sink, like she knows I found it.

“Thanks, Nana. I’ll keep it safe.”

Papa’s voice startles me from the doorway. “Put it on, Gloria.”

I whip around.

“Rose,” he corrects with a laugh. “Put the apron on, Rose.”

I shrug. “I don’t know if I should. I feel like I should encase it in glass or something.”

“Don’t be silly.” He edges closer. “She would’ve wanted you to wear it. Go ahead, try it on.”

I lift the top straps, already tied together, up over my head. I must be taller than my grandmother was, because the chest area is a bit high. Keeping everything nice and straight, I draw the straps behind my back to make a perfect bow like she used to do. “I suck at this.”

My grandfather flip-flops behind me to help. “You suck at nothing.”

“How did she always get it so perfect?” I ask.

His nimble fingers work the straps. “I tied it for her.”

“You did?”

He pushes and pulls, making the perfect bow. It was him all those years? A tug and then, ta-da. “There.”

What I see astonishes me. I never thought of this before, but if I do my hair differently—holy wow—I do look just like her! Taller, thicker maybe, but in the face, we’re like twins.

“Amazing.” Papa stares at me, eyes glossy. “Now, say what I say. Make sure you repeat it just like this…”

I watch him in the mirror. “What am I going to say?”

“Through layered cakes and whipping cream, bring the Cakespell onto me.”

“What the heck?” I recoil like a wounded snake.

“Just repeat it: through layered cakes and whipping cream, bring the Cakespell onto me.”

“Cake spell? What the heck is that, Papa?”

“Not a cake spell…Cakespell…all together. Say it, Rose.”

“But it sounds too much like double, double, toil and trouble.”

Something in his face tells me I need to quit cracking jokes. This is serious stuff. These were Nana’s words while wearing Nana’s apron. “Nothing bad is going to happen. Just say it.”

“Fine.” I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Here goes nothing. “Through layered cakes and…what was it?” One eye opens at him.

“Whipping cream.”

“Whipping cream…”

“Bring the Cakespell onto me.”

“Bring the Cakespell onto me.” Nothing happens. No magic sparkles, no great gust of wind blowing through the house signaling the arrival of Nana’s so-called magic. Nothing.

“Again. All together.”

Clearing my throat, I prepare to repeat the words. I feel stupid. “Through layered cakes and whipping cream, bring the Cakespell onto me.” Papa’s eyes are big and expectant. I hate to disappoint him. “What’s supposed to happen?”

He gaze is lost, like his brain took a trip somewhere over the rainbow and has forgotten to come back.

“Papa? I’m still the same boring ol’ Rose. No magical goddess of sweet temptation here.”

His shoulders sag, and I feel terrible for letting him down. I hate to say it, but whatever magic my grandmother had, it’s not in me. It was inside of her. “I’m heading out for a walk. Keep saying it. Every time you put that apron on, repeat the phrase.”

“Okay.” I feel sad for him. Did he think I would somehow bring back Nana?

“Say it like you mean it. Through layered cakes and whipping cream, bring the Cakespell onto me. Got it?”

“Got it. It’s right here.” I point to my forehead. “In my noggin.”

“Good girl. Keep saying it. Through layered cakes and whipping cream…” He turns and leaves the bedroom. “Bring the Cakespell onto me.” A moment later, his keys jingle. He’s headed out the front door.

Is this dementia? God, I hope not. I can’t think of losing my grandfather so soon, but what the heck was that all about? Taking off the apron, I get ready to go home and face Lovely Mother, and that’s when I see it—sewn inside of the front pocket of Nana’s apron where nobody would see it—a pentagram.

On Sunday morning, I bike over to Papa’s to finish unpacking. He’s emptied two whole kitchen cabinets just for me. I have fun putting all of mine and Nana’s stuff exactly where I want it. My 6-quart mixer here, my 4.5-quart next to it, my tools over there. At home, LM never let me keep things on the counter in plain view.

But Papa doesn’t care. Because Papa is the BEST.

Nana’s apron hangs on the wall next to the key hook like a trophy on a shelf. I stare at it a while before heading over to it. I haven’t stopped thinking about the symbol sewn into it or what it could mean. I always thought a pentagram meant something evil, but when I looked it up online, everything I read said it’s an old pagan symbol meaning air, fire, water, earth, and spirit. The circle around the star means a force holding us all together.

But why did Nana have it?

Did Papa really mean it when he said she was a witch? Or did Nana sew that symbol inside her apron as an inside joke between her and her husband? Either way, it’s mine now, and I can’t wait to wear it again. In fact, this whole kitchen is now my secret lair and la-bora-tory—my Secret Operation Location!

Just try and stop me, Lovely Mother. Just try!

My face hurts from all the evil smiling.

Something catches my attention at the kitchen window. I rush the counter and look out. My grandfather, sweaty and dirty, lies flat on the grass next to the flower garden he’s been working on. Someone leans over him. I sprint out the side door into the hot sun toward him, throwing myself on the grass. “Papa! Are you okay?”

Oh, my God. Is he dead?

But then, his head lifts, and the person with him is a woman in her forties or fifties, and they’re both staring at me like I’m crazy. My heart jumps into my throat. “Is it the heat? What happened?” I grab his hand. Warm. Very warm.

“What’s wrong, Rose?” Papa asks, confused. This is terrible. Just terrible. And—wait. Why is he wearing lipstick?

“Nothing. I—” I register the looks on his and the woman’s faces, and they’re both shocked and amused. “I thought you were hurt. I…”

“Everything’s fine, honey,” the woman tells me. She has dirt across her forehead and a little on her nose, and she’s wearing gardening gloves. He’s fine. He did not faint in the heat.

“Rose, this is Yasmine. She helps me with the garden.” Yasmine is pretty for being middle-aged. Brown hair, brown eyes. Luminous smile.

“Helping you,” I repeat, panting. “With the garden.”

“Yes.” Papa exchanges a secretive smile with Yasmine. They turn into each other, suppressing a laugh. A good laugh, at my expense.

I get it now.

“Sorry.” I stand, brushing off my shorts. “I thought…wow…so…this is embarrassing.” And weird, to see him rolling in the hay, kissing someone other than my grandmother. I guess he’s completely moved on.

“It’s okay, Rose.” He holds back a chuckle.

I look around. At flowers and such. “I’ll leave you two to, uh, help each other.”

Papa and Yasmine both break into full laughter, then my grandfather gets to his knees to stand. I hold him by the arm, while he holds Yasmine by the arm too, and then we all sort of stand there looking at each other awkwardly, hands at our hips.

“I’m sorry, Rose. We should’ve waited ‘til you were gone,” Papa says.

“No…” I hold up a hand. “No need. Just carry on. I have to go home and finish my math project anyway.” I turn around to leave. Old people making out. So embarrassing.

“Rose, don’t.”

“It’s fine, Papa, seriously. I have to go anyway.” I smile, so he can see that, as awkward as this moment had been, I really was about to leave when he fake-collapsed on the lawn to snog his girlfriend.

“Are you all set up then?”

“Yup. I’ll be back next weekend to work on my next cake.” I wanted to ask him about the pentagram, but since he hasn’t mentioned it, I feel like it’s something I’m not supposed to know. Plus, I can’t now that Yasmine is with us.

“You’ve been practicing the thing I told you to practice, right?” Papa raises his furry eyebrows at me.

“Ah, yes. The thing.” The Cakespell chant. Through awkward looks and kissing Yasmine, my grandfather is embarrass-sing. That one. “Bye, nice meeting you,” I tell Papa’s gardening partner, wondering why, why, for the love of God, would she want to kiss my wrinkled grandfather?

I get the hell out of that place, run to my bike, and pedal as fast as my feet can take me home. Is this what I’ll have to deal with every time I come here? Man, the sacrifices. It almost makes me not want to bake at all.

Almost.

Four

Welcome to Coral Cove High—the place that babysits me when I’m not baking, where I spend my time not understanding math, not understanding science, and not understanding English.

So, what do I do? Sketch wedding cakes all day while teachers aren’t looking. That’s where the big money is, where I’ll one day be, when baby shower cakes are no longer my practicing ground. I’m finishing up a sketch of a topsy-turvy, four-tiered cake with a stenciled lattice design and old-school roses when the guy sitting next to me leans in to look at it. I cover it with my arms and drop my head over them.

“Hello, private,” I mutter.

He shrugs like he doesn’t care anyway.

“Your report on Beowulf is due Friday, ladies and gentlemen. Please do not leave it for Thursday night, as your lack of effort will be evident in your writing,” Mr. Sherman-Sperm-Man tells us, tucking an escaped corner of his nerdy shirt back into his jeans.

The bell rings, and we filter out of Sperm-Man’s class.

On the way to 3rd period Ge-sucketry, I swerve past Dr. O’Dell barking at her secretary who stares at her with sad mascara eyes. “Yes, I did, Ms. Gale. I asked you to call the region five times. I was hoping one of those times would’ve stuck.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll call right now.” Ms. Gale shuffles down the hall, shaking her head. I feel sorry for her. Dr. O’Dell must be having a crap-tastic day.

Moving past a flock of perfect-bodied dancers in slinky costume, Alexandre tries catching up to me. He doesn’t ogle the girls like other guys in the hallway do, which is quite refreshing. “There you are, mademoiselle. You running from a slew of zombies?”

“Who says ‘slew?’”

“Rose, a whole macrocosm of vocabulary words awaits you. Jesus, slow the hell down.”

“I’m not even walking fast.”

“But I’m carrying all this to Benton’s class.” He holds up a box of old keyboards, computer speakers, cables, and whatever else computer geeks like to carry around for no apparent reason.

“What’s it for?”

“Philanthropy. I’m donating it to her classroom then fixing up the school’s website after school. Hey, after that debacle at your house with your mom, are you still making my sister’s birthday cake this weekend? My mom thinks you are.”

“Yes, I found a loophole.”

“Awesome. Can I come by on Saturday to watch you? If you don’t mind, that is. I’ve always wanted to see how you make one of your cakes.”

“Alex, no offense, but I don’t like when people watch me in progress. I only like showing off the final product.” I feel bad saying no to him, but the creative process is messy. Things don’t look nice in the middle, only at the end.

“You let Sabrina watch.”

“Sabrina’s like a sister. I’ve known her since first grade.”

“I can be your sister. And you’ve known me since second grade. You hurt me, Rose. Really, you do.”

“Stop.” I shoulder-bump him.

“Your hair looks lovely, by the way,” he says.

This morning, I lifted my hair up on one side and stuck a white rose comb-thing there to keep it up. I smile at him. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Hard not to.” He gives me a shy smile before adjusting the box of stuff in his arms.

You know…sometimes, I get the impression that Alexandre actually like-likes me, but it can’t be. First off, we’ve never known him to like any girl in all these years. Second, he doesn’t talk like your typical boy, and third, he never stares at boobs, like every boy at this school does, so he can’t possibly be straight. I should probably ask him one day, but I honestly don’t care one way or another. To me, he’s just Alexandre.

Just then, who should be standing smack in our way, as we’re about to turn the corner? In front of everyone and not embarrassed in any way to be a senior talking to a sophomore? “Rosie! Cake girl…girl with cake.” He dazzles me with his white, perfect teeth and slouchy, cool eyes.

“Ugh,” Alexandre mutters.

“Hi, Caleb,” I breathe-say. Such golden-flecked eyes he has.

He taps my shoulder, TOUCHING ME. “You need me this weekend, right?”

I do very much need you, Caleb. “Yes,” I whisper.

Wendy Rivera, model senior (literally a model for a school uniform company), sidles up to Caleb, texting while she waits for him to be done talking to me. Alexandre smirks, waiting for the encounter to be over, too. Is it too much to ask for that I sometimes have Caleb to myself?

“Okay, good. So Sunday. What time?” Caleb asks, all normal, pretending he has no feelings for me whatsoever. Ha! What an actor.

“Twelve,” Alexandre cuts in. “The festivities begin at twelve.”

Caleb stares at Alex. “I’m taking the cake,” Caleb confirms, in case Alex is considering stealing his cake scraps.

“Yes. Yes, you are.” Alexandre rolls his eyes.

I’m not sure exactly what’s happening between these two, or why Caleb is reaching around my body, or leaning into me ever so suggestively, but I almost feel like they’re fighting over me.

“What are you doing?” I ask breathlessly.

“Your hands are full, so I’m helping you. Here you go.” He slides something into my back jeans’ pocket, like I did with him the other day at my house. I do believe we are having a moment. “Your money from Friday’s cake. Fifty bucks.”

Air rushes into my lungs. “Right. Thank you, uh…”

“Caleb,” Alexandre helps me.

“Caleb.”

“No problem.” My future husband smiles in that brotherly way he’s so good at faking. If only he would kiss me in front of everyone and declare what we both know to be true—that we are soul mates. Instead, he eyes Alexandre again, points two fingers at him, and in another swirl of Casablanca fog, Caleb is gone.

“He’s in love with me,” I say. “I knew he’d come around.”

“Neanderthal,” Alex mutters.

“I know, he’s great, isn’t he?”

“For a Neanderthal, you mean?”

“It’s tough because he can’t show it, being a senior and all. He can’t openly show his love for sophomores. You know how it is. Right?” I ask, but Alexandre has turned down another hallway and literally left the building. “Alex?”

“Rose? Where you going?”

“To Papa’s for a bit.” I pause at the door. “To say hi.”

“You’ve been over there to say hi a lot this last week. Everything okay?”

“I like hanging with him.” Must…escape.

She nods, and maybe I’m wrong, but she seems a little jealous. “That’s fine. I only wanted to tell you, I’m proud of you for the way you’ve been studying. You’re keeping your end of the bargain.”

There is no bargain. She forbade me from baking in this house ever again. How is that a bargain? “Thanks,” I say. It’s easier than arguing. “I mean, you were right. School comes first. I can always bake later?” Fake smile. Anything so she’ll let me go.

“Yes, that’s right.” She nods with a surprised look, like she can’t believe I’m being so mature. “Well, tell Papa I’ll be there soon. Been working on a listing that’s taking all my time.”

“I told him. No worries.” Now that I’ve moved Operation Bake Anyway into Papa’s place, it’s best if she never, ever comes to visit him. Especially since I’m using Nana’s baking stuff.

“Oh, and you look pretty today, Rose. By the way.” She smiles. “I like your thing.”

I touch my pinned-up hair wrapped in a pink bandana. I can’t wear Nana’s apron for the first time without officially rocking the vintage baker look, can I? “Thanks.” I smile back. I don’t know what she’s up to using kindness and all, but whatever it is, I refuse to fall for it.

Parking my bike outside the townhouse, I grab my portable speaker out of the basket and ring the doorbell. It’s hotter than holy hell, and my legs are killing me from all this biking. Need. Water. Open. Door. Papa. Please. I ring again. A moment later, his raspy voice scratches through the door. “Put the nickel in…”

“Waterrrrr,” I choke.

Two locks scrape open, and the smell of burning herbs hits me. Standing there is my alpha male grandfather, wearing tights. The kind little girls wear to ballet. Light blue tights, so his hairy legs can be seen underneath the nylon. He wears shorts over them and a T-shirt bearing an illustrated muscleman’s chest. My eyeballs feel pain.

“Come in. Kitchen’s all yours.” He rushes off without waiting for me.

“Uh…what are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m doing yoga.”

I take hesitant steps into the house, as I’m very, very afraid of what I’ll find this time. I see he’s not alone. There’s a girl in her early twenties, judging from her tight butt in gray yoga pants, stretching in downward dog right there on the rug. On a small table are two aromatherapy candles, as the sound of ocean waves plays from somewhere.

Papa assumes the same position next to the girl, but it takes him a minute, since he has to drop one knee down first, then the other knee, then position his hands slowly, then stick his feet out. The girl holds her position tightly the whole time. “Rose, say hi to Tiffany, my yoga instructor.”

Seriously? “Hey, uh…Tiffany.”

Tiffany peeks out from under her boobs. “Hi.” From her voice and face, I’m right. She’s in her twenties. Please Universe, I’m begging you, please do not let me find these two doing anything other than yoga. Please. If you have any sympathy for me at all, you will hear my prayer.

I absorb the scene one last time then enter the kitchen, pausing to shake off the visual horrors behind me. The kitchen radiates with light from my countertop KitchenAid mixers, gleaming and ready. Everything is perfect. Papa even took out the butter and eggs to thaw like I asked him to. Nana’s apron hangs on the wall like a proud badge of honor.

I draw in a deep breath.

I select my 1940’s music playlist. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it right. I pour myself a tall glass of water, down it in seconds, then refill it. I take out my two square pans, stacking them on the counter, imagining Alex’s sister’s birthday cake.

Grab your coat, and get your hat, Ella Fitzgerald sings through the speakers, leave your worries on the doorstep… That, dear Ella, is what I intend to do.

Nana’s rolling pin, whisks, and spatulas all come out. I set the oven to 350 and clasp my hands. Rose Zapata, Head Cake Diva, reporting for duty!

“You ready?” I ask the beige-green-red apron on the wall. So silly, talking to a garment. I pluck it off and slip it over my head. I’m about to tie it when I remember that Papa needs to do this part. Just as I’m about to ask him, I see him standing at the kitchen entrance.

He hobbles over. “Turn around.” I turn, and he pulls on the straps, tying a perfect bow, then salutes me. “Go do your thing, Miss Rosie. And don’t forget the words.” He raises his caterpillar eyebrows at me.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Once I hear his and Tiffany’s voices in the living room, I face the kitchen, imagining a million things—Caleb admiring my pinup hairdo and apron, my mother repenting her sins and begging forgiveness for her irrationality, a studio audience at the Food Network cheering my arrival onto the set…

Here goes nothing. “Through layered cakes and whipping cream…bring the Cakespell onto me,” I say slowly.

Nana sifts into my mind—how alike we are, how I’m trying to channel her today. How she loved this process like I do. How that love went into everything she ever made. How I need to do the same. Because that’s the only way to Do Life Right.

I start by peeling two, one-pound bricks of unsalted butter from their wrappers, throwing them into a mixer, adding two cups of sugar, and aerating it all together. Add one big band number from my speaker, one memory of the Alex-Caleb stare-down from school today, and we have ourselves another work-time daydream…

Early December—1941.

Hawaii.

Life is easy as pie. I rented out a corner of this bar’s kitchen to make a wedding cake for an American bride and groom stationed here in Pearl Harbor. Everything is going beautifully. The tiers are stacked, and I’m piping on a grape leaf design in white-over-white buttercream. The bride will cry tears of happiness when she sees her cake. I’m becoming quite the world-renowned cake artist.

All that’s left is the border.

Just then, out in the bar, there’s commotion. The sound of chairs scuffling on a wooden floor rips me out of my zone. Setting down my piping bag, I head to the door to take a peek out the circular window. Sergeant Caleb Anthony, a cutie in his uniform, yells at a private hoisting a chair over his head. “Put it down!” He looks ready to bite the head off another knife-wielding private. Sergeant Caleb turns to the knife guy and orders, “Put down that knife.”

The private hesitates but doesn’t relinquish the knife. Instead, he lunges toward my handsome sergeant, and Caleb whirls around, grabs a beer bottle, and smashes the end of it on the table’s edge. Holding up the jagged edge, he growls, “Okay, fatso, if it’s a killin’ you want…come on!”

“Fatso” is Alexandre, even though one can hardly call that bit of gut a belly. When Alexandre doesn’t move, Caleb warns, “Well, come on,” beckoning with his fingers.

Alexandre waits a long second. Is he going to retaliate? That would not be wise, for Sergeant Caleb is as agile as he is handsome. Finally, he reconsiders and slowly moves his arm to one side, tossing the knife to the ground. Satisfied, Caleb kicks it all the way to my kitchen door, and it stops at my sexy, open-toed heel.

Caleb sneers. “I told you, you won’t be delivering Rose’s cake today. That’s my job.”

Sergeant Caleb and Private Alexandre glare at each other, until one by one, the rest of the privates all return to their pre-bar-fight actions of downing beer and throwing darts.

I spin around, hand at my pounding heart. What must a girl do to keep these boys from killing each other over my cake scraps? Jeepers! There’s enough for everyone! I raise one perfectly-arched eyebrow. Though I do love a man in uniform willing to die for them.

Five

On Saturday, I let the layers of Alexandre’s sister’s cake rest.

People think baking is so easy, but there are mad skills involved. Decorating requires patience. Layers need to settle after baking. Steam needs to escape before the cake cools completely. Otherwise, you might cover them in fondant, and before you know it, butterflies are sagging into ponds of melted grass.

But now it’s Sunday and time for my favorite part—putting on all the final touches. Today’s cake is shaped like a gift box, complete with fondant ribbon and glittery gum-paste bow on top. I make a fondant card that reads: Happy 21st Birthday, Kristen.

Sabrina sits at her laptop, window-shopping on BettiePageClothing.com. “What about this?” She turns the screen around, showing me a sailor dress. I grimace. “Hmm. Okay, then what about this? It’s a pencil dress.”

“Would look better on an actual pencil,” I respond. “Don’t they have something that would look sexy on a, you know, full-figured gal?” I ask, painting the cake with shimmer dust, wishing I had a professional airbrush. It’s time to start saving for one.

“You’ll have to look for yourself. Are you planning on wearing these to school?”

“I’d like to, if no one will make fun of me.”

“Who cares?”

“I care. The last thing I need is people laughing at me, creating emotional scars to stay with me a lifetime.” I love Sabrina, but she has no clue what non-goddesses go through.

“Yes, but this is the aesthetic you wanted. Own it, sister!”

“Own it, sister?”

“Yes, you know, make it yours. Be confident.”

I drop a shoulder. “That’s easy for you to say. You have black hair, blue eyes, and perfect tatas. You’re Wonder Woman. I’m Princess Poundcake, with golden-brown hair, brown eyes, and thighs of butter.”

Sabs laughs. Because she knows it’s true. “Stop. What guy wouldn’t love a woman who bakes? My future husband will end up at your kitchen table while I’m eating whole foods. We need to bring out your inner goddess is all.”

“I’m good with that. Let’s keep it simple, for starters, okay?”

“I’m just saying…” She turns the screen around one more time to show me a hot red A-line that would make any girl of any size look holy hot in Havana. “This would make Caleb’s head turn. Eh?”

“Eh.”

If only. Yes, he seemed interested in me at school the other day, but I’m not sure if it was because of me or my cake. If only he would give me a clear sign, I’d know for sure that he likes me.

The doorbell rings. “Places, everybody!” Sabrina runs for the door.

“Places!” I lean on the counter in my pensive, arteeste mode.

The door opens. “Oh, hey, Caleb,” Sabrina says. She walks away from him, like he’s soooo boring. He closes the door himself.

I can tell he was hoping for a more celebrated welcome. I can also tell he brushed his hair and used gel. For moi? “Hey, cake girls.” He strolls into the kitchen toward us. “Cool place. I like all the old stuff. Is this the new headquarters?”

“S.O.L.,” I say, as butterflies crash against my stomach lining.

“Ish out of luck?” Caleb cocks his head.

“Secret Operation Location. For the O.B.A.”

“Okay, you’ve lost me.”

“Operation Bake Anyway. This is my grandfather’s house,” I explain.

“Is he here? I’ve never met Papa Zapata.”

“Milkovich. My mom’s dad. And no, he’s out.” Doing God knows what. With God knows who.

“Here’s some leftovers for you,” I say, pushing my blue plastic bowl toward him. Chocolate cake with chocolate hazelnut filling. Then I remember—Cakespell, Nana making people fall in love with her cake. Hmm…

So, if Caleb eats these scraps, will he fall for me? Is that how it works? Or only when I recite the spell?

“Wow, that looks amazing, Rosie, but actually, my stomach’s kind of hurting.” He holds his belly in that fake sick way. “I’m just going to go deliver it, if that’s okay.”

“Oh. Sure, of course.”

He said no to my cake. That’s a first. Maybe he doesn’t like chocolate? Well, if he’s not going to eat it, then I’ll have some. I reach for a piece…

Sabrina narrows her eyes at me. I immediately drop the piece of cake. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you reject Rose’s cake, Caleb. You must really be sick.”

“Yeah, my stomach’s like, whoa. Can you guys come with me just to make sure I don’t get a stomach cramp?”

The thought of Caleb getting sick while driving, and my cake sliding and breaking in the car shivers my timbers.

Sabrina eyes me hard. I eye her hard. We eye each other very fiercely.
“Rose?” Sabrina says in that tone. “Why don’t you go with Caleb?”

Me and Caleb alone in his car? I dry my sweaty hands on the dish towel hanging out of Nana’s apron pocket. “But I need to clean up this mess.”

Sabrina, using only brain waves and eyeball gymnastics, attempts to blow up my head. “I’ll clean up. You accompany Caleb. You know, to make sure the cake is okay?”

Caleb glances at me under his hair. He doesn’t seem to want me going with him from the way he’s wincing. “Uh,” I say.

“Great!” Sabrina pops up from her seat and grabs a sponge. “I’ll see you guys later. This kitchen will be spotless by the time you get back.”

“Then I guess I’m leaving,” I mutter. This is it. I’m about to ride with Caleb. In a car. Here I go.

Sabrina gives me a thumb’s up. Her work here is done.

Caleb silently walks to the dinette and lifts the cake. I really want him to try a piece of my chocolate hazelnut, but he’s already in motion carrying the thing off to his car. I hang the apron back on the hook, grabbing the emergency repair kit.

“Is the car’s A/C running?” I grab the bowl of scraps and follow him out.

“Cold as ice.”

Sabrina’s eyes question me again. Why are you taking the cake bowl?

Experiment, Sabs, experiment.

In the car, Caleb drives while I sit in the hatchback, babysitting the cake. It’s not tall and doesn’t need stabilizing, but I’m too nervous to bring myself to sit in the front seat with Caleb.

He’s quiet on the drive to Sammy’s Restaurant. I don’t know what to say. I guess I could start with sympathy. “You feeling okay?”

“Not really.”

I stare into the bowl of cake scraps I brought with me. How do I get him to eat those without begging? Maybe I should just wait until the next cake.

“Stomach aches can really suck,” I offer.

“Yeah. That and a few other things,” he mumbles. Maybe I’m way off, but it sounds like something is on his mind.

“Anything I can help you with?” I ask. “I’m actually a really good listener. You know. Since I barely talk.” I laugh, but my stomach hurts.

His eyes flash me in his rearview mirror. Something weighs on his mind. “It’s just—ah, you know what? Another time, Rosie.”

Another time? It’s just—ah? Is he trying to tell me he likes me? Because that would be so nerve-wracking and wondrous all at the same time.

We pull into the Sammy’s parking and stop at the door. I imagine that we’re delivering a real wedding cake together to a real wedding in a real delivery van.

“Whatever. Another time is good,” I sigh. “Don’t forget I have scraps back here. Cake scraps always make everybody feel better.” I hold up the bowl so he can see it in the mirror. My primitive instinct is to turn away from those piercing eyes. But this time, I tell myself to hold his stare…hold it…just another second more. Like Sabrina does with every guy she ever talks to.

If she can do it, so can I.

Caleb tears his gaze from the mirror and hops out of the car, rounding the back to pop open the hatchback. “Thanks, I’ll have some later.” He pulls the towel on which the cake sits, another trick I learned to keep from plunging your fingers into the side of the cake, ruining everything you worked hard for.

Then, because maybe Life doesn’t hate me after all, he considers the bowl by my side. “Actually, that does look good.”

I point to one particular chunk with buttercream slathered on it. “That’s a good one right there.” That’s it, dearie…bite into it…

He pinches the piece between his fingers, then time slows down, as he brings it forward and it lands inside his beautiful mouth. Yes!

I watch with fascination as his eyes open wide, like his taste buds are experiencing flavor fusion. “Wow. That was a good one.”

If all Papa said is true, tomorrow, Caleb will wake up dreaming about me. He’ll get ready for school thinking about me, maybe even come to my house to offer me a ride. He’ll see hearts everywhere with my face inside them. He’ll have fever—Rose Fever. And he’ll be texting me all day. Yes, he’ll be looking at the world through Rose-colored glasses.

And I do mean Rose.

Nothing happens the rest of the day. Just Caleb driving me back to Papa’s in near-silence, and Papa coming home tired and ready for bed early. While I’m putting clean cake pans away in the kitchen, he stops in the doorway.

“Hi?”

He blinks a few times. “You just looked like your grandmother for a moment.” He shakes it off and heads down the hall. “I’ll be in watching TV, Rosie. You can let yourself out whenever you leave.”

“You gave me the spare key, so I’m good.”

“Tell your mother I say hello.”

“Will do. Thanks, Papa. I love you.”

“Love you too, kiddo.”

At school the next day, the bell rings, and Sperm-Man waves a book in the air. “See you Wednesday, ladies and gentlemen. Do not forget your book reports on The Canterbury Tales. It was a fascinating read.”

Oy. About as fascinating as the way your zipper is always down, Mr. Sherman.

I enter the hallway and merge with the river of students for no more than two seconds when I spot Alexandre, swimming upstream like a trout. “Rose Marie Zapata.” His eyes bug out. “I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Your cake yesterday was delectable.”

“You waited until today to tell me this?” I’m fake upset, of course. “You know artists get sensitive if you don’t compliment us on our work right away. And thanks, I happened to love the way the gift box came out.”

“The gift box rocked! It was the sparkly bow on top that did it.”

I smile. When one artist recognizes another artist’s details, that’s when you know you’ve done a great job. “Thanks, Alex.”

“I took photos of the cake with my sister and a few of her feeding a piece to Kurt.”

“Who?”

“Her boyfriend. Rose, I don’t know what you put in that cake. Not only was everybody raving about it, but around dinner time, Kurt stands up, kneels in front of my sister, and asks her to marry him, right there at Sammy’s.”

I halt in the hallway, as students bump their backpacks into me. “Marry?”

He nods. “After only going out together for like four months. The guy didn’t even have a ring with him or anything. It was très spontanée. My mom is so pissed!”

“No way.”

Was it…the Cakespell? What will Papa say when he hears this?

“The whole party was a huge success. Thanks, Rosie. Everyone fell in love with it.” Alexandre has a great smile when he actually uses it. And great lips. And pretty brown eyes with unfairly long lashes for a blond person, and I would know.

He takes off in the opposite direction, and I lose orientation for a second. Which class am I headed to? All I can think about is that someone got engaged last night after eating my cake. After Papa said the Cakespell would do stuff like that. It can’t be. Can it?

A bright light beams on inside my head, and I know. Know in my heart that it happened because of my cake. The hilarity of it catches up to me, and I grab the next person who walks by, an unsuspecting girl with short pink hair. “IT WORKS!” I shake her arm and yell in her face.

Mortal fear reflects in her eyes.

“IT REALLY WORKS!”

Six

After school, I race over to Corner Bakery and text my mom to pick me up there, so I can get a snack and work on my book report. With my bagel and cream cheese, I find a seat and sit to process everything. Did Alex’s sister’s boyfriend have plans to propose before the party last night? If so, shouldn’t he have brought a ring with him? Was Nana’s Cakespell responsible?

Of course, the obvious answer to this is NO. It was just a coincidence. A happy coincidence. Maybe it felt right. Maybe the stars lined up. Maybe Sammy’s chips and salsa were extra yummy last night.

Any number of reasons could’ve led to a marriage proposal. A lot of people get engaged after only a few months of seeing each other. At age twenty-one. It’s nothing to make a big deal over.

…

Okay, it’s a big deal, and I have to talk to Papa.

I call him up, and he finally answers after the seventh ring. “Hello?”

“Papa! I have to ask you something.”

“Hello, Rose. How are you?”

“Does the Cakespell only work if I give somebody cake, or will it work on whoever eats the cake?”

“I’m fine as well, thank you for asking.”

Ugh. “How are you, Papa?”

“Why, I’m doing great, pumpkin. So glad you called.”

“Okay, I get it. Can we talk now?”

“Shoot.”

“I did. I asked you a question.”

“Well, what usually happened with your grandmother was, whoever received the baked goodies as a gift would fall for the person who gave it to them—the giver.”

“Is that the only way it works?”

“Mm, yes. Well, no. It worked best when there was physical transference, too. As in somebody passing the cake from hand-to-hand to the other person.”

“What about hand-to-mouth? Like feeding them?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

I didn’t feed Caleb. He just took it from the bowl. Maybe not enough time has gone by. But Alex’s sister did feed her boyfriend-fiancé some cake. “How long after they eat it does it start working?”

“Why are you asking, Rosie? Did it work on someone?”

“Papa, just—hurry, I need to know. Mom will be here any moment to pick me up.”

“Fine, fine, don’t get your knickers in a twist. It starts working anywhere from right away to twenty-four hours. But it didn’t always. We spent years of trial-and-error before figuring out what worked, what didn’t. Giving baked goods to someone was definitely one thing that did.”

“So, it has to be a gift. It can’t be just anybody eating from it?”

“What has to be a gift?” My mother shocks the poop out of me, swooping in from my right and taking a seat across the table with an air of rushed annoyance. She sits back against the booth cushion, out of breath, keys still in her hand. “Who are you talking to?”

“I have to go now. Talk to you later…uh…Sabrina,” I tell Papa and hang up. “Nobody.”

“Sabrina is nobody? What gift are you talking about?”

“A friend’s birthday coming up. We all have to bring her something, a little token or a gift.”

“A token is a gift. And what’s with the eating of the gift?” Her eyebrows raise. I wish she would go away, so I can call Papa back, but she’s not moving.

I laugh. “Oh! That’s so funny that you understood it that way. See, Alexandre was actually on the phone at the exact same time I was talking to Sabs, and that question was for him, not Sabs. Don’t worry. It was nothing.”

Her eyebrows scrunch together, debating whether or not to pursue this nonsense, and for once, she lets it go. “Rose, a bagel has about three thousand calories, and they all go to your waist.”

I seethed at her comment. “Mom, it’s whole wheat bread.”

“And cream cheese is death. They have bananas at the counter, you know.”

“I know. I really wanted a bagel.”

Her phone rings just then, thank God. “Katherine Milkovich,” she answers. “Oh, hiii, Mr. Salzedo. Yes, it’s a great time. Which of the listings were you interested in scheduling?” She flips open her iPad and taps the screen a few times with her manicured nail.

And poof, what little mother-daughter bonding time we were having is over, just like that.

Whew.

I never got to call Papa back. Between my Canterbury Tales report, a new Ge-sucketry project I need to start, and the watchful eye of LM, making sure I get it all done, I never get the chance.

Thursday night, I’m at his house again. Caleb has yet to exhibit signs of falling in love with me. Tomorrow is a pep rally, and the whole school will be celebrating in an overzealous revelry of purple and white. It’s been five days since I baked. My hands are itching to crack eggs.

Maybe I’ll try something else.

I leave my mother a peanut butter sandwich on the counter and take off for Papa’s. Tonight’s baking spree will be quick. Nothing fancy. A dozen cupcakes should do the trick. Just an experiment. Hopping on my bike, I take off in the waning light, and wow, my legs actually feel horse-strong.

When I arrive, I ring the doorbell, even though he gave me a key. I don’t feel right barging in, especially when I never know what I might find. Standing there with my grocery recycle bag, the one I planned on bringing the cupcakes back in, I hear Papa’s flip-flops shuffling toward the door. “Put another nickel in…”

“…the nickelodeon.”

He unlatches the top lock, middle lock, and opens. He’s wearing flip-flops with socks, shorts, undershirt, and ruffled hair. “The lentil soup isn’t ‘til tomorrow.”

“I didn’t come for soup. I need to use your kitchen. I won’t take long.” I give him an extra-cute begging face. “Please?”

He shakes his head. “Good God, you have it bad. You’re worse than your grandmother.” The door opens wide and I rush inside.

Something smells delicious, like spices and pumpkin. I lean in to him. “Are you wearing scented body cream?”

“Not exactly. The thing is…” He glances over his shoulder.

“There’s a thing?”

“Peter? Who is it?”

My whole body tenses. Someone’s here?

A moment later, a redhead I recognize comes to the door. Papa moves aside. Sheila, the bikini lady from the pool. Fully dressed, thank goodness. “Oh, Peter, is this your Rose?” Her eyes do this crinkly thing where they disappear when she flashes her pretty smile.

“That, she is. Rose, this is Sheila. Sheila, my talented and unpredictable granddaughter, Rose.”

“Hi.” I wave.

She has purple eye shadow and black eyeliner around honey brown eyes. Man, she’s even more gorgeous up close than by the pool. She could totally win Ms. Senior Citizen USA hands down.

“Unpredictable is a good trait to have.” She pats him lightly on the shoulder. “Keeps people on their toes. She’s gorgeous. Well, come on in, hon. I was just leaving.”

Ms. U.S.A. thinks I’m gorgeous?

In a way, I’m relieved she’s going.
Not because my grandfather can’t have company, especially a senior citizen hottie who apparently likes him, but I have to admit, I like the fact that she knows when it’s time to yield.

It’s Papa-Rosie time.

They smile at each other. She leans in to give him a kiss—whether on the cheek or on the lips, I don’t know—because I avert my gaze just in time. It lands on the movie star photo of my grandparents. A twinge of guilt knots my stomach. Nana has been gone eleven years now. Papa has the right to move on and be happy. But something about these two canoodling right in front of my grandparents’ famous photo feels weird to me.

“I’ll be in the kitchen.” I head off to the S.O.L. “Nice meeting you.”

“You too, sweetheart.” Sheila twiddles her fingers. “Your grandfather thinks the world of you.”

I smile. “The feeling is mutual.”

Papa ushers her out the door, his hand at the small of her back. They whisper things to each other. And I’m out of here. I sashay over to Nana’s apron and slip it on, pulling the straps back, waiting for Papa to tie it. My fingertip runs over the little pentagram.

“Ready to bake, Nana?” I whisper.

1940’s music trumpets through my speakers. As soon as I hear the opening notes of “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” I know I was born in the wrong decade. I wish I could travel back to that era—the romance, the war, the simplicity, when women were women, and men were men.

“Shovel all the coal in, gotta keep it rollin’…woo woo…Chattanooga, there you are,” I sing while unwrapping butter and cracking eggs.

Papa enters the kitchen. “That song is from when I was a little boy. My mother used to sing it to me.”

“In Russian?”

“In English.” He strolls over to me. “Turn.”

I spin. He tugs, pulls, and tightens the straps. It reminds me of the time he got me ready for school when my mom went on her vacation attempt to save her and my father’s marriage, and I slept at his house for six days.

“Voilà.” He shoves his hands back into his pockets.

“Thank you.” Now that my apron is on, it’s time to get these babies baking. Butter, sugar, beat, aerate. I lean on the KitchenAid. Speaking of apron… “Papa?”

“Yup.”

“What is this inside here?” I pull open the apron, nervous to show him. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve ever subscribed to any religion. I think my father was Catholic, but he’s not in the picture, so we never belonged to anything.

Papa peers inside. “Ah, that’s Nana’s pentacle.”

“Pentacle or pentagram?”

“Same thing, pumpkin.”

“Why is it here?”

“I told you she was a witch.”

“So she was Wiccan?” I ask.

“Not exactly. Your grandmother wasn’t anything. She was her own person, dabbled in her own witchy arts.” He smiles. “Baking, sewing, anything that helped her focus her energies.”

“So it’s not an evil symbol? Please tell me I haven’t summoned any demons from Hell.”

“Rose, those are Christian concepts you’re talking about, and I just told you that Nana wasn’t religious. Spiritual, yes, but not religious.” Papa heads for the door. I’ve made him uncomfortable talking about these things. I don’t want him to stop talking to me, like my mother does, so I quickly change the subject.

“So…Sheila’s nice.”

“She is.” He smiles in a new way I can’t quite figure out, a cross between sad and surprised.

“But she’s no Nana, right?”

“No. But she’s pretty terrific.” He chuckles to himself then checks the faucet for drips. Is that it? Is that all he’s going to say? He heads out of the kitchen whistling. “Through layered cakes…”

“…and whipping cream…”

“…bring the Cakespell…”

“…onto me.”

“I’ll be on the computer.” He taps the wall.

“I’ll be here. When you hear the whistle blowin’ eight to the bar...then you know that Tennessee is not very far,” I sing. Man, nobody sings about trains anymore.

So there’s nothing to worry about then. My grandmother wasn’t some Celtic priestess who danced naked under the full moon wearing horns and flowers on her head. She just danced to the beat of her own drum. I could respect that.

And now I learn that Papa likes Sheila. And she likes him. I can tell. No need for cake magic there. Whereas Caleb and me…that’s a different story. Yes, he liked my scraps on Sunday, but the spell didn’t work. I need him to love the cupcakes I’m making now.

I add eggs and vanilla, sift the dry ingredients, then reach for the cocoa powder. Heck, sometimes, you have to use the good stuff. I open the pantry, pull out the Ghirardelli cocoa powder, and toss that in. Nice. Now we were talkin’. Caleb doesn’t stand a chance, and this next 1940’s song sends me into another daydream…

Halona Cove, Hawaii—1941.

The surf rolls in and crashes against the shore. The sea understands my feelings of forbidden love and longing, all because of Sergeant Caleb, who happens to be half-naked right now in really tight bathing shorts. What girl wouldn’t get restless in her one-piece halter bathing suit, playfully running from him?

He chases me, as I scamper down the beach, flailing my arms in that special way helpless girls know how to get just right. I laugh out loud. He collapses on the sand. I fall over him, and we kiss. Hard, full of passion, our lips smashing together, the way a woman should be kissed. At least in 1941 anyway.

I scramble to my feet and run back to the dunes, hoping he’ll follow. He understands the game and chases me. I fall onto the hot sand, my arms splaying out on either side of me, a gesture that says, my darling, I have lost all inhibitions.

He drops to his knees, then it’s all adoring gazes for this lucky gal, as he kisses me again and tastes of salt water, sun, and chocolate hazelnut cake from our beach picnic.

“Oh, Caleb. I never knew it could be like this.” I am breathless. His gray gaze roves over my body which I make sure to position just right so it looks like I fell this way haphazardly. “Nobody ever kissed me the way you do.”

“Nobody?”

“No. Nobody.”

I mean, yes, I’m a hot muffin, and men are lining up at my kitchen for goodies, so understandably, there’s doubt behind his eyes. But it’s the truth. Nobody has ever kissed me (come to think about it). Well, there was that one kid, Omar, in seventh grade, who tried stuffing his tongue down my throat in front of my locker, all because I told him he was cute, but other than that—nobody.

So when a shirtless, soaking wet military man with strong biceps and tanned shoulders wants to pin you in the sand and play tongue twister with you, you’d be stupid to try to run.

The violins crescendo. “I love you, Caleb. From here to eternity.”

“I love you, Rose. And your cupcakes.” He touches my lips with the tip of his finger. I pretend to bite it. Ah, yes, cupcakes. Of course.

How could I forget the cupcakes.

Baked with love and laced with Rose magic. Not that anybody ever needs to know that secret. Especially Caleb. After all, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And if that means resorting to supernatural means just to get this love thing off the ground, so be it.

Seven

It’s FRIDAY! Caleb gets my cupcakes today! It was the hugest mission to pack them, stack them inside a grocery bag, and hold them still as I biked home, so they wouldn’t slide off each other. But I did it! I did it! Then I hid them from Lovely Mother, and now they’ve made it to school.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

After homeroom, I spot Caleb down East Hallway talking to other band people. I’ve never actually seen Caleb play guitar, but he looks pretty darn hot carrying his case over his shoulder every day. Last night, I almost made little purple guitars to top the cupcakes, but it seemed like overkill, so I doused the swirly tops with purple glitter instead.

I blend against the wall and wait.

I feel like every person coming down the hall knows what’s in my bag. You’re giving Caleb Anthony cupcakes because you loooovvve him, aren’t you? Tera Davids seems to think this as she breezes past. You think Caleb is going to fall for you, a fat mute sophomore? Get real, Ulysses suggests with his blasé gaze.

I spot Caleb on the opposite side of the hall chatting with someone. My heart does a back flip. He knows so many seniors, so many of the popular kids, yet he talks to me too. He chooses to help me deliver cakes.

Caleb nods goodbye to his friends and heads my way.

This is it, give him the cupcakes, Rose. Easy peasy! Right then. Here we go…

I stride into traffic, about five paces in, when he stops by the Athletics Bulletin Board to talk to Wendy’s friend, Mika, whose dark complexion, honey eyes, and curvy tight body remind me that I’m a vessel of baby fat. My heart drops to my stomach. He seems to be getting something off his chest from the way he sighs and uses his hands. What’s he saying?

I can’t do this. I turn and march in the opposite direction.

“Move,” someone says in my face.

Jerk.

“Hello? You’re not transparent.” A familiar girl with long brown hair stops in front of me, glances at the cupcakes boxes, then circles me with a huff. Others bump into my bag without any consideration. Now I feel stupid for bringing these. I should just get in line behind the other hundred girls waiting to talk to Caleb.

So stupid. What am I doing? He’s a senior. I’m a sophomore. It’s one thing to save scraps for him and another to tell him I made a dozen glittered cupcakes just for him. Derp.

The bell is about to ring. If I don’t move now, I’ll be late to Spanish, and then Señora Fuentes would getto mucho upsetto. I duck into the first room on my right and wait against the wall. At first, there’s nobody here, but then Ms. Marietta walks in, Starbucks cup glued to her hand. Her other hand busily thumbs through her phone, so she doesn’t notice me. Sperm-Man enters too, heading for the fridge, but not before giving Ms. Marietta a heavy stare-down as she walks past him.

Gross.

Flipping up my hoodie, I tiptoe to the lounge table and set the bag of cupcakes down gently. Then I sneak back to the door. If anyone appreciates free food, it’s teachers. Sperm-Man is already sniffing them by the time I sneak out.

“Ooo, what have we got here? Cupcaaakkeeesss…” he mewls.

Should I leave them? An image of Sperm-Man handing me flowers after class makes me shudder. According to Papa, it’s okay, because I’m not gifting these to anyone in particular. I’m not feeding anyone from my hand either. I’m just leaving them behind.

In the hallway, Caleb has left, but Mika blasts past me with a satisfied grin on her face. In my mind, I hear Sabrina saying, “You know what? You don’t need those cupcakes to make Caleb fall in love with you. Just be yourself!” Well, I’m sorry, but with goddesses like Mika in the world, I need all the enchanted cupcakes I can get.

For the rest of the day, I can’t stop thinking about my cupcake fail. Why couldn’t I face Caleb? And what did he tell Mika to make her so smiley? She listened to him so intently while he seemed to pour his heart out. Was it the same thing he couldn’t tell me the other day? I hate that he felt comfortable enough telling Mika but not me.

I hate that I’m invisible.

The last bell rings. I shoot out of class, opting for a shortcut through the Language building. I have to get to the bus quickly to save a seat for Sabrina, since she’s coming home with me today, but there’s a mob of people blocking the hallway, making things difficult.

“Excuse me.” I gently push through. “Excuse me, please. Will be late for bus, move, please…”

One guy steps aside. “Who is it?” He’s not talking to me. He’s talking to the crowd all trying to peek through the door window to Sperm-Man’s room.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

A girl from the door mob lets out a shriek. She ducks when she almost gets caught snooping, then everyone else ducks, too. Once everybody has cleared the window, I’m the only one left standing, so unfortunately, I’m afforded a very clear, very disturbing view of Sperm-Man and—is that Ms. Marietta?—locked in a deep, extremely unprofessional display of kissiness.

What the?

I turn away. Augh! My eyeballs!

Snorts and giggles echo all around me. I can’t believe what I’ve just witnessed. Why would a hot-body sorority-girl like Ms. Marietta allow Sperm-Man’s lips to touch hers? Teachers kissing like hormonal high school students? WHAT is this world coming to?

“What the hell, man?” one guy says.

“I don’t know, bro, but he’s lucky,” his friend answers. They snap off a couple of pics of the two Literature educators. “What would make a fine woman like Marietta even look at Sperm-Man?”

“Dude.” They shake their heads.

A deep, sinking feeling settles in my stomach.

Stumbling out of the building, I catch another strange sight—security guard, Mr. Vasquez, and ladies’ volleyball coach, Ms. Frazier, deep in conversation, staring into each other’s eyes just a little too long, if you ask me. Finally, there’s Dr. O’Dell, in a great mood with her arm around Ms. Gale’s waist, best buds out by the flagpole, as if Dr. OD hadn’t just yelled at her earlier today.

There’s only one thing they’ve all had in common today. I know, because I’m the one who put them in the teacher’s lounge—they’ve all eaten my cupcakes.

On the ride home, I can’t speak. Sabrina tries getting me to talk but finally, she gives up and starts fiddling on her phone instead. At home, I’m about done with my Literature homework, when Sabs slams her binder closed and gives me that look. “Tell me what happened.”

“With what?”

“Don’t fool with me. I know when you’re keeping secrets.”

“I don’t have any—”

She purses her lips. “As if I don’t know you. As if I don’t recognize this shutting down process whereby you pretend that nothing is wrong, when in reality, your head is about to explode into a Jackson Pollock painting.”

“Geez.”

“Is it Caleb?”

“No. Sort of.”

“Rose?”

I glance at my open door. My mother hates closed doors, but guess what? I hate snooping mothers. “Hold that thought.” I get up and gently shut it.

“Oh, a door-closer. Go on.” Sabrina pulls up a chair.

I take a seat at my desk and face Sabrina, clasping my hands together. “Something’s happening. It’s about my cake.”

“Cake? Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.”

“So, two weeks ago, my grandfather gave me all my grandma’s baking things. You remember how I wondered where it’d all gone to?”

She narrows her eyes.

“He had the stuff all along, and now he’s given it to me. I own it all. I don’t know if my grandfather’s going crazy, or what, but he told me some weird things.”

“What kind of weird things?”

“Like whenever my grandmother used to bake for people, it would make them fall in love.”

Her whole face reflects a significant spike in interest. “How?”

“I don’t know. But supposedly, it works. He made me repeat this chant my grandma used to say, and now I’m supposed to say it anytime I bake or use her things or wear her apron.”

“You have the actual apron she wore?”

“Yes.”

“Whooaa. That’s so dope.”

I don’t tell her about the pentagram. Last thing I need is Sabrina judging me because I come from a family that practices some kitchen form of witchcraft.

“How does the chant go,” she asks, “or are you not supposed to use it now?”

I recite the lines word for word.

Her eyes bug out. “Wait, I get what’s happening. So that’s why you took that cake in the car the other day. The charm worked and now Caleb’s in love with you?”

“Not quite.”

Her shoulders deflate. “Caleb’s in love with Papa?” She winces.

“Sabs, other people are falling in love. Whoever eats my cake, or whoever gets my cake from someone else falls in love. Like Alexandre’s sister’s boyfriend asked her to marry him, and just today at school—”

“So wait…” Sabrina jumps off my bed and leans against my desk, shiny muscular legs stretched out in front of her. “You say a magic spell then people start falling head over heels with each other?”

“I didn’t believe it, but yes, seems like it. I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t know what to do? Rose, take advantage of this! That is seriously cool. You looked so sad on the bus, I thought something terrible had happened.”

“Something bad did happen. Sort of.” Is it hot in here, or is it me? I grab a folder and fan the crap out of myself. This is embarrassing, but I can tell Sabrina anything. “Today, I brought cupcakes to school that I’d made for Caleb. I thought I’d try the spell out on him, but then I saw him talking to Mika, and I completely wigged out.”

“Now that makes sense.”

“What does?”

“Mika’s sister’s friend, Lexi, told me during Math that Caleb mentioned wanting to ask someone out, but he wouldn’t tell her who. I thought you knew this, and that’s why you looked so upset.”

Of course, I knew nothing of this, not that it’s a surprise. It’s obviously Wendy Rivera he wants to ask out. Hollister has a poster of her face the size of a gymnasium in their store. Who wouldn’t want to date her? Then again, it could be Mika who’s gorgeous, too.

“Maybe it’s you!” Sab’s blue eyes light up her whole face, signature smile rendering me with a full case of low self-esteem.

“You are insane.” I scoff.

“Rose, you’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“Sabs, you are incredibly sweet and hopeful but certified crazy. I mean, I joke about him falling for me, but I’m not stupid. I know the truth. He barely knows I exist, if it weren’t for my cake.”

“Then you have to try the spell on him before he asks anyone else out.”

She’s right. I have to get to him before he gets to someone else.

“How does it work? Can anyone who eats it fall in love?” she asks.

“My grandfather says it has to be a gift. It can’t just be cake that’s lying around or someone served themselves a piece. So, the teachers who were all acting funny today must have brought the other a cupcake. You know how teachers bring other teachers food they saved from the lounge before it all disappears?”

“Um, not really,” Sabs says. “Look, we have to find out exactly how this spell stuff works.” She flits back to my bed and plops down with a bounce.

I have to admit I feel better now that someone else knows about this madness. And I agree—if I were to harness this Cakespell and make it work for me, I’ll have to pull Papa away from gardening, yoga, and the entire female population of Coral Cove for one minute to explain to me what the Cakespell entails once and for all. I’ll corner him tomorrow.

“In the meantime, whip up another batch of those cupcakes, stuff them with your grandma’s spell, and we’ll monitor Caleb closely to see what happens. It’s like science. Your mom would be proud.”

I snort. And she’s right. I have to run the experiment again.

“Is it hot in here?” I fan myself. This whole thing has flustered me more than usual.

There’s a knock at my door. “Rose? Open this instant.”

“Yikes. She can’t know about this,” I whisper. “My grandpa made me promise.”

Sabrina gives me two thumbs up and returns to reading her mythology book. I unlatch the door and step aside to let the air of disappointment that precedes my mother enter the room. “Why is your door closed?”

“No reason.”

“Are you doing homework?”

“What else would I be doing? I can’t bake.”

She grits her teeth. “Leave it open, so the air can circulate. Our A/C just broke, so I’ll need to fork over three thousand for a new unit in the next few days. This goes to show that cake will never pay for a new A/C unit. Only a college degree will do that.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep from listing all the creative jobs that don’t require college that can also be lucrative.

“Cake Boss makes a lot of money,” Sabrina offers. “You know, the guy with the TV show and all those cakes? You can tell from the scenes inside their mansions that he’s racking in the dough.” She laughs, but my mother’s not laughing. I press a fist to my mouth and wait.

Here it comes…

“Yes, Sabrina, but…” LM’s eyes twitch. She cranes her neck forward, one hand on her waist, the other gripping the door frame. “The Cake Boss is a man.” An uncomfortable silence permeates my room.

Sabrina swallows her dread.

“It’s a man’s world,” my mom adds. “And if my daughter wants to survive in it, she and you will have to accept that it’s going to be harder for your gender.”

Harder. But not impossible. Which only makes me want to succeed even more.

LM smirks, satisfied at her parting message. Then, she leaves while Sabs and I glumly exhale, exchanging looks of doom. Luckily, Alexandre’s incoming text breaks the tension:

Did you see?

See what?

Go to the school’s home page and look at what Dr. OD asked me to put up.

“Who is it?” Sabrina asks.

“Alex. He wants me to check something.” Sabrina hops to my side, and I log onto Coral Cove’s website, immediately spotting the new uploaded photo of a handwritten note that reads:

Dear Staff and Students,

We are looking for the baker of the BEST cupcakes we ever had! They were left in the teacher’s lounge this morning. If this is you, please come by my office on Monday, so we can personally thank you! Have a great weekend!

- Dr. O’Dell & Staff

“Oh, my God,” Sabrina gapes at me. “Rose, even the principal loves your cupcakes! Holy crap, girl!”

I text Alex:

WHOA.

Hmm, who could be dropping off
orgasmic cupcakes at school?

That wouldn’t be YOU, would it?

Maybe.

Of course it is. Now read the

3rd comment under the photo.

Comments? How very GeekBoi of Alexandre to include this capability on our formerly dinky school website. I scan down to the 3rd comment from Wendy Rivera:

WendyR:     I guarantee their not the best. mine are.

Oh reeeealllly? Under that, a multitude of comments makes my stomach flip:

Spzt517: “mine are” Oooooo a fight!!!

GeoFYEAH:     Hahaha! FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!!!!

BlueBZ:    Did you guys see spermman and marietta sucking face after school?

MonkeyGrrl:    I saw a girl with cupcakes this morning

GeoFYEAH:    We should have a contest to see whos the best baker, Wendy or Mystery Cupcake Baker!!

AleXX510: There is only one.

GeoFYEAH:    Who was it you saw MonkeyGrrl?

MonkeyGrrl:    I don’t know her name but she’s chubby

And the last one:

DR OD:    GREAT IDEA, ALL OF YOU! We’ll be holding a contest soon! Details forthcoming!

I tear my gaze away from the screen. Chubby? Ugh. That was the only descriptor MonkeyGrrl could come up with? Not pretty blond hair, not sassy smile?

Sabrina stares at me, smile bursting at the corner of her lips.

“What?” I ask.

“That was you. You dropped off cupcakes today. It’s you Dr. OD is looking for.”

“No, I never said I dropped off cupcakes.”

“Um, yes, you did.”

“Well, forget everything I told you. You know I never get called to the principal’s office.”

“You’re getting called now. She wants to meet you. And after you win that contest. Everybody will know your name, Rose. Everyone! And Alexandre’s right.”

“About?”

“Didn’t you see what he wrote? He’s AleXX510. He said, ‘There is only one.’”

“So?”

“So, you’ve got this. You’re going to be famous, missy.”

Eight

Just my luck that Sabrina was there to see that, because the rest of the afternoon, she’s all, “You could totally win, Rose. You HAVE to show that Wendy chick who’s boss!” And even more stomach-clenching, “This is your chance to show everyone what you can do!”

I love Sabrina’s enthusiasm when supporting me, but she needs to cut it out. I can’t go before the whole school to do anything. I’m nervous enough as is. I tell her so, but she gets annoyed with me. Too bad. I have my vision about how the world will find out about my skills, and it’s this—

My new cake shop will be all pink with brown and white accents inside. My new wooden floors will be freshly installed, and Sabrina and Alexandre will help me set up the last of my display cases, full of the most delicious variety of cupcakes the world has ever seen. The doors will be closed, and we will look at each other with sparkles in our eyes. Finally, the clock will strike 9 AM, and it will be time to let the world into…my brand new bakery.

Until that day arrives, I work in seclusion.

No cupcakes contest for me.

On Saturday, I’m back at the Secret Operation Location, not only because I want to try a new peanut butter and chocolate cake recipe I came up with, but because the Devil from Hell Itself is at my mom’s house, thanks to the broken A/C unit.

“These units nowadays break at the drop of a hat,” Papa says from his cold kitchen. “They don’t build anything to last anymore.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mom sweat so much.” I make the mistake of glancing at him and noticing that today he is wearing purple tights, shorts, and a tank top that shows off his flabby arms. I force my eyes back on the eggs I’m cracking.

“I don’t think I’ve seen your mom…period.” He moves the toaster oven and bread basket back to where he likes them on his countertop. “Hopefully, I’ll get to see her before I leave this planet.”

“Papa, don’t say things like that.”

“Why? It’s true. We all check out of Hotel California.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry. I forget you’re young and impressionable.”

“Can you tie my bow, please?” I hold my apron straps out for him. “Where did you come from just now anyway? You look sporty.”

He scuttles behind me to swiftly tie my bow. “Zumba.”

I whirl around. “Excuse me?”

Pressing a hand flat to his stomach and another one in the air, my grandfather…salsas. “Sí señorita.”

“Let me guess. So you can check out the hot girls.”

“So they can check out me. Bored housewives need eye candy too.” He chuckles.

“Right.” Why am I not surprised? I pry off the mental image of my grandfather twerking to the delight of sweaty women. “Papa, can you sit down a minute? I have to ask you a few things.”

“Alrighty.” He sits, and despite his youthful fervor a moment ago, collapses into his chair, laying his head on his arm. “Oof, I’m tired.”

I pause the baking spree to sit opposite my grandpa, lowering Billie Holiday’s pained croon for a minute. “Papa?”

“Rose?”

We engage in an eyebrow war. “I have Cakespell questions.”

He inhales sharply and releases it yoga-like. “I can’t talk about this.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s supposed to be a secret.”

“But it’s not anymore. You already told me about it, and now I have to understand this power you gave me.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yes, someone is getting married, and just yesterday, the teachers were all crushing on each other.”

He smacks the table. “I knew it! What does crushing mean?”

“They like each other.”

“Ha! You have it, Rose. You have the gift. It’ll be easier if we just go over the rules, then if you still have questions, you can ask them after, and then—”

“Wait, what? You didn’t tell me there were rules. What rules, Papa?”

“Why tell you if there was no reason to?” He shrugs. “We weren’t sure you had the talent, but now we know. It’s inside you. Not exactly rules. I mean, we did spend forty years noticing patterns, not that they always worked, but here’s what we observed during that time. Let’s call it a manifesto.” He sits up straight and folds his hands.

“Okay…” I sit up straight and fold my hands, too.

“Number one—”

“Hold on!” I pluck a pen and grab a napkin, ready to write. “Shouldn’t you and Nana have written these down or something?”

“They’re all here.” He points to his head.

“Yeah, but…”

Papa clasps his hands together on the table. “Number one—if they try giving your cake to someone who’s already in love with someone else, it doesn’t work. There’s no use trying to break up a couple in love. It’s just immoral. And impossible.”

And casting love spells isn’t? “Good to know. What else?”

“Two—the closer in proximity they are, the better. Nana’s cousin tried shipping a box of cookies to Mick Jagger once, but he never did come begging for her hand in marriage, and neither did his manager.”

“What about his roadies?” I raise my eyebrow.

“You are a quick one, Rose. A story for another day. Next…”

I snort-laugh. “Okay, so celebrities and long distance loves are out of the question. And the closer they are to you, the better chance you have of the spell working.”

“Correct-a-mundo. Number three—the baker cannot be the giver.”

I stare at the mixing bowl containing the batter I’ve started for Caleb. “Are you serious?”

“Damn, I should’ve told you before.” He snaps his fingers in quick succession. “Didn’t think of it. Well, it didn’t work for Nana. Then again, she was already in love with me, and who could blame her?”

“I can’t make the Cakespell work for me?”

“At least I don’t think she ever tried it on anyone else.”

He’s not listening. He’s reviewing his life while I sit here devastated that I can’t make magic happen for myself.

I want to reach out and touch his face but lay my hand on top of his instead. “Of course Nana didn’t try it on anyone else but you, Papa. She already had the perfect man. You don’t regret anything, do you?”

He thinks a moment, eyelids batting. “No.”

“See?”

“Listen to me, Rose. The thing is, you want someone to fall in love with you for who you are, not because you gave them cake. Spellwork is fun for others, temporary fun, but not you. Remember that—not you.”

“Temporary fun?”

“Yes, Cakespell gets the ball rolling. That’s it. Like Cupid’s arrow gets the attention of the recipient. But you have to do the rest. Nothing lasts forever. The rest is up to the couple.”

I hear what he’s saying, I just can’t believe that I can’t use it myself. There goes my experimentation with Caleb. This explains why he hasn’t fallen for me. “So you’re telling me that everyone else gets to use the spell except me. That’s not fair.”

He flips up his hands. “It’s the curse of the matchmaker.”

This sucks. I don’t want this power anymore.

He must see the devastation on my face, because he says, “Rose, there’s nothing to stop the person you’ve got your sights on from giving the cake to you.” He winks. “Got it?”

Ohhh….. “Got it.” I smile.

“Number…what number are we on?”

“Four.”

“Five! Pay attention, Rose. Whoever gives your cake away only has one shot.” He holds up his finger again. “One. They use their shot, it’s done, over. They can’t be a giver twice to the same person.”

“Good, or I’d be baking forever.”

He taps the table. “Like your mother was.”

I freeze my pencil point right on the paper and slowly lift my eyelids. “What?”

He stops tapping. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, you did. You said like my mother was. My mother baked?”

“I meant your grandmother.”

He’s lying, and I intend to get to the bottom of this. Maybe not this very second. After all, I know not to probe Papa too much for the same reason he doesn’t ask many questions of me. It’s mutual respect. But I will get back to that. I yank my narrowed glare away. “Go on.”

He clears his throat. “And finally. Rule six—there are no rules.”

I set my pencil down. Well, that was a complete waste of time. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Watch your language, young lady. The rules are subject to change whenever the Cakespell God-durned feels like it, that’s what I mean. I told you, Rose, sometimes things didn’t always work. Since even before Nana.”

“Before? This talent has been passed down even before Nana?”

“As far as I know, your great-grandmother was the original svakha.”

“The original what-ka?”

“Svakha, matchmaker. Your grandmother’s side of the family used this word to not use witch, so nobody would accuse them of evildoing. Of course, witchcraft is nothing more than focusing your energies to manifest a desired result, a lot like praying. But many people didn’t understand that at the time. Still don’t.”

“So I come from a line of svakhas?”

“Yes. Nana’s grandmother was a kitchen witch, a matchmaker. Her mother had it, and now you.”

“Papa? You’re skipping someone. What about my mother?” I drum the table with my fingertips.

He cringes, runs a hand through his hair, finishes with a finger whirl. “Let’s just say not everyone was born with the talent. Katherine found that out the hard way.”

I lean back, crossing my arms. “So she did bake. I knew it!” That’s why she sometimes understands the negative side of baking, like not making enough money, all the time spent cleaning, or customers not appreciating you. “Why didn’t anybody tell me this?”

“She’s not proud of it like you are. Oh, your mother baked alright. For a long time. But that’s not my story to tell. It’s hers.”

Nine

When your two best friends grab you by the arms and march you into the principal’s office, there’s not much you can do. That’s what Sabrina and Alexandre try to do when they push me up to Ms. Gale and proclaim they’ve captured the “cupcake girl.”

Ms. Gale tilts her head at me like observing an angry caged animal.

I huff and fold my arms over my chest.

She picks up her phone, mutters briefly, then hangs up again. “Excuse me,” she says, scooting past my so-called “friends.” Gesturing for me to follow her, she ushers me into Dr. O’Dell’s office where the white-lacquered 80’s furniture reminds me of just how long this woman has been principal.

Alexandre and Sabrina both smile at me, as I walk past them. I return the sentiment with a finger salute of my own.

“Good morning…” Dr. O’Dell swivels in her chair and glances at her Post-It note. “Rose Zapata.” She rises out of her chair to shake hands with me. She’s maybe seventy years old, six feet tall, and wears a khaki business suit with a shimmery blue shirt that’s too tight at the boobs and stomach, so a bunch of holes show in between the buttons. “Our resident baker! How exciting, how exciting. Sit down, please.”

There’s a ball in my throat. “I didn’t want to be known. My friends forced me.”

“That’s what friends are for, to help us overcome our fears. I want to tell you that I have been eating cupcakes a long time. A long time, Rose, and those were by far the tastiest ones I’ve ever had.” She gestures for me to sit down.

“Glad you enjoyed them.” I turn around to leave.

“Come back. Please, have a seat. We did enjoy them very much. Which is why we want youuuu to participaaate in our school’s baking contest!” Her hands form a little steeple.

Fine, I’ll sit. But I won’t talk.

“It’ll be great! There I was, wracking my brain for new fundraising ideas, when poof! Your cupcake appeared on my desk. I sank my teeth into that delicious treat and thought, ‘My goodness, do I have a great idea!’ A contest!” She smacks her forehead. “And I told Ms. Gale, ‘we’ll call it Battle of the Bakers!’ How do you like it?”

I hate it. I imagine the entire student body laughing at me, while I work to create magic under pressure. They’ll laugh and make fat jokes and no. “I don’t want to do it.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fantastic! Students baking for a chance to win…uh, something, I don’t know what yet…but it’ll be great! We’ll invite the whole school, community, the media—”

“I don’t want to do it.”

“We’ll take lots of photos, make a big event out of it. Everybody loves a bake sale!”

“Time out.” I make a T with my hands. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I don’t want to do this.”

Her shoulders droop. “Why ever not?”

“I just don’t. Those cupcakes were a total fluke. Don’t get me wrong, I might want to be famous one day, but right now—I can’t even look at myself in the mirror much less get the attention of the whole school, Dr. O’Dell. Besides, my mom doesn’t let me bake. I made those in secret.”

“Why doesn’t she let you bake?”

“It’s a long story.”

She sighs. “You don’t have to participate, I suppose. But it’s already decided. We’re moving forward with the fundraiser.” She sounds more like a school administrator now and less like a car salesman. “We need one for FTE week. October 12th. Attendance booster, so the school gets its allotted money.”

Ah. The truth always comes out. I feel so used.

“Will you do it? We’ll have a panel of judges, but take student votes, too.”

Which means popularity contest, and there’s no way I can ever win a popularity contest. “I don’t think so.”

“I see. So you’re going to let Wendy Rivera take what’s rightfully yours?” She eyes me in that way adults do when they want you to stop being a dumbass and start fighting for yourself.

Wendy Rivera’s brownies couldn’t pass for mulch chips. I bought one at an Art Club bake sale last year. Still, I don’t have time for—

“Hell, let’s throw in a cash reward too.” She smiles sneakily.

Cash? New airbrush?

“Rose?”

“I’m listening. How much?”

She opens her drawer and pulls out a piece of paper already written up that reads, Battle of the Bakers Entry Form. She turns it and sets it in front of me with a pen. “Let’s say a $250 AMEX card. I’ll find someone in the community to donate it. Come on, Rose. They really were delicious cupcakes. Say you’ll participate.”

It could be worse. I could be seated opposite LM telling me that domestic arts are dead, and my talents are a waste of time. At least someone wants me to bake. It would make Papa proud. It would piss LM off.

“You might just nab the attention of someone special.” Dr. O’Dell’s eyebrows do a little dance. “There’s always someone special.” She smiles.

Caleb might finally see me as more than a little girl. A woman, a winner, a force to be reckoned with.

I pick up the pen.

Corner Bakery. I bring Sabrina and Alexandre with me this time. There are things to be said that cannot be said at home around LM’s bionic hearing. Sabrina and I discuss the ramifications of entering Battle of the Bakers, as she looks up a photo of Wendy Rivera to show Alexandre since he swears he’s never seen her before.

“How can you be the only guy on the planet who’s never seen her, Alex? She’s a model!” Sabrina shoves a photo of Wendy in his face. “This one! Her!”

Alex examines the pic. “She looks like an albatross.”

I giggle.

“Seriously?” Sabrina turns her phone back around to make sure they’re looking at the same girl. “She’s just tall. But you can’t deny that she’s pretty, though not as pretty as you, Rose.”

“Mmm hmm.” Alex nods my way. “But does anyone ever listen to me? Noooo…”

I smack his arm. “When did you ever say that? And who cares about looks anyway? This is a baking challenge.”

Alex whirls his laptop around. “Et voilà! How do you like it?” On the school’s homepage, replacing Dr. O’Dell’s message seeking the mystery delivery person is a photo of me with a caption that reads: FOUND, Mystery Cupcake Diva, Rose Zapata!

It’s a candid pic of me the day I wore my rose hair clip. Did Alexandre take that without me knowing? “You didn’t.”

“What, you don’t like it?” His eyebrows droop. “I love that pic.”

“I never approved that photo.”

“I know, that’s why I like it. You’re being yourself. Not posing or anything. What’s wrong, Rose?”

“Ugh.” I drop my head into my hands. “I’m not ready for this. You know how I feel about public attention.” I cover my face. Already starting to feel the pressure.

“Too late. Dr. O’Dell asked me to do it. Keep reading.”

I scroll down and read a whole paragraph about myself. How I’m in 10th grade, a classic movie and music buff, how I taught myself to bake and decorate entirely from watching YouTube videos. And lastly, how my cakes have inspired a marriage proposal and the “love is in the air” effect here among the teachers last week. Am I the new Cupid? It ends with:

To see how Rose can help you, email her at rosiethebaker@gmail.com.

“The new Cupid?” I cry. “Rosie, the Baker? Oh my God, Alex, what are you doing?”

“Like Rosie, the Riveter? You like all that 40’s World War II stuff. Come on, it’s awesome. N’est-ce pas?”

“Well, yes-pas, but we don’t actually have proof that my cake had anything to do with those occurrences. It’s just a coincidence.” Even though I’m pretty sure my family’s magical legacy had something to do with it.

“Nobody has to know that. Though it’d be mysterious, wouldn’t it?”

Oh, he has noo idea.

“If you don’t like Rosie the Baker, I can change it.”

“No, I like it, actually. It’s just that nobody has ever gone through so much for me before.” I look at my two amazing besties. “Thank you, guys. For believing in me.”

Sabrina bumps shoulders with me.

Alex keeps on typing, setting things up for me online. “I figured you’ll need your own email for cake business once people see this.”

Sabrina opens her tablet to BettiePageClothing.com and pulls up the red va-va-voom dress again. “We might need to get you this baby after all.”

Alex leans in to take a look. A blush creeps into his fair face.

I stare at the dress, its sexy scoop neckline and belted waist. I can so see myself wearing this with some spot-on makeup and one of my flower hair clips. I’ve even lost a few pounds from biking to Papa’s. Not much, but enough to almost convince myself that I can dress this way in public.

I stare at my friends as they work hard on my behalf. Every girl should be so lucky to have a team like this. I’m scared to disappoint them. I have to start believing in myself as much as they believe in me. “Let’s go all out,” I hear myself say.

The silence between us is kinetic, as they both stare.

“Meaning?” Sabrina turns up that sly smile of hers.

Alexandre eyes me hopefully.

“If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right. I’ll need a website, Insta, Facebook Fan Page, Tumblr, Pinterest…I’m going to have to tell Papa that I’m overtaking his whole kitchen, and—”

A pair of arms crush me. Sabrina’s long hair in my face smells like apples. “Rose, this is awesome. I’m so happy for you! Just say the word, and I’ll help you. I’ll even speak for you at all major appearances.”

“Sabs, it’s not like I’m getting my own TV show or anything.”

“Why not!” Sabrina screams and shakes our whole booth. An employee gives us a disgusted look. “You could make those YouTube videos now. That’s how it starts! Alex, you can make Rose a website, right?”

“I’m ten steps ahead of you.” He grins devilishly, tapping away at keys.

There’s no way I can do any of this without these two loveable goons. “Thanks, guys. But I’m still not talking or doing interviews for the school paper. Don’t even try, because I will leave a Rose-shaped dust cloud where I stand.”

Sabrina taps my hand with a pen. “I can do that for you, Rosie. I’ll be your spokesperson. You just bake.” Yes, just bake. Perfect.

“I’m good with that.” As long as it’s for public stuff. As for small battles, fights with Lovely Mother, talks with Caleb, I have to do the talking.

Sitting here, watching my friends get excited about me, it’s like the oven in my heart has been set to pre-heat, and all I have to do now is get baking and make an awesome creation out of myself.

Sabrina’s mom drops me off at home. I wave goodbye and walk through the door feeling loved and excited about the possibilities but also very alone. Starting an underground cake business when I live with The Cake Nazi? How is that going to work?

I also feel very warm.

The fans are still on in every room of the house. The A/C is still broken. When I close the door, I already hear her griping. “You have got to be kidding me. The last guy that came out here said he could do it for $2,700. What right do you have to charge me $4,000?”

If only she would try being nice to people, she might get anything she wants. It’s called karma. My mom’s anger problem might be related to what Papa said. He said witchcraft is just manipulating energy to get a desired result. I think my mom focuses so much on the negative, she only gets negative back.

I turn the corner and catch her talking to a guy a little older than her in his late forties maybe, in jeans and a buttoned-down shirt, holding a clipboard. He’s handsome for an old guy with salt and pepper hair and a kind face, and I immediately feel bad that he has to deal with my mother. “Mrs. Milkovich?”

“Ms. Milkovich.” She crosses her arms.

“I’m sorry, Mizzz Milkovich,” he corrects himself. I hold back a laugh. The guy sees me coming in and seems relieved to have someone else to look at besides my mother’s stern face. I wave a small wave.

LM follows his displaced gaze. “Rose, you’re home. Great, start your homework, please.”

“I already did it.”

“Then, find something to read.”

When she turns back to the poor A/C repairman, my eyes roll all the way up, to the back of my skull, and around again. I take a seat at the counter and pull out my phone to surf for more dresses. It’s an act, of course. I really just want to watch this fight.

“Ma’am, you’re in the realty business, so you can appreciate this,” the A/C guy says. “You could find a dozen companies to do it for cheaper, but they don’t guarantee their work. They won’t come when you next need them, and if they do, they’ll charge you $400 for a can of Freon. You’ll end up getting what you pay for. We guarantee a quality installation. This is Florida. You can’t skimp on A/C.”

Yes, one point for A/C guy!

My mother shifts to a new stance, sticking her hip out. She’s happy to rebut. “Mr….I’m sorry what was your name again?”

“Frank.”

“Mr. Frank…”

“Just Frank.” He smiles. As much as I’m sure he wishes this were an easy sale, I can also tell he’s taken by LM’s deceptive external beauty. Men always are. He probably finds her abrasiveness “cute” and “challenging.” Poor man.

LM sighs. Clearly, she prefers to use his last name to keep them on cold and formal terms, whereas using “Frank” forces the edge off her. Two points for Frank! “Frank,” she tries the name out, displeased by its taste, “you were recommended by the insurance company, or else I would most definitely be using my people. If you could somehow find it in your tiny heart to give me a better quote, or perhaps throw in some extra services, I might consider paying this exorbitant fee.”

Hmm, not bad, LM. One point for Team Evil.

He laughs off the “tiny heart” comment. A man not taking my mother seriously, because he believes she might only be cold and heartless on the outside. Three points for Frank! “Most certified places charge a thousand dollars more for this same unit, Mizzz Milkovich, and remember, your hoses all have leaks, which need replacing too, but I’ll talk it over with my supervisor. Perhaps we could throw in your first annual inspection?” Frank has a really cute smile.

Just one? How about a monthly inspection! Weekly, even! Come on, Frank, we could use your face around here more often.

But my mother is not convinced, and frankly, Frank, neither am I. Frank loses one point. “Just one inspection? You know, I’m a single mother working hard to raise a teenage daughter.”

Frank glances at me as though I’m a troublemaker. I wave.

“I don’t make a million dollars, I don’t get any support from her father, and I don’t need this.” She gestures to the door. His cue to get his cute butt moving. I’m sad that Frank has lost the battle. I’m also sad that I’ve been a burden on my mother.

“I’m sorry you feel this way, Mizzz Milkovich, but I understand. I’m a single parent of a teenager myself.” Oh? Handsome Frank is single? “Regardless, I’ll talk it over with my supervisor, and I’ll be in touch with you shortly. Have a great evening.” He heads for the door.

Frank, take me with you! We’re not all bad witches!

The door closes, and I induct him into the Rose Pity Hall of Fame along with Sabrina, Papa, and anyone else who’s ever known Katherine Milkovich. My mother says nothing the whole time he’s leaving. She even shuts the door quietly.

“Who needs that guy, huh?” I swivel back and forth on the counter stool. “Pfft, men! If I were you, I’d bounce on over to Home Depot, grab all the materials I need, and just do the installation myself. We’re perfectly capable women who don’t need guys around, right? Pfft, loser.”

She glares at me. “Be quiet.”

Oof. Too much.

I expect some baring of teeth, maybe even a growl or hiss, but that’s it. She seems faraway, broken, soft even. Every so often, my mother changes into a compassionate being for a few seconds. Maybe this is a good time to ask her about her baking days?

She slumps against the kitchen counter. Her boobs rise inside her low-cut top designed for deal-striking with the likes of clueless men like Frank. They fall with the release of her sigh. “Well, that didn’t go as I expected. Clearly, he knows nothing about business.”

Or maybe you should start using more than boobs to get people to like you.

I clear my throat, tap my fingers on the counter. “Speaking of business…a little bird told me you used to bake. Is that true?” I watch her face carefully. And her hands. In case she reaches for the steak knives.

Her gaze slowly rises. A dark shadow moves across her face like the eclipse of a beautiful, frosty moon. “Who told you that? Papa?” She says Papa like Papa might say Katherine.

“Maybe. Is it true?” I ask.

As she stands there contemplating, the real question forms at the back of my throat. More and more I’ve been talking back, saying what my heart needs to say to her. I let the question out, before I lose my nerve completely. “Do you know about Cakespell?”

Her eyes widen. Only a moment. But I see it. It comes and then it goes. Then, she narrows them again, and if I have any chance of her answering the baking question, it’s gone now. I ruined it.

She yanks open a drawer, and I think she’s going to take out that steak knife after all, but she only throws a stray spoon into the cutlery tray, and slams it shut again. “Never,” she says, her voice unruffled and icy. One perfect pink fingernail shakes, betraying her. “Mention that word again.”

Ten

Something is different at school today. I don’t want to say that people are noticing me, because they still walk by me as though I’m invisible. But every so often, someone’s eyes linger just a second longer, or someone else lets loose a flimsy smile. And just now—someone says, “Rosie, the Bakerrrrr,” as they pass by.

This goes on the rest of the day, until one girl actually stops me in the hall. She has reddish hair and brown eyes, but it’s her death grip on my arm that makes me really notice her. “Rosie, right?”

“Yeah?” Ow, that’s my decorating arm…

“Did you get my email?”

“No.”

“Please,” she shakes my arm, “I need you to read it and write me back okay? You can call me too, whatever, just please don’t forget. Please. Bobby, I’m Bobby.”

“Okay, I won’t.” I slide my arm slowly out of Bobby’s death grip.

“Thanks.” Her lips press into a sad smile, and her eyes reflect hope. What the heck was that about? She rushes away, skittish, checking down the cross hallways, then running past them. That had to be the most social interaction with a total stranger I’ve had in years.

How would she know my email? I barely even know my email, I never use—ohhhhhh. Never mind. Alexandre’s bio and new email address of mine he posted yesterday. I book it home before anybody else has the chance to claw my arm. Although I have to admit, that was kind of cool.

Huffing through the front door, I head for my room, turning on the fan and aiming it straight at my head. October 1st—a week later, and the A/C is still not fixed. I can’t imagine that my mother, Queen of Hair Excellence, likes the humidity that has taken permanent residence in our house. So that leaves only one reason it’s not fixed yet—no money.

I check the school website to find that Dr. O’Dell has announced the Battle of the Bakers date for October 26th at 7 PM. Already, there’s a ton of comments cheering for Wendy and a few lonely ones for me—one from Alex, one from Sabs, and a few from the teachers who ate my cupcakes.

I can’t shake the smidge of attention I got at school today, how people are starting to know me by name, how they know things about me. It’s making me cringe but feel like I have a superpower at the same time. Then I remember Bobby.

I text Alexandre.

What’s the username and password for my new email address again?

U: rosiethebaker
P: isawsum

Ha, ha. Thank you Webmaster, I reply. He sends a blushy happy face, lots of sparkles, and a thumb’s up.

So, here I am, logging into my very first business email account ever, rosiethebaker@gmail.com. And—holy baby Jesus—I HAVE FIFTY MILLION EMAILS! The subject lines say things like: “Rose you have to help me,” “Your in my English class,” “Can you make me a cake??” and “NEED A BIT OF YOUR MAGIC!!!”

That one makes me cringe.

Nobody knows about the Cakespell. Nobody but Sabrina, that is. And Papa. And apparently, LM. I read emails one by one. Someone from my Ge-sucketry class needs a birthday cake this Saturday. Someone else wants cupcakes for tomorrow night, and “how much because I only have $10.” Yeah, right! Mrs. Norman from World History wants to sample different flavors for a baby shower and wants to know if I can bring them to school on Friday.

All these orders for this upcoming weekend? They have to be kidding. How am I supposed to do this when I have a book report to write? I need order forms. I need someone to reply to everyone. Papa will kill me for overusing his kitchen, and my mother will flip the hell out if she finds out.

The scaredy cat in me wants to reply “I can’t” to everyone, but what kind of future businesswoman would I be if I did that? My brain feels like a wobbly clay vase spinning on a too-fast pottery wheel. I have to call in the troops.

I commit my very first act of business ownership—calling a meeting. I fire off a group text to Sabrina, Alexandre, and yes—Caleb. He’s my delivery man, isn’t he?

Tomorrow night at the SOL. Be there, or be fired!!!

You can’t fire a slave. (Sabrina)

I shant be late, m’lady! (Alexandre)

What’s SOL? (Caleb)

On Wednesday night, I park my bike and knock on the door to the Secret Operation Location. Papa’s feet shuffle again, as I down what’s left of my water bottle. “Put another nickel in…”

“I’m dying out here!” I gasp.

Two locks unlock, and the door opens. “You’re looking slimmer, Rose.”

“Am I?” I check my tree trunk legs, which do look firmer, or maybe that’s because they’re sweaty and shiny.

“Yes, indeed. Not that you need to, but it does accentuate this part.” He wraps his hands around my waist.

I withdraw, holding the water bottle close to me. “Papa, stop.”

He lets me in and closes the door. “Thank you is the correct response.”

“I…” Always feel so odd taking compliments. “Thank you.”

He smiles. “That’s better. You’re welcome. What’s on the menu tonight?”

“A business meeting. Everyone will be here in five.”

“And so it begins,” he says, flip-flops shuffling down the hallway. “So it begins…”

Sabrina arrives first. Then Alexandre, and finally Caleb, one right after the other, until they’re all sitting around Papa’s dinette in the kitchen, phones in their hands, sharing random texts and posts.

“Shall we begin?” Nobody hears me. I clear my throat and try again. “Shall we begin?” Whoa—I sound administrative even to myself.

Alexandre snaps to attention, his big brown eyes alert and ready. Caleb gives one last sneer-smile at whatever is on his phone, then he puts it down and looks at me. Sabrina folds her hands and gives me a perky, proud smile.

Nothing to be nervous about. These are my people. Just talk…

“Thank you for coming. As you know, Dr. O’Dell announced the Battle of the Bakers a few weeks from now, and thanks for your kind comments.” I smile at Alex and Sabs.

Caleb is clueless. But not for long. Soon, I’ll have him in the palm of my hand.

“Because of this and someone’s thoughtful placement of my pic along with a bio on the school’s site,” I fake-angry squint at Alex, “I have received an influx of demands for cake.”

“Yeah!” Alexandre pumps his fist in the air. “Rosie the Baker, creating romantic tension amidst the teachers.”

Caleb points at me. “Wait, that was you? The teachers kissing?”

If he only knew those cupcakes were meant for him that day. “Uh, I couldn’t possibly be responsible for their kissing,” I stare down at the table, “but I did bring the cupcakes they ate before that happened, so some people think it was because of me.”

“That’s pretty dope,” Caleb says sexily. So sexy, he is. Sigh.

“Yeah, dope,” Alexandre mocks his word choice.

Sabrina bounces in her seat. “The point is, that it’s time to get our asses in gear. Rose needs our help.”

“Yes.” Though I was going to say that without Sab’s help. “Now everybody wants cake. I have four orders for Friday and this weekend, but I also have a bunch of assignments due, and as if that weren’t hard enough, my mom can’t find out about any of this.”

“I’m still delivering, right?” Caleb’s splayed legs shake, and he bites his nails.

“Of course.” I smile at him then look away.

“Okay, good. Unless you need me to help you in the kitchen, or whatever. Whenever you need me, I can come.”

Really? He wants to help me in the kitchen? “Actually, that’s really sweet, but—”

“Rose doesn’t like anybody helping her in the kitchen,” Alexandre butts in.

I glare at Alex, then soften my look for Caleb. “Yeah, it’s true. It’s because—”

Sabrina jumps in, “What? Where did you hear that? Rose loves help in the kitchen. Don’t you, Rose?”

“Um, guys,” I hold out a hand, “I can talk. For myself.” They all look at me strangely. I surprise even myself. “Actually, Alex is right. I like being alone in the kitchen. No offense.”

Sabrina stares at me then slaps her forehead, pretending she has an itch. I know I just thwarted her matchmaking attempt, but I got this. I’m the newest svakha, a kitchen witch, the original gangster. Whatever that means. I can do this.

“Sabs, can you handle emails and phone calls for me?”

“Yup, you got it, boss.”

Boss, I like that.

“And Alexandre, can you make a really simple order form for me?”

“Right away, mademoiselle. How are you taking payments? Do you want me to set you up straight on your phone with Square?”

“You know what? As cool as that sounds, I can’t have payments coming into my account for my mom to see, so cash is best for now. For all we know, this could be a fluke, and I won’t get any more orders after this.”

“Or maybe it’s the beginning of something permanently amazing.” Alexandre taps his cheek with his pen. “You’ll need a new account on every social media site. I’ll even come up with a logo if you want. I was thinking something that says ‘sexy baking diva,’ like a pin-up girl in an apron. I think that look really suits you.”

“I love that look!” Sabrina grabs the edge of the table.

“No. There is no way,” I tell them. No way am I getting my chunky underaged butt into fishnet stockings and an apron for a boudoir photo. “How about Rosie the Riveter, except instead of showing off her bicep, she’s—”

“Holding up a cupcake?” Alex’s wild eyes take up half his face.

I laugh. “How did you know I was going to say that?”

“Cause I know you better than anyone?” Alex smirks.

That is very true. “Hmm. If all goes well,” I say, “maybe I can pay you guys a bit. It may not be much, but it’ll be more than cake.”

“I can deal with that.” Caleb nods happily.

“I don’t want your money,” Sabrina says flat-out.

“Me neither,” Alexandre says, sneering at Caleb.

Caleb shrugs. “Or not, whatever.”

I see what’s happening.

“Oh, man, speaking of money…” Caleb changes the subject, talking about some guy at school with an underground nude photo business of his own.

“I know that guy!” Sabs turns to Caleb, and before I know it, they’ve hijacked my meeting to search for pics of this person.

In the meantime, I exchange grins with Alexandre. A Rosie the Baker logo would be great! I love how willing he is to help me while enjoying it, too. Too bad he’s not into girls, or we would make one hell of a kick-ass couple.

After the meeting, Sabrina’s mom shows and they offer Alexandre a ride home, which he reluctantly accepts. Caleb lingers, and I’m nervous as hell. Once we’re alone on Papa’s porch, Caleb turns to me. “You know, Rosie,” he says, taking his keys out of his pocket, “this is super cool. I’m really proud of you. You’re all, like, what’s that cupcake lady on TV?”

“Uh…I don’t know.”

“Marty Steward.”

“Martha Stewart? Yeah, she’s not a cupcake lady, but I get what you’re saying.” That’s sweet of him to compare me to Martha Stewart.

“Well, whoever she is…you’re just like her. Maybe you’ll get really big time, you’ll publish books, and have a TV show or something.” For the first time ever, his eyes are really connecting with mine, and we’re having an actual conversation that has nothing to do with cake delivery.

“Yeah, maybe.” I wring my hands.

Is this a moment? Maybe Papa’s right. Maybe I don’t need the Cakespell to woo him.

Caleb runs a hand through his hair. “I was gonna ask you something, and I forgot,” he says. “Anyway, if I remember what it was, I’ll text you.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, goodnight.”

No! Stay and kiss me, sweet employee! “Okay, goodnight.”

He taps the doorframe then hops off the porch over to his car. I swear I feel starbursts twirling in my eyes, as I watch him go. Martha Stewart…proud of me…I might be famous one day. I hope I don’t get too big-headed. I hope I keep it real with him and all my hometown small people when I’m famous.

That night, lying on my bed, I pick up the remote and cue Notting Hill. It may stray from my 1940’s collection, but it’s quite possibly one of the most romantic movies ever. I always imagine myself as the leading role—shy bookstore owner, William Thacker, star struck by the movie star character Julia Roberts plays. I understand that feeling every single time Caleb comes over.

But tonight, after talking to Caleb, I feel like the movie star character…

Strolling into his travel book shop, I take in the ambience. He’s surprised to see me after our embarrassing breakup. I didn’t have a choice. The tabloids were after me, and my ex-boyfriend, big shot actor, what’s-his-name, was still hanging around, making things even more difficult. But he’s gone now.

It was love—real love—between me and Caleb, and I’ve come to tell him. If he’ll have me back, that is. There’s no one between us now—only the Chagall painting I brought him from my own flat. Because I’m rich and famous now that I have my own baking show on Netflix and I can give him expensive presents.

He faces me, the warmth I’m used to has vanished from his face. “Can I just say no to your…kind request?” he says, after I beg him to take me back. “And leave it at that?” I absolutely adore Caleb’s English accent.

“Yes. Fine, of course, I…yeah,” My heart splinters into a million pieces. “Of course. Well, I’ll just be going then…”

“The thing is,” he adds, “with you, I’m in real danger. It seems like a perfect situation, but my relatively inexperienced heart would, I fear, not recover if I were once again cast aside,” he says. He’s so eloquent now that he lives in Notting Hill.

“That really is a real no, isn’t it?” I smile to hide the pain. “Fine. Good decision…good decision.” I should’ve expected this. It’s okay for him to dump me back. I deserve it. I turn to leave, but face him again for one last thing. “Caleb, the fame thing…” I try to explain, “isn’t really real, you know. And don’t forget, I’m also just a girl…standing in front of a boy…” I watch his green-gold eyes. “Asking him to love her.”

He gazes at me a long time. But alas, I’ve grown too famous for his small town sensibilities, and this will never work out. The curse of my career.

“Bye.” I reach for his shoulders and give him a quick kiss on the cheek, then turn and leave the book shop and Notting Hill…forever.

Eleven

Over the next two weeks, my customers all get their cakes, and I get full reports back from each of them. It’s part of the agreement Sabs drew up. They all must answer one question—did anything interesting happen when you gave the cake to someone?

We are keeping close tabs. Because this is science.

So far, Millie from Spanish got Carlos from Art to fall hard for her after he bit into one of my red velvet cupcakes with fluffy cream cheese frosting. Well, of course, anyone would fall in love after eating one of those babies. He’d never even talked to her before, but after that cupcake, they hung out all weekend. The following Monday, they were holding hands in the hallways.

Magic!

Mrs. Norman reported that she and her husband devoured the cake samples I put together, and other than the full body massage he gave her for the first time in twenty years, there was nothing else to report. “Hmm,” Sabs says. “I think she’s leaving stuff out.”

“Which is fine, Sabs.”

A junior, Dwayne, had nothing unusual to report at first, but when Sabrina prodded him, he finally admitted giving my cake to a girl he liked, only nothing special happened. “So, I asked if she had a boyfriend already, and he said yes, so there you go,” Sabs explains.

“That’s Papa’s Cakespell Rule #2,” I say. “You cannot make somebody fall in love with you who’s already in love with someone else.”

That’s two cakes, four cupcake orders, and one sampler tray. $350 for my first weekend. Can anyone say cha-ching? I can use this money for tools or even a stainless steel work table, if Papa will let me bring one into the kitchen. I kind of need it now that I have more orders.

Sabrina spends all next Monday calling bakeries and discovering I’m seriously undercharging people. Still, I don’t feel right charging what the big places charge either. It’s not like I have a professional facility or huge overhead. Right now, I’m up to $780 before expenses, and hiding cash under my mattress is getting super stressful.

Over the next week, I make three more cakes, five dozen more cupcakes, and as a special favor, a batch of chocolate chip cookies, only because my Economics teacher, Mr. Pearce, is so darned nice. So far, two nerds have gone out with two dance girls, a biker chick fell in love with our wide receiver, and Mr. Pearce and his wife had the best anniversary dinner ever.

That one really makes me smile. I know I thought it would suck if I couldn’t use the power for my own benefit, but I’m really starting to like being a svakha for others.

Sheila comes over for the fifth day in a row. She and Papa are getting serious. I feel like the third wheel all the time, so I go home. It’ll be good to see the house where I sometimes sleep and that working woman who sometimes cares for me. What’s her name again?

“Bye, Papa,” I call out.

“Bye, Rosie the Baker!” He laughs. I hear him and Sheila talking about me. She’s on her way, she’s so creative, her friends are so supportive, if only her mother would approve…

Yeah, okay. Good one, guys.

Señora Fuentes insists on doing the same Hispanic Heritage activity as every other teacher in the history of Coral Cove since my elementary school days. She assigns a Spanish-speaking nation, then asks us to write eighty million pages about its government, people, culture, blah, blah, blah. We’re assigned foods to bring in—empanadas, arroz con pollo. We sing Guantanamera and call it a day.

I get the country of Chile.

The first thing I learn about Chile is that it has nothing to do with chili, Chili’s, or chili peppers. Which sucks, because I drew a chili pepper on the front of my report next to a bowl of chips and queso, and now I have to start over.

Word gets around about the matchmaking qualities of my baked goods, even though I deny it. Seventeen more orders come in over the last two nights. I figure, if I can get all my friends and maybe Papa’s yoga instructor, Zumba teacher, Sheila, and that gardening lady to help somehow, we could crank out all seventeen orders.

La capitál de Chile es Santiago de Chile…

Click, clack, down the hall. Ah, the punctuated heels of death. LM is coming to make more demands. A hissy sigh escapes me long before she reaches my doorway. She doesn’t stop at the door like she usually does. Instead, she charges right in all the way up to my face. Then, blam! A new silicone mold I just bought for making pearl borders, still in its plastic seal, hangs in front of my nose.

“What’s this?” she barks.

The bag dangles back and forth. “I don’t know. What is it?”

Crap, I left that on the sofa.

“You know exactly what it is. When did you get it?” She waves it around like it’s full of drugs. “Actually, I’m pretty good with deductive reasoning.” Reaching into the plastic bag, she slides out the receipt. “You bought it….oh, look at that…you bought it today. At 3:29 PM after school. Rose?”

“It’s nothing!” I almost shout.

Mom stares at me, aghast.

You know what? I want to raise my voice today. “I still buy decorating stuff, so what? I plan on using it one day. What’s so bad about that? Maybe not now, because…see?” I hold up my Spanish project. “Now is ‘learning time,’ so I can support myself in the future!”

She wiggles the mold at me. “You may think this is funny, but I’m telling you right now, you need a different hobby.” LM spins around, naively thinking that she’s leaving.

“It’s not a hobby! It’s my life!” I yell again.

She turns and stares, aghast I could say such a thing. “Your life? You have no idea what you’re saying. Rose, baking is slavery. To weekends, to pleasing people…”

“What’s so wrong about pleasing people? What’s so wrong about making something that puts a smile on someone’s face, that makes their eyes roll back because of how good it is, that makes them fall in love with someone they might not have looked at twice otherwise?”

She says nothing.

She could say any number of things. My mom is fully stocked with comebacks. But she only crosses her arms, assessing my every facial movement. “The other day, you mentioned a word I was hoping I’d never hear out of your mouth, a word I was done with forever.”

“What word—Cakespell?” I dare her.

She narrows her eyes. “What did Papa tell you?”

“He told me a little about Nana, that’s all.”

“Bull. You’ve been going over there a lot.”

“Yes, because I like visiting him.” Unlike some people.

She takes another look at the receipt. “Twenty-five bucks for this little thing?” She holds up the offending decorating tool. “Where are you even getting money for this?”

“I—” Ay, ay, ay, did not expect that question. “I have some saved. The snack money you give me. I haven’t been snacking quite so much. See?” I lean back in bed so she can behold the eight pounds I’ve lost.

“Yes, I see. Though you still have a while to go, another reason I don’t want you around cake—”

Wow. Thanks for that. “What did cake ever do to you?”

Her head cocks in my direction, but I don’t care anymore. I’ve had it.

“What’s so terrible about being a svakha?” I ask.

Her eyes widen with shock. “Svakha? What do you know about being a svakha?” She slams the silicone mold down on my bed. It bounces and flips over.

“I said—what’s so terrible about it, Mom? Why can’t you answer me?”

She scoffs. “We are not going to talk about this. I see now that Papa has been feeding you his bullcrap—I mean, he has to feed it to someone—so your view of the world is a little skewed right now—”

“And your view of life isn’t any better!” I’m standing on one knee on the bed, one foot on the floor, yelling at Lovely Mother. “In fact, your whole attitude could use an adjustment!”

She closes in on me, brown eyes boiling with rage. “Excuse me, young lady. But you will lower your tone. I will not have you speaking to me this way in my own house.”

“Yeah? Well, you can have your house!”

She recoils. “What do you mean?”

“I’m moving in with Papa.” What? Where did that come from? Well, maybe I should. I live there half the time anyway.

Her eyes un-narrow, and for a moment, she looks like any kid my age. A wounded kid. Like I just threw sticks and stones. But my GOD, that woman needs a spanking!

I’m saved by the doorbell. LM backs up a few feet, hand on my desk chair for balance. Eyes glued to mine, like she doesn’t recognize me. Well, maybe I don’t recognize me either. “We’ll continue this later.”

She leaves. Near the front door, quiet, polite talking reaches my ears. A man’s voice. I spring into the hallway to see who’s here. Peeking around the corner, I spot the salt and pepper hair—Frank is back. Thank you, Frank.

While my mom chats him up, I notice that the silicone mold isn’t the only thing I left out in the open for her to accidentally see. I also left a small kraft shopping bag containing one leftover cupcake box sitting on a counter stool. It’s holding several cupcakes. I put it there when I used the bathroom after getting home. I was supposed to hide it in my room right after. She hasn’t seen it, thank goodness.

I slip-slide in my socks all the way across the tile, hoping to pluck the bag out of sight when suddenly, Frank’s eyes land on me. My mother’s head whips around to see what the distraction is. Quickly, I stand in front of the stool holding the bag.

“A new estimate?” My mother faces Frank again. “That could’ve been discussed over the phone, couldn’t it?”

“Yes, it could’ve,” Frank smiles. I’ve seen this look before on the faces of other servicemen my mom has hired. He’s smitten. Poor chap.

Cupcakes infused with my witchiness. Hmm…

Frank continues. “We just wanted to show you that our customers are number one to us, and it’s important that we…” I wave to catch his attention, and he loses his train of thought.

“That we?” LM prods him to continue where he left off. I point to the cupcakes emphatically. Frank, see these? Tell her they’re for her. I point to my mother as another clue, but he’s not following.

“That we do whatever it takes to secure your business,” Frank says.

LM’s face softens into a small smile. They begin discussing other homes she’s showing that require his services as well, hence her need for a better quote. No wonder he’s sucking up to her.

On the marble countertop is his business card poking out from underneath LM’s phone. I move the phone aside, trying not to notice the “Insufficient Funds” email currently displayed and slide the card over to me. I add his phone number into a new message on my phone and type:

Tell her your company sent you over with these cupcakes to make her happy.

Tell her she’s your most important customer right now.

When he gets the text, he studies it, confused.

I wave to catch his attention. Yes, Frank, it’s me texting you.

He nods warily, but keeps winding up my mom. Sabrina appears at the open door and knocks. “Can I come in?”

“Over here.” I wave to her.

“Hey, Ms. Milkovich,” Sabrina greets as she walks by, backpack slung from her shoulder. “Hey, Person I Don’t Know.” She scoots past Frank over to me. “What’s going on here? Your air’s still not fixed?” She fans herself with her hand.

“Just watch. This is gonna be epic.”

LM excuses herself, heads down the hall in a rush, while Frank lingers around waiting. “Hello, ladies,” he says.

I take advantage of the fleeting moment and run over to place the bag of cupcakes into Frank’s hands. “Give these to her.”

“You want me to do what?” he asks, but LM is back, thumbing through the copy of the old estimate Frank gave her last week.

“It says here that it wouldn’t include the maintenance.” LM examines her document. “I need it to include the maintenance. It’s five new units we’re talking about.”

“We can definitely include the maintenance,” he says, glancing at me. I give him a thumb’s up. He takes a deep breath and then… “But before I forget, Ms. Milkovich, on behalf of Southern Igloo, I’d like to give you this token of our appreciation.” He hands LM the yellow gift bag containing the best lemon cupcakes with raspberry buttercream the world has ever seen. If I do say so myself.

“Oh.” My mother stares at the bag, probably thinking there’s no way she’ll eat a cupcake. She doesn’t do sugar, much less the refined, processed kind. Much the way she doesn’t do pure, refined, processed FUN either.

But Frank insists, even taking the plastic box out and placing it in her hands, pointing out the little fondant hearts sitting on top, as though he made them himself. “Really, they’re delicious. Baked right in our, uh, store…”

LM peers into the box. “You give these to all your customers?”

“Only our best ones.” Frank smiles.

Yay, Frank!

LM considers. One little bite won’t kill her. After all, she was a baker once, according to Papa, from a family of bakers, and she must sample the goods to see how they compare. Frank pops open the plastic top and holds it up while she selects one of the six and pulls it out of its tray cup.

Sabrina whispers in my ear, “Is he doing what I think he’s doing?”

“Yup.” I grin.

“And is she about to do what I think she’s about to do?”

“Yup.”

“Rose Zapata, right when I think you can’t top your genius self, you surprise me yet again.” We bump shoulders.

Sabrina, Frank, and I watch with big, hopeful eyes, as my mother peels down the cupcake wrapper and slowly bites through the yellowy, lemony center of my delicious, devilish plan.

HahahahahaaaaahaHAAHAHA!

Her eyes close, and for one time-slowing-down moment, she enjoys something other than torturing me. She wears an expression I haven’t seen in years. It looks like LM, but a delectably tempted one. “This is delicious,” she mutters, mouth full of cake. “Rose…” She points to the cupcake. “Take notes.”

I nod, holding back a laugh.

Yes, LM. I will try my best to bake as awesomely as myself. She turns to Frank with a dot of frosting at the corner of her lips and smiles at him. Sabrina and I knock heads to keep from giggling.

“When can you start, Frank?” She bats her eyelashes at him.

“Tomorrow.” His sexy older gentleman smile is so distinguished. They lightly shake hands. We have lift off! And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you do it.

Twelve

“Rosie, in all the time I’ve known you, I don’t think I have ever seen your mom smile,” Sabrina says. “Like, really smile.”

“That makes two of us.” I lie flat on Sabrina’s bed, staring up at the neon glow stars and comets we put on her ceiling together in second grade.

The truth is I have seen LM smile, long ago when my “father” was still around. I don’t have many memories of him, but I do remember the last time I saw him. I was playing with my Barbie, and Barbie was zooming all over the living room in her pink Corvette, going vroom vroom, while he napped on the sofa. In a flash, he was off the couch, scooping me up by the elbows and lifting me all the way to the ceiling.

He shook me violently and yelled, “Beeee quiiiieeetttt!”

My mom rushed into the room just then. I’ll never forget the nervous smile on her face, like grinning might diffuse the situation. “She’s just playing, AJ,” she said cautiously. AJ was gone soon after that.

I remember blaming Barbie for his leaving. Why’d she have to be so loud? But I also remember being happy that there was finally room to sit on the couch with my mom.

There’s a knock on Sabrina’s door, and her mom pokes her head in with the same fabulous smile as all the women in their family. “This just came for you.” She tosses a large, soft envelope onto the bed.

“Thanks, Ma.” Sabrina pounces on the package. Her mother leaves, never demanding to know what’s in the package, who it’s for, nothing. Complete and total respect of privacy. Sabrina’s eyes light up. “I know what this is.”

“Your blow-up boyfriend?” I snicker.

“Better.” She rips open the bubble-lined sleeve, tilts the envelope, and pours out a red folded garment wrapped in plastic with a packing slip. Tearing the inner package, she plucks out…a red dress. Wait—the red dress? She hands it to me, breaking into fits of clapping. “Go try it on.”

“You didn’t. I thought we were just window shopping.”

“You were window shopping. I knew if I didn’t buy it, you’d never.”

The dress unfolds in my hands. Silky, smooth, gorgeous. I’m scared to try it on. It probably won’t fit. I’ll probably look like a red, blonde whale. I turn around and start undressing, something I’ve never felt comfortable doing in front of anyone, except for Sabs when I have no choice. I guess I have no choice.

“Rose, I won’t look.”

I start undressing.

“You look skinnier, you know.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t look.”

“I lied.”

I turn halfway around, shaking my feet out of my jean legs. “Do I really look thinner?”

“Yeah, you do. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

I step into the red sheath and slide the dress up. And whoa. The thing actually slides on. It doesn’t get stuck on my hips. It doesn’t make my legs look like giant sausages or arms look like the Michelin tire guy’s. I turn to examine myself in the full-length mirror behind her door. “Holy…”

“Tell me you don’t look hot,” Sabrina says. “Tell me!”

“I…” I do look hot. I’m not Wendy Rivera, but I look cute. With my hair done just right, and shoes to go with this, I am going to rock the vintage sex kitten look. “Meow,” I meow.

Sabrina laughs. “Right? Look at me.”

Sometimes, it’s hard to line my eyeballs up straight with her face, she’s that pretty. But I have to stop letting that knot in my stomach get the best of me. It’s not her fault she was born with timeless beauty and the confidence to back it up.

“Roll your shoulders back,” she orders. “When your shoulders roll forward, it makes your arms look bigger than they are. When you roll them back…see? Instant sharp shoulders. Do it.”

Actually, her arms do look big when she demonstrates. Then boom, they’re gone. I do the same, feeling stupid for needing this lesson in posture. “Like this?”

“Perfect. Now put one hand down low on your hip and lean it out just a little. This accentuates your curves.”

“I don’t have curves.”

“No? What are these?” She reaches out to grab my waist with two hands. “See? You’re such a dork the way you pretend not to see how gorgeous you are.”

I know I’m pretty. I’m LM’s daughter, for crissake. But in pics, I always look like—ugh—the fat one. “Sabs, I appreciate this, but—”

She cuts me off with a stern look. “I did not buy you this dress so you could hide inside of it. It’s just a piece of clothing. You are the main event.” She pokes my chest hard.

“Ow.” I rub the spot.

“The dress is only there to make you pop out.”

“I’m popping out all right.”

“Stop it. Now listen. You’re always telling me I have flirting skillsss, but I really only have one, and this is it. You ready?” She eyes me with those blue saucer things in the middle of her face.

“Listening.”

“I look at a guy straight in the eyes. That’s it. And I imagine that, no matter how hot he may be on the outside, on the inside, he’s just a scared little boy pretending to be confident for me. Try it.”

“I see. So stare guys down. That seems belligerent.”

“It’s not. It’s letting them know you’re not afraid to look at them, which disarms them. It evens the playing field, so they know not to go thinking they have the upper hand. It intimidates them, makes them succumb.”

“I’m not taking down an enemy, Sabs.”

“You kind of are. Actually, you’re sending the signal that you’re ready to play. It’s a simple but powerful trick. Try it next time you see Caleb. Oh, and do this…” She does this thing I’ve seen her do before where she glances up underneath sculpted eyebrows.

“What are you doing?”

“When you do that, it makes them feel tall and powerful.”

“It makes me feel nauseated.”

“Rose,” her shoulders droop, “make fun all you want, but these things are proven to work.”

I can’t argue there. Sabrina is an attention-grabber. “Fine, I won’t knock them ‘til I try them.”

“There you go. Now practice it because Caleb will be here any minute.”

“What?!”

She laughs. “He texted a few minutes ago, asking where you were, so I told him.”

Oh, my God! I need to get out of this dress, or he’ll think I dolled up for him.

I unzip and begin wriggling out when Sabrina grabs me by the shoulders and stares at me square in the eyes. “Rose, you’re not as fat as you think you are. You’re full, and you’re fabulous, and you’re way more beautiful than you give yourself credit for. Do not ever again be surprised by the fact that guys want to see more of you. Got it?”

I love her. So proud to call her my friend. “Got it.”

“Good.”

Ten minutes later, back in my jeans and shirt, the doorbell rings. I let out a squeal to rival Wilbur down at the Zuckermann’s farm. “He’s here!”

“Relax, Rosie the Riveter. It’s just a guy.” Sabrina rolls her eyes.

“Oh, right.”

We sprint to the door, then paused to catch our breaths, while Sabrina’s mom watches from her office nook, laughing at the two freaks we are. Sabs fixes a strand of my hair. “Remember, it’s all in the eyes.”

“I can do this,” I whisper behind the door.

“You’re a goddess! Own it! Do it, girlfriend!”

“Stop that.”

“Stopping now.”

With a nod to the mistress of confidence, I unlock the door and open it all the way, imagining I’m Aphrodite standing on her seashell surrounded by sea foam. “Hello, Caleb. Nice to see you.”

“Hey, Rosie, I thought I might find you here.” He laughs, playing with the loose straw of a scarecrow porch decoration.

“You could’ve just texted. I would’ve told you where I was.”

“Yeah.” He laughs so soft and cute, so shy-like, I realize it’s the perfect time to stare him down like Sabs taught me. He’s only a boy inside a hot god’s body.

I force my nerves aside and stare right at him.

“Right, so anyway…” His golden-green gaze shoots past me at Sabrina who I imagine looks weird lurking in the doorway. “Oh, hey.”

“Hi, Caleb,” she says.

I turn and smirk at her. Go away. She takes the hint and shuts the door, but if I know Sabrina, her ear is pressed to it, eavesdropping.

“So, anyway.” I bite back the nerves in my throat.

“Yeah, so…you want to sit?”

“Sure.”

He gestures to the wooden swing on the porch, and we sit on opposite sides of two Halloween stuffed animals—a goofy Frankenstein and the other, his wide-eyed, shocked Bride.

Caleb props one leg up on the bench. “Wow, so, people are really talking about you and Wendy and the bake-off competition. That’s cool. I can’t believe that’s you, Rose. I’m like, hey, I know that girl. She’s my neighbor!”

That’s goddess neighbor to you, mister… “Yeah, I can’t believe it. Who would’ve thought, huh? As long as I don’t have to talk in front of people.”

“Oh, I know, right? And I heard through the grapevine that you have special matchmaking skills. Whoever gets your cake falls in love with whoever gave it to them. Is that true?”

“Oh? Where did you hear that?”

He leans in, and I catch a whiff of something cheesy or burgery off his clothes. “That’s what people are saying. So, I was wondering, if you aren’t too busy, because I know you have homework, and your mom doesn’t want you baking and stuff…if you could help me out.”

“What do you need?” I ask all breathless and sexy.

“A small favor.”

I gulp down a ball in my throat. “Whatever you need.” Eyes. It’s all in the eyes. Do not break contact. He must know I’m not afraid of him. I’m ready to play the game. “I’m here for you.”

Our gazing war overcomes him. He glances away. Holy crap, it works! “There’s a girl…”

My stomach crunches into a tight ball. This is it…

“I see her all the time. She’s awesome. But I don’t think she thinks of me in the same way.” He sighs deeply.

“I’m sure she does,” I offer.

He looks up underneath sexy brows. “Rose, can you make me a small cake, just a tiny one, for her, something cute for when I ask her out. Please?”

He’s going to give this cake right back to me, isn’t he? It’s just like Papa said. “Of course I’ll help you.”

His whole face brightens. “Aw, thanks, Rosie. Any flavor—vanilla, chocolate—is fine. Can you have it tomorrow, or is that too short notice?”

“Geez, I’m not a bakery, Caleb,” I say, even though I have every intention of having it ready for him tomorrow morning.

“I know. I’m so sorry to bother you like this.”

“Well…” I sigh so he won’t think I’m bending over backwards for him. “I have an order for a hundred cupcakes I need to start tonight due Friday. But I suppose I could make a little side cake from the same batter. How’s that?”

He touches my hand, and I almost go into psychogenic shock. The old Rose is back. I can’t speak. All I can do is feel his strong boy-man hands touching mine. His skin feels warm and a little sweaty in the palms. I swoon from the electricity between us, like the Frankenstein doll’s hand touching his bride’s.

“Rosie, that’s perfect. Just tell me how much I owe you, and I’ll have it tomorrow.”

“It’s nothing,” I squeak. “Really, you’ve delivered enough cakes for me, it’s the least I can do. I’ll dress it up real pretty with pumpkins and ghosts, it’ll be adorable.”

“Wow, you rock. Thank you.” He jumps up, planting a kiss on my cheek. “So much.”

“Not a problem. She’s a lucky girl, whoever she is.” I touch my cheek.

“Yeah,” he says.

Whew! I manage not to faint and slam my head on the porch deck. I have to say, I’m not bad at this flirting thing. I even spoke in coherent sentences. A happy fog surrounds me.

This happy fog will follow me all night, as I bike to Papa’s in the waning light, as I dance past my grandfather and his girlfriend holding hands on the front porch, as I bake half my cupcake order. Most of all, it’s going to follow me into the kitchen as I listen to my 40’s tunes and make the tiny cake for Caleb.

Love is real. Love is happening.

Blood red velvet is what I’ll make, because it’s October and it’s my favorite. I’ll infuse it with the good cocoa and top it with cream cheese buttercream, an amalgam of sweet and tangy, like I imagine Caleb’s lips to be when we finally kiss in the very near future.

Sabs joins me on the porch where we quietly smile. The plan is falling into place. Next up, world domination.

Together, we watch Caleb take off into the black and white twilight, like Frankenstein being summoned to his castle by the sweet vibrato of a distant violin. And I, his lovesick bride at the laboratory, wrapped in bandages on my slab, awaiting my unraveling, my exposure to the world. On the horizon, a lightning storm threatens to shut down my whole baking operation if I don’t get a move on.

Yet, the lightning also sparks something inside me. My nerves tingle, my heart palpitates as if being awakened from a deep slumber. My eyes are wide, alert, eager to see through the sheer overlay that blinds me.

I’m becoming a new person, a new Rose, thanks to my creator.

I feel the hands of my mistress, Dr. FrankenSabs, peeling away the gauze, layers of my former self, until finally, she reveals my eyes. I blink. And for the first time, she peers at me—her creation, and I know this is a new era—my rebirth. A new, improved woman will emerge from this moment forth.

My creator knows it, too. She regards me with joy, satisfied exasperation after all the hard work she’s been through. The lightning cracks again, and my mistress cries, “She’s alive! Alive!”

Thirteen

OMG, OMG, OMG.

Caleb’s on his way to pick up the cake! Thankfully, my mom is still in bed, mysteriously texting under the covers. As if I can’t see the screen’s glow every time I walk by. Not that I mind. It means she won’t ask why I’m dolled up for school this morning in a cute orange top and spider necklace, or why my hair cascades in rolling tresses, or why I’m holding this tiny, boxed cake by the front door while staring out the window, because Caleb will be arriving any moment to get it, give it right back to me, and ask me out.

OMG.

I need drugs to calm me.

6:50 AM, 6:51 AM, 6:52 AM. Finally, Caleb’s car pulls onto our grass. I must remind him that we have an actual driveway. Relax, Rose. Breathe. Remember all the Great Sabrina has taught you. Eye contact, peer up at him from underneath bashful eyebrows, hand on hip, stick your hip out…

Doorbell.

OMG. This is it. Calm, easy, open door.

“Hey, you.” Tad flirty, not overdone. Good.

“What’s up, cake girl? You look nice.” His eyes rove over my ensemble, as he runs a hand through his sexy, floppy hair.

“Thank you. Your cake is done.” I slip a finger into the space between the lid and the edge of the white box and pull up the lid. A poof of sugary, cream cheesy scent bursts from inside. In the morning light, the four-serving mini cake glitters with black diamond dust and shimmery orange pumpkins. In the middle, a single fondant spider perches atop a pearly white web. So stinkin’ cute.

“Wow, dude. I can’t believe how much detail you put into this. You’re truly an artist. This is incredible.”

I feel my face turning pink and red and maybe a little green. “Thank you.”

“She’s going to love it.” His gaze shifts from the cake to me, and then…he presses two fingertips to his lips, reaching out with one sexy, strong arm to splat a kiss onto my forehead.

OMG. Do not vomit, Rose.

There are laws against how endearing one boy is allowed to be, and I’m pretty sure Caleb has violated them all. “Thank you, Rosie. I’ll catch you later. I owe you huge.” Sly smile and a wink.

He’s so silly. He could always present the cake to me right now since we’re here together, but I know he’s drawing out the anticipation. “Caleb,” I call out, “Keep the cake flat on the car floor, not in the seat, and don’t put your backpack anywhere ne—”

“Rose,” he interrupts. “I know how to transport a cake.”

“Right.” I forget that Caleb is not only the Divinity of Love, but also my delivery guy. And soon to be my senior boyfriend. HELLZ YEAH!

I spend the entire morning at school asking for permission to use the bathroom. I’m officially out of pee. Señora Fuentes even says to me, “Estás pálida, Rosa. Ve y toma agua,” which I think means, “States of my palisades, Rose. The letter V drinks water.”

To make things tenser, Sabrina texts every ten minutes to ask if Caleb has asked me on a date yet, or at least professed his deep affection. I keep reminding her, through the eloquent use of angry emojis that if, in fact, such an occurrence were to take place, she’ll be the first to know. She has not texted since.

But Sabrina might get a front row seat to this miraculous event, because now comes the first of two moments where I cross paths with Caleb—after Spanish and before lunch, at the same time I wave to Sabrina heading down the opposite hall. Oh, yes, the stars will align.

Staring at the clock, listening to Señora Fuentes’s boring voice, I feel like a horse waiting to bust out of the gate. The period bell rings, and I sprint, galloping past other equines toward my finish line.

Obsessively, I fluff my hair over my shoulder, smash my lips to smooth out my lip gloss, and suck in my stomach. I’m a diva, a goddess, a sophomore snagging a senior, a girl about to become a woman…fine, maybe not so much. And my extra effort this morning is garnering admirable looks from quite a few boys. That’s a first.

Yes, it’s a new day, a new life.

I’m approaching the intersection where I always spot Sabrina. There she is. I wave. Her whole bouncy being lights up. She waves back. She hunches up her shoulders, asking, Where?

I don’t know, I mouth.

Suddenly, I spot him way over to my left down the hall, waving hello and running his hand through his hair with one hand, balancing my little white cake box in the other. He better not drop that thing.

My stomach lurches into my throat like on a rollercoaster drop. My heart pounds in my ears, blood swooshing like the rhythmic chugging of a train pulling out of Holy Shit Station. He finds me and grins in that “hey, girl” way.

I smile.

He approaches me. Sabrina watches from her end.

I may vomit after all.

I have waited for this moment for so very long, since Kindergarten, to be exact, when that new second-grader-next-door began zooming by my house every afternoon on his power wing scooter. I love him even more now than I did then.

Why, yes, Caleb, I would love to go out with you. I thought you’d never ask…

He stops at the crossroads and looks around, reminding me of a meerkat sitting atop his little hill, keeping watch over his grasslands. Does he not see me? I’m right here. I wave to him, but it’s like he’s forgotten something. Like someone has reprogrammed him to turn left instead of right and head down the opposite hall.

Is he too nervous to go through with it?

He did order that cake for me, didn’t he? I mean, he touched my hand…he looked deep into my eyes. He even splatted a kiss on my nose.

As quickly as my heart surges, it plummets when I spot Caleb moving farther and farther away from me. Where’s he going? In direct line with my view is Sabrina still poised and waiting to see what unfolds between Caleb and me. Slowly, her expression of bemusement darkens. Her eyes widen then look away. He walks toward her.

Not me.

Sabrina gets a move on, pretending she’s not spying on us. But then…

Caleb waves to her. He calls her. She stops. His lips move. He needs to tell her something. Sab’s face is wrought with surprise. She smiles shyly and says something, glancing over at me. He reaches for her arm and rubs it. Caleb rubbing Sabrina’s arm, as I watch dumbfounded. Rubbing her arm. The arm of my best friend.

I hold my breath.

His lips form words, and from the way Sabrina blushes and hooks her hair behind her ears, he’s paying her compliments. It’s true she’s gorgeous, and he’d be stupid not to be smitten with her. Of course he would. It’s Sabrina.

He hands her the white box.

My box.

With my cake inside.

The one I made and decorated with webs and spiders.

For me.

Because the signs all pointed to him liking me.

Obviously, I’m a moron.

How could I be so blind? She can’t possibly like him back, can she? She even asked what do I see in that guy. Besides, she’s my best friend.

And yet, I watch in slow motion as she holds out her hand, and accepts—yes accepts—my cake. My enchanted, spell-infused cake, the one she knows will make her fall in love with him.

Own it, claim it, you’re a goddess.

Empty words from an empty soul.

The pounding in my ears is the last thing I hear before my own, unfiltered scream. I charge straight at them. She can’t accept that cake. Must not accept that gift! At what point does the Cakespell begin to work, when the gift is given or when the cake is tasted?

“NooooooOOOOOOooooo!” I charge.

The stunned hallway crowd parts like the Dead Sea. A few phones lift, ready to take pics of me running like a bull. All I see are Sabrina’s eyes and Caleb’s mouth half open, his tongue poised in mid-sentence, his face turned, eyes growing exponentially bigger and confused as I plow toward them.

Through unabashed rage, I tackle my best friend, cake box, and all. But Sabrina is more solid than she appears, muscular traitor that she is. I have to yank her backpack to bring her down with me. Cries of “what the…” echo all around me, as the crowd gasps.

The box tumbles on its side, pops open, and a crack in the mini cake’s orange fondant exposes cream cheese frosting underneath. One pumpkin breaks loose and rolls across the linoleum floor.

“Are you kidding me?” Caleb glares at me.

“What the hell, Rose?” Sabrina fumbles for balance then shoves me hard in the shoulder to get me off her. She pulls herself into a sitting position.

“I’m sorry. I…the cake…it was for you.” I babble.

“I see that. But what on Earth?” Sabrina barks, neat and perfect ponytail now disheveled on the side of her head.

Something about her question, or maybe it’s her tone, pokes the fire inside of me to flare up again. “You were accepting that cake, that’s what!” I shout.

“Why can’t she accept a cake?” a random guy asks.

“Shut up,” I yell at him.

“What do you expect me to do?” Sabrina asks. “He’s giving it to me. You want me to be rude and refuse it?”

“Yes!” I scream. She knows about the Cakespell. She knows how it works. My eyes bug out at her, so she can catch onto my meaning. I lean into her. “What happens when someone accepts my cake? You know. Which means you like him,” I grit through my teeth.

Her lips press together. She fumes and struggles with words. “So what? So, I like him. There, I said it.”

GASP.

“You do?” Caleb’s eyes light up, and we both glare at him.

“But so do you, Rose,” Sabrina adds. “Which is why I haven’t said anything. You’re my friend. Doesn’t that come first?”

“Apparently not,” I growl.

“Ladies,” Caleb interjects, a tad too amused for my taste. That’s when I scramble to my feet and shove him.

“Ladies?” I shove him again. “You think this is funny?”

“Rose, stop it. I had no idea it was for me,” Sabrina says. “Honest to God.”

“Which was fine until you accepted it.” Ugh. So this is why Caleb comes over to my house, delivers cakes for free, all so he can see Sabrina? I have been SO STUPID.

Sabrina rearranges her backpack over her shoulder. “I may like him, but I won’t go out with him without your blessing,” she says, heading for the school’s exit door.

“My blessing? How could you even ask me that! You know how I feel, have felt, for the longest time!”

“Ooo, drama,” somebody says.

“I know, but Rose…you don’t do anything about your feelings. You keep them all inside. You expect life to stand still while you try to decide when might be a good time to make your feelings known.”

Darts. To my heart. One after the other. Fftt, fft, ftt.

How can she say that? So I’m supposed to be okay with her dating Caleb, all because I haven’t pounced on him fast enough? Because if I snooze, I lose? Because the early bird gets the worm? I mean, it’s painfully clear who’s the colorful hummingbird here and who’s the fat, overfed pigeon.

I don’t have time for this. And you know what? I can’t go out with Caleb anyway. I’m a busy woman with cake orders to fulfill. Fifty more cupcakes tonight, as a matter of fact. No time for dates with stupid, misleading boys. “I’m done,” I say, ramming Caleb in the arm, as I plow past him.

I hate him.

And I hate her.

And that makes them perfect for each other.

Fourteen

Papa ties my apron then rests his hand on my shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” I grunt, ripping open my sugar and flour bags. Through layered cakes and whipping cream… Back to work, work, work. If I keep working, I won’t have to think.

“Alright. I’ll be at the movies with Sheila. Just text if you need me.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to do that.”

“I’m old, not an idiot.” He grips Alexandre’s shoulder in a thank-you-for-staying-with-her gesture. “See you kids later.”

I’m left at the counter while Alexandre sits at the kitchen dinette tapping away at his laptop. He doesn’t say much, but it means the world to me that he’s here. He knows what happened. The whole school knows. I work quickly, nervously, with shallow breaths. My hands unwrap, unfold, scoop, measure, pour, scrape…

How could I be so stupid and blind? I let Sabrina convince me that he might like me. Meanwhile, she harbored secret hope that he’d like her all along. Whatever. Who needs those two?

I hate this spell now, but my business depends on it. I have to come through for my customers, as much as I want to crawl under the covers and nap until graduation. Their smiles and satisfaction mean so much to me. Sliding my thumb over the little sewn pentagram inside my apron pocket, I whisper, “Through layered cakes and whipping cream, bring the Cakespell onto me.”

“What?” Alexandre mumbles.

“Nothing.”

A few minutes pass with the KitchenAid running on high. When I turn it off, I hear, “Rose?” In the reflection of the window, I spot Alexandre looking at me.

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have to discuss it with me, and I won’t ask you to, but when you’re done with those cupcakes, we need to get you out of this house. It’s Friday night.”

“No.”

“Come on. There’s that theater downtown that plays all the old movies you like for a very economical price. Ever been there?”

I don’t answer.

“You’d adore it. After your customer picks up, want to?” His voice sounds so hopeful, I have to glance over my shoulder to get a look at his face. Yep. Puppy dog eyes. I appreciate Alexandre even more now, for reading my thoughts and making me go out instead of sulking at the S.O.L. For not asking questions. Like Papa.

“Whatever. I guess.” I scrape down the sides of the mixing bowl.

“I’ll take that for a yes.”

Sigh. The men I love are either related to me, not attracted to girls, or attracted to my best friend. Triple sad Rose.

Two hours later, I’ve packed a hundred cupcakes, half vanilla, half chocolate, into boxes of twelve with a few leftover, all by the door in shopping bags. Kirk, my customer, a junior at school, sounded desperate when I talked to him on the phone. But when the doorbell rings, I open to a dorky skinny guy with a smirky smile. “You Rose?”

“Maybe.”

“Hey, heard about your fight today.”

“Yeah, thanks for mentioning it.” I should punch him in the crotch. “Anyway, here are your cupcakes.” I hand him the first bag, and Alexandre helps issue out the other two.

“Wow, these are great.” Kirk reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. “Thanks. A hundred okay?” he asks with an air of privileged teen.

I stare at the five twenties in his hand. “Whatever was on your order form.”

“The order form says one-fifty,” Alexandre says.

“All I have is a hundred,” Kirk replies.

Acting like you’re out of money is real losery. “Whatever, just give me.” I accept the hundred, sticking it in my pocket. It’s better than no money, even though other bakeries sell cupcakes for three, sometimes four bucks each. And yes, I see you, Alexandre, shooting me critical looks in my peripheral vision. Leave me alone.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are all these cupcakes for?” I ask. “Your order form didn’t say.”

“Ah, the million dollar question.”

“Or hundred dollar, in this case.” I smirk.

He laughs, the sarcasm lost on him. “Well, when I heard about your reputation, I figured what the hell, I’ll try it.” He scans the front yard to see if anyone is listening, then takes a secretive step toward us. “I’m gonna give these out to a hundred ladies at school. Increase my chances, if you know what I mean.” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down.

Who wiggles their eyebrows?

Alexandre and I exchange weirdo-alert looks. “Wow. No way,” I say, and Alexandre coughs into his fist.

“Yup.” Kirk taps his forehead to show us that only a genius such as himself could’ve thought of such a thing. He flips his wallet closed then shoves it back in his pocket. “Wish me luck!” He grabs the bag handles and leaves. Part of me wishes I could watch him pass the cupcakes out to see what happens, but part of me hates all humanity.

“Good luck,” I call out to Kirk. “And thanks.”

“Yes. Best of luck to you,” Alexandre echoes then lowers his voice. “Because you will need it.” He chuckles, which in turn makes me giggle. Together, we watch him go. “Freak.”

“Concur.”

“Come on, let’s ditch this place. I checked movie times. A Streetcar Named Desire is playing at eight. My mom can drop us off.”

A Streetcar Named Desire is one of my all-time favs! Depressing as hell and perfect.

The Colonial Theatre is the oldest theater in Coral Cove and probably the coolest building I’ve ever seen from the outside. I can’t believe I didn’t know about this place sooner.

The theater has one of those old-fashioned marquee things out front that says “Golden Era of Hollywood Every Friday” lit up with light bulbs and red neon. There’s exactly one car in the parking lot. We’re literally the third and fourth people to arrive, judging from the two already inside and the one girl in the ticket booth munching on her nails. I wonder how this place even stays in business.

“You’re going to love this,” Alexandre says, as we reach the ticket booth. “Every time I come here, I think of you. Two, please,” he tells the girl.

“You think of me? Every time you come here? How often do you come here?”

“Several times a year. The projectionist is this quaint, old guy. I love watching him thread the reel. It’s all so mechanical. And yes, I’m always thinking how you’d appreciate the architecture and old-school technology here.”

“Aww.” I lean my head on his shoulder.

“Thank you, enjoy the show,” Ticket Girl pushes two tickets toward Alex, then resumes biting her nails.

Alexandre opens the door for me, and we head inside. It’s the first time I’ve ever been out with him, I’m ashamed to say. Here’s this guy who’s been my friend for the last eight years, but it’s taken a fight with Sabrina for me and him to finally do something together. Bad Rose. “Popcorn?”

“Would it be a movie without it?”

“That’s what I thought.”

We visit the empty concession stand. There’s no one, not even an employee to help us. Two seconds later…whoosh…Ticket Girl slides into position, becoming Concession Girl. “May I help you?”

I laugh so hard, I cling to Alexandre’s shoulders and cackle behind his back.

He orders popcorn and two sodas then pays Concession Girl, handing me the popcorn. “Crazy Rose. It’s good to see you laughing again.”

“What do I owe you?” I ask when I finally catch my breath.

“Owe? Rose, I’m a gentleman, not an animal.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I’m filthy rich now.” I pull out the hundred bucks still in my pocket and lift them toward his face.

He pushes them back down. “Yes, I know. It’s the only reason I hang out with you.” He offers me his elbow. “You’re my sugar mama.”

I laugh again. I have to say, I’m having the most fun with Alexandre. I squeeze his arm appreciatively. We enter the theater, and all laughter dies away, replaced by awestruck silence. I stop walking to let my eyes adjust and take it all in. Red, velvety dusty seats, walls with wood paneling and scrollwork that reminds me of a brown, classic wedding cake. And there’s a stage—an actual stage—like where plays perform. On the right side, an old-timey organ sits lonely.

The two people we saw before sit near the front now, heads touching. Behind and above us is a whole other level, a balcony, and smack in the middle of the balcony, the projection booth aglow and ready. “Wow. Like stepping back in time.”

“Told you.” There’s a smile in Alex’s voice.

If I close my eyes, I can almost hear the footsteps and chatter of a packed theater audience, organ music playing in the background. This place used to be someone’s Friday night hot spot long ago. It used to be a place of fun and innovation in film. It used to be someone’s RPX theater. But now, it’s a ghost of itself, an aging movie star, a still beautiful one in her faded glory.

“This is nothing. Wait until the movie starts.”

He leads me to seats smack in the middle of the room. It’s hard to see where you’re going when your eyes are roving everywhere. But once we sit, the big square-ish screen in front of us takes center stage. In his seat, Alexandre turns and waves to an elderly man staring out the projection booth window. “That’s Mick.”

“Hey, Mick.” I wave to the man. I never thought I’d ever see the face of the person responsible for playing my movies back at the multiplex. Super cool.

We’re sitting there quietly munching on popcorn when Alexandre says, “Alright…now that I have you captive, I’m only going to say one thing regarding today’s debacle.”

“Ugh.”

“I know this is easier said than done…” His hand pauses in the popcorn bucket. “I don’t think your focus should be on that guy right now.”

“You mean Caleb.”

“I mean Shit for Brains,” he says.

I laugh.

“I think you have a fantastic opportunity going on with your cake business. I know it’s underground right now, but you could really make a name for yourself. Some people graduate from college and still can’t break into any industry. But you so easily could, if you worked diligently at it. Which you do. So if I were you, I’d focus on your talents, and the right man will come at the right time.”

Hmm.

That sounds reasonable and mature. No point trying to make someone love me who’s in love with someone else. But every time I think about Sabrina’s words—you don’t do anything about your feelings—it hurts. Because she’s right. I take too long to say what’s on my mind. Had I told Caleb that I liked him, had I started to lose weight sooner, had I come out of my shell months ago, maybe it’d all be different.

Alexandre mumbles, “You’re too good for him anyway.”

“Thank you,” I tell the side of his face, because he’s staring at the movie screen.

He hands me my drink. I have to let it go. The Caleb-Sabrina issue, not the drink. “You are very welcome,” he says softly. “It’s true.”

The lights in the theater dim, and my happy brain cells finally come out of hiding at the sight of the big, white screen lighting up with the words, Warner Bros. Pictures presents… The Pulitzer Prize and New York Critics Award Play…

“See all the scratches on the film?” Alex points to the screen. “That’s how you know it’s real.” He loves film, the real thing, imperfections and all.

There’s something comforting and nostalgic about the clicking sound of the film reel in the projection booth going tick-tick-tick-tick at a hundred miles an hour, even though I’ve never seen movies this way before. But I feel like I have. Maybe in my past life.

We watch Streetcar in total contentment for the next hour and a half, and I have to say, I don’t think about Caleb that much, except maybe when Stella and Stanley are having their famous fight in the French Quarter, and for just that scene, I feel like it’s me and Caleb up there in larger-than-life black and white…

I sit glued to my chair in the upper apartment, as shouts of “Hey, Stella!” reverberate off the walls of our little courtyard. He means Rose. Stella is just my nickname. My sister, Blanche DuBois, sometimes known as Sabrina DeButt, waits behind me, hoping I won’t give into weakness. But this is how it has always been between me and Caleb. He leaves me, and I run upstairs to the neighbors’. He returns home drunk when he’s ready and calls for me.

And I go.

My sister tries to stop me, but it’s no use. I’m out the door, gripping the iron lace handrail of the stairs, pausing to take him in. He’s remorseful, a man on the verge of insanity without his woman, blubbering at the base of the gently-sloping stairs over the pain he’s caused me. He needs me. I need him. And besides, he said he was sorry.

I must go to him.

In his ripped shirt, he cries, drops to his knees. I hate myself for giving in to his theatrics, but what other choice do I have? It’s him who I’ve always loved. I smash my fingers through his hair, pull him close. He melts into my chest, holds on for dear life. “You gotta believe me, baby.” Oh, I know he’s sorry for what he’s done. I knew he’d come back to me, too.

Strong, lean arms hoist me off the ground and whisk me away…back to our apartment…to our life of pain, as Sabrina watches on. Or maybe it’s Alexandre. Yes, let’s make Alexandre my sister, watching with disgust from the apartment above, appalled that I took back the man who hurt me. Why…how…could I allow this heartbreak to happen again?

Fifteen

Sunday morning, I escape before my mom can ask where I’m going. She leans against her car, talking to Frank who brought her home after going out to breakfast. I am sooo happy those two are hitting it off. “Where are you—?”

“Going to bike for a while. Byeeee.” I pedal off. She can’t say anything. I’m biking and losing weight, for God’s sake, her dream come true. She and Frank watch me ride away.

When I arrive at the S.O.L. and park my bicycle on his front porch, I check all texts that came in while I was riding. One is from Alex telling me he had a great time last night, and one is from Caleb, asking, Rosie, you home?

I don’t reply. What does he want? Shouldn’t he be somewhere in magical love with my former best friend? Pffftttt.

Papa has just tied my apron after making Sheila coffee (she slept over last night, a fact I’m trying not to notice). I’ve just recited the Cakespell and cracked a dozen eggs for an anniversary cake due tonight when the doorbell rings.

My grandfather’s feet shuffle to the door. If it’s Caleb, he’ll have to deal with Papa first. The door unlatches, and I hear my grandfather mumbling, his voice rising then lowering, then rising again. Give him hell, Papa.

A moment later, Papa sneaks up behind me in the kitchen. “Rose, someone here to see you. That Caleb fellow.”

So much for giving him hell. “Tell him to go away.”

“Now, don’t be that way. Just talk to him. He seems sorry.”

I slap down my spatula a little too hard and glare at my grandfather. Kidding, never would I glare at my grandfather. Sheila holds her coffee cup close to her heart. “You tell him, Rose. Don’t take shit from any man.”

Papa chuckles. They’re smiling and sharing secretive looks, and it’s not funny to me, old people. Hear me? Not funny.

Deep breath. I turn the corner. Caleb stands in the foyer, a lot like he did the day of our big meeting when he lingered long after everyone had left and made me believe he might like me. Liar. I’m not tongue-tied today. “What do you want?” I ask.

“Wow, you really are mad, huh?”

“I don’t have time. I have an order due in a few hours.”

“Can I help you deliver it?”

“Sabrina is not here, so what’s the point? You can stop pretending you were helping me all along. It’s clear you were only coming over as an excuse to see her.”

“That’s not true. I really like helping you, Rose. And I really am, like, super impressed with this business of yours and how far you’ve come. I can’t even practice my guitar every day, yet you’re legit hardcore.”

I knew it. He never touches his guitar. Slacker.

“What about taking my hands and looking into my eyes? Was that part of your admiration for my baking skills? What about splatting a kiss on my nose?”

Caleb scrunches his face, as he tries to recall the moment. Whereas I have it emblazoned in my mind. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Because it seems to me,” I interrupt, “and probably to anybody watching, that you liked me, too. Or do you always go around sending mixed signals to girls?”

He sighs. “I’ve been told. I’m sorry. Rose, I know I hurt you. I came here to tell you that.”

“Well, you told me.”

“Fine, I’ll just be going now.”

“Fine.”

It’s actually not fine, and I’m actually about to cry, but I hold the tears tightly back despite the bunch of questions I still have. He turns to leave but pauses at the door and glances at me one more time. “She didn’t eat the cake, you know,” Caleb says.

She didn’t?

He assesses my reaction. His lips look so perfect. I hate him, hate him, hate him. The news shouldn’t surprise me. Of course, she wouldn’t have eaten it. She’s my best friend. She knows better. “She doesn’t like red velvet.” Caleb scuttles off the porch to his car.

Oh. Is that why? Not because she’s too good a friend to refuse my cake, but because she doesn’t like red velvet? Well, both of y’all can go suck it!

I slam the door.

I rush past the curious gazes of Papa and Sheila back to my kitchen. I try to pick up where I left off, but end up leaning over the sink and crying. Making a 20th anniversary cake is not what I feel like doing right now. My mom’s warning about being a slave to the kitchen clangs through my mind. I asked for the stress of running a business, so now I need to shut up, make cake, and stop feeling sorry for myself.

This one’s for my neighbors, Tracy and Leo, who I asked to please keep this a secret from my mom. Tracy promised then ordered vanilla amaretto cake with almond buttercream, her husband’s favorite. She gave me complete creative control—an artist’s dream. So I design a two-tiered cake in teal and light orange with two fishes at the top and a kissy heart between them. I add pearl bubbles all around and dust the whole thing with sparkly turquoise edible glitter.

It’s one of my prettiest cakes ever.

“Oh, my…” Sheila immediately takes pics of it. Even though it came out lovely, I don’t feel like admiring it like I usually do with my other cakes. In fact, I don’t even wait for them to come pick it up. I leave Papa and Sheila in charge of collecting money, seeing that the cake is picked up, and safely placed in the car. I just want to get home, completely ignore my Spanish project by watching an old movie on Netflix, then hit the sack early.

And ignore life.

The way life likes to ignore me.

At school the next day, I don’t see Sabrina, not even once. Everyone is talking about Friday’s big tackle, but it’s not the football game they mean. It’s “that baker girl” taking down another chick in the hallway, which makes me MVP of the Week.

I cannot wait to get home.

I walk up the path to my house to find my neighbor, Leo, running out of his yelling in Spanish. From the front porch, Tracy chucks stuff at him—a shoe, a book, a remote control… “And take this, and this, and this! Go on, get out! I haven’t needed you in twenty years, so why should I start now?”

Whoa, whoa…

I gawk, as do other neighbors poking their heads out their windows or standing on the sidewalk, dog leashes in hand. Are they for real? This is the happy couple I made the cake for? They can’t be fighting. It’s their 20th Anniversary! They should be so in love, ready to renew their vows, jumping a plane for their second honeymoon. Anything but this.

Leo yells something I can’t understand, and Tracy covers her face and bawls against a porch column. Seconds later, Leo screeches his car out of the driveway and drives off. Tracy spots me. “Thank you for the cake, Rose. Everything was fine until we served it, then everyone started fighting. But it did come out beautiful.” She sobs into her hands then disappears into the house. The door slams.

Was there a full moon last night? Because I know that means full potential to witches. It’s also when weird things happen. Did the Cakespell not work this time? Do I have to give her money back? How does this work? I think back to yesterday while I was baking and what I might’ve done differently. There wasn’t anything, except for—

No.

It can’t be. Papa said people fall in love through Cakespell. Then again, Nana was always in a good mood. I doubt Nana ever baked any teen angst into her goodies. In fact, Nana probably never had bad moods, she was happy all the time. I think my being upset at Caleb affected the cake. Papa never mentioned the possibility of any emotion other than love being infused. Then again, Papa said Cakespell has a mind of its own.

If this is true, it would explain why my mother failed miserably as a svakha. She’s always mad, worse than I am.

I tear into the house. I find my mom sitting in her office on the phone, smiling and giggling. Smiling and giggling! “Oh, you little thing…”

Silence as Frank replies.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Big thing.”

Ugh, adults, must you?

She spots me in the doorway and bolts upright, switching out her new giggly face for her old one. “What’s up, Rose? How was school?”

“Why weren’t you a svakha?”

Her face freezes. “Frank, I’ll call you back,” she says, hanging up. “Didn’t I ask you not to bring this up ever again?”

“Tell me. Why didn’t it work for you?”

“I told you, I am not discussing this with—”

“Why?” I yell. “Why won’t you?”

“I heard about you and Sabrina. Her mother called me.”

Wait, so she knows I baked a cake for Caleb? Wouldn’t she be about to blow any moment? “It’s not your business.” I turn around to leave.

“Stay.” She’s ridiculously calm. Oddly. I guess the Cakespell is still working its magic on her mood, because she could easily be a hundred times more upset. “I make it my business to know what’s going on in your life, Rose. I told you not to bake, I tried to dissuade you, but you did it anyway, and the spell backfired on you…”

I’m more shocked than anything at hearing her mention the word “spell.”

“You have no one to blame but yourself. I told you you’d regret it, but you didn’t listen, did you?” Her fingers drum over her arms.

I hold onto the door frame to keep from losing my balance. “I didn’t have any problems with baking until then, and the Cakespell didn’t cause the problem. Caleb has always liked Sabrina, and apparently, Sabrina has always liked him back. In fact, those two didn’t even need a cake to bring them together, and anyway, she didn’t eat it!”

“Yes,” LM says calmly. “But he never would’ve come to you for help, asked you to bake a cake if it weren’t for him knowing about it. How would he even know about Cakespell, Rose?”

He and hundreds of other people know.

Either she doesn’t know about the business, or she’s bluffing. I decide to hope for the first one. “I don’t know,” I lie. “But I’m not gonna stop. I love it too much.”

“You’re being rebellious and ridiculous.”

“I’m being ridiculous? You’re the one busting your ass every day, only to sell one house every blue moon. Yet you keep doing it. Me, I could be making cakes all the time, because there’s always an occasion to be celebrated. I could always be making money. You’re the one without money to pay for a new A/C unit.”

“I have the money. I only wanted to come down on price. You don’t know what I’m up to, Rose.”

“Really? Is that why we didn’t have A/C for like two weeks? Or why you got that bank email? ‘Cause guess what? If you need money…” I’m yelling. And LM is staring at me, wondering where her daughter has disappeared to and who is this vile creature spitting venom in her place. But I don’t care anymore. I’ve had it with her nonsupport. I’ve had it with boys. I’ve had it with shitty best friends. Just about the only people I haven’t had it with are Alexandre and Papa.

“I don’t need money, Rose. We are fine.”

“We are not fine!” I shout. “Stop saying that we are. You’re only saying it because you can’t admit that having an artistic talent could make you money if you’re willing to work for it.” I run to my room and shove my hand underneath my mattress, pulling out my wad of cash in a Ziploc bag. I rush back to her office, but she’s already out of her seat coming toward the door. “Here.” I push the bag of cash into her chest.

Her hand wraps around it. “What is this?”

“What does it look like?”

Her eyeballs pop out of her face. Like they haven’t laid themselves on that amount of cash in a while. “Where did you get it?”

“I worked for it. I busted my butt and had fun doing it. In fact, the orders won’t stop coming in, and look what it got me—money. I hereby donate it all to help pay for our A/C.”

“Where have you been baking? Is this why you’ve been going to Papa’s so much?” Her teeth grind. “What has he been telling you?”

“The truth.” I narrow my eyes. “At least he talks to me. He doesn’t judge.”

“Rose, one thing is baking a cake for Caleb, and another is running a business. I told you you are not to have a cake business, and now you’ve disobeyed me. Your grades are C’s at best! I saw them on the parent portal.”

“But I made money, when you said I wouldn’t,” I shout, turning away, but she grabs me by the arm and pulls me back.

“You are so stubborn. Listen to me…it is not all about money. Why can’t you understand that it’s a curse!”

“What?”

Her face drops into her hands, like she’s said too much. “A curse. It can be. It worked with Nana because Nana was perpetually happy.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She waves a hand around. “Sometimes I wanted to shake her for being that way all the time. To the point where she dismissed my problems too easily. But normal people are not like her, Rose. I’m not like that. You’re not like that. Cakespell’s not just about love. It’ll conduct your fear, your anger, your hatred—everything.”

“The power is in me,” I mutter.

“Yes. Whatever you’re feeling, you’ll transfer to anything you make. In our family, it just happens to be cake, but it could be anything.”

Is it true? Tracy and Leo were fighting just now outside their house, angry at each other, when I was angry last night. Their guests were angry, too.

“But my father only remembers the positives of Cakespell,” she continues. “He only remembers Nana’s Cakespell, the happy one, because she’s gone, because he misses her, because he sees her in you.” She reaches out to touch my face, then pulls back.

This.

This is the first time she talks to me, explaining why instead of only telling me that I need to accept her demands. Still, I can’t stop baking. The contest is in a week. The next step after this is getting wedding cake orders, my dream orders. I can’t give up now. I’ve manifested the life I want and the future I want—because I can.

“If—when—you’re older, after you’ve graduated from college, you want to give it a shot again, that’s fine, but not before that. Your grades are suffering—you can’t bake now. I’m going to talk to Papa about this right away.”

“No!” I shout, blocking her path. “I can’t stop, Mom. You don’t get that I love baking, that it calms me down, that without it, my C’s would probably be D’s or F’s. I feel the energy when I’m creating. My customers do, too. They depend on me…”

“Customers? Rose, I said no!” she yells. Suddenly, exasperated old LM is back. “You cannot have customers. You are fifteen! Absolutely not. You cannot run a business. It interferes with school, and that’s my final answer. You won’t be going to Papa’s anymore either.”

“Like hell I won’t.”

She turns slowly. It wouldn’t surprise me if she slapped me.

“You said I wouldn’t make money doing what I love, but I did. I proved you wrong.”

“You proved me right. It’s getting out of control. Caleb, exhibit A. Your attitude, exhibit B,” she says, but I’m not staying to listen. I head to my room to begin packing. “Where are you going?”

“Out of here.” I shove shirts and jeans and a shoe here, a shoe there, whatever I can grab and fit into my backpack, while she watches in silence. “I don’t care anymore. I just don’t.” I fling away tears, storm for the door. I expect her to come charging to bolt the door and prevent me from leaving, exercising parental control like only Lovely Mother can. But she doesn’t.

Silently, she watches me leave. Not a word.

So I go. I go where I’m appreciated and supported. Where I’m free to wield my unique power, a power handed down from the magical women who came before me. And sadly, that’s not here.

Sixteen

Biking the last month has given me such super strong legs, I don’t even notice how fast I’m pedaling until I have to suddenly slow down thanks to a car rolling past a stop sign. I brake, skidding off the sidewalk into a bunch of scratchy bushes.

Ow. Pain.

I yank my bike up while readjusting my backpack, trying to balance. That was LM’s fault for making me leave. It’s also LM’s fault because it wouldn’t have happened if she’d just let me bake at home. Come to think of it, everything is LM’s fault.

When I pull into Papa’s front porch, running over a new lighted pumpkin he put out, I’m out of breath. I down my bottled water in ten seconds flat. At first, I assume the car in the driveway is Sheila’s, but now that I hear yelling inside the house, I realize it’s my mother’s BMW.

Damn. Beat me to the punch.

I press down on the front door’s latch then sneak into the house and immediately hear arguing in the kitchen. My mother’s rage reverberates off the walls. I hope Sheila isn’t here, getting the full LM experience.

“You had no right!” she screams.

“I have every right,” Papa says calmly. “And so does she. It’s a family tradition.”

“It’s witchcraft,” my mother says.

“Katherine, you know very well it’s not the evil people make it out to be. Holy water is witchcraft. Prayer is witchcraft. Meditation is witchcraft. Every single one of the world’s religions sends thoughts and messages into the universe in order to get something they want. It’s just energy.”

“Just energy? Dad, ‘just energy’ nearly made me lose all my friends when I was a kid once they all found out what Mom did.”

“We lived in the wrong community, Katherine,” Papa says. “Things are different now. So much more is accepted. You should see Rose’s support system—her friends. She’s a smart and talented girl. Have you seen what she can do? Come, I’ll show you.”

“You don’t need to show me. I’ve seen it.” I can only assume he begins showing her pics of my cakes on his phone from how quiet they get. “Yes, I know, Dad. Very talented, but she can’t bank on talent alone. She’s a girl without a father, and I’m only one parent. Your college fund is the only thing she has. She needs to keep her grades up, or she won’t get any partial scholarships. I don’t make a ton of money, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Well, you look like you do. Nice house, nice car…”

“It’s for appearances, Dad. I’ve explained to you. I have to play the part of successful realtor, or nobody will hire me. You know this.”

“Meanwhile Rosie is as real as it gets, and everyone hires her.”

I feel a surge of pride deep in my chest. My grandpa really gets me.

Lovely Mother sighs. There’s a long pause. “You don’t understand, Dad. I need Rose to focus on school. So she has a foundation. Yet she’s taking cake orders, already working. She has her whole life ahead of her to work, Dad! Her whole life!”

“She’s doing what she loves. It’s not work to her.”

“Maybe not yet. What about when it consumes her? What happens when it gets out of control, when some crazy guy bangs on her door at two in the morning needing a cake to save his marriage? Or when her husband takes her cake—her very own, charged-with-magic cake—from her own hands, and gives it to someone else to fall in love with him? Huh? What about then?” My mother breaks down into light sobbing.

Did that stuff happen to her?

“I’m sorry, Katherine. I hear what you’re saying, but it doesn’t have to be that way for her. She doesn’t need to take every order either.”

“But she will,” Mom says. “It’ll be all or nothing for her. ‘All’ would be fine after college, but you had to go and tell her about it now. You had to go and give her Mom’s apron. You turned her into a svakha without my consent.”

“She’s an excellent svakha!”

“She’s a girl, Dad! She has no business controlling people’s lives. It was fine for Mom. Mom had nothing better to do, but those were different times. Rose is going to have to work if she wants to make it in this world. I can’t have her practicing the family’s magic!”

Quiet for a half minute, Papa finally sighs. “I find it disturbing that you’ve only come here to complain. Not once have you visited me in three months.”

“Is that what this is about? Was this your way of getting me to come visit you?”

“No. This was my way of spending time with my granddaughter, something you should be doing,” he retorts.

“Well, congratulations, because now she wants to live with you.”

“That may not be such a terrible idea.”

“Are you kidding? You, in charge of making sure Rose is prepared for the world? Dad, forgive me, but you can barely take care of yourself. You thought keeping the five-bedroom house would be a good idea! You were barely there for me as a kid…how are you going to be there for Rose?”

“I’m retired, Katherine, in case you forgot. I can watch over her. Let Rose stay for a while. She needs a break from you. She needs encouragement. She needs an outlet. She needs love, for Pete’s sake.”

Pause. There’s only one thing I can think of when my mom is that quiet, and that must be she’s seriously considering it. She’s been beat. “I do give her love,” she says. “It may be tough love, but it’s love. She needs goals.”

“She has goals!” Papa shouts. “They’re just not your goals!”

Mom scoffs. There’s a tapping sound on the dinette table. Her nails clicking as she fumes. I’m about to walk in there and tell them that it’s my choice what I do with my life, that I want to bake and I want to live at Papa’s, when the chair slides back.

“Fine. You have her for a while. But if anything happens to her, if her heart gets broken, if she fails her classes, if it all becomes too much for her…it’s going to be on your head.” Her keys jingle, and heels click-clack out of the kitchen.

I retreat into an alcove as she whooshes past me.

“It’ll be fine, Katherine. Give the girl room to breathe.” Papa turns down the hallway without seeing me. “For goodness sake.”

Is that it? So I get to live here? Part of me likes the idea. It’ll give me a new start and something to think about other than Caleb and Sabrina. But part of me watches my mother pause at the door, hand on the handle, head lowered and sobbing, and I feel terrible.

Like I’m abandoning her. Like my dad abandoned her. I love her, of course. But I need this reprieve. At least for a little while. And, honestly, so does she.

Papa’s guest room is about as generic as it gets with its full-sized bed, standard issue wood furniture, and boring white blinds. I’m going to have fun dressing this place up, making it my own. A few old movie posters, an old radio, some candles, and I’ll steal that full-length mirror from Papa’s room. I’m sure he’ll let me borrow it.

I tiptoe down the hall to his room. He’s at his computer. “Hi.”

He looks at me over his glasses. “Hi, pumpkin. You all settled in?”

“Not really. I didn’t bring much this time. Didn’t want to shock Mom.”

He rubs his forehead. “I think she means well, Rose. She’s just watching out for you.”

“I guess. But she can’t control everything.”

He nods. I can tell he’s thinking more, but I don’t feel like discussing it. “Do you mind if I borrow your mirror? The oval, vintage one. My room doesn’t have one.”

“That was your grandmother’s.” He has a sad, faraway smile.

“I only want to borrow it. It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

“You can have it.”

I blink. “I can?”

“You can have anything of mine, Rose. It’s not like I’m going to need them much longer.” He turns back to his computer.

“Ugh, stop talking like that.”

“It’s true. Just a natural part of life.”

“Still.” I walk over to the mirror and try lifting it by the stand. “Just let me know when you want it back.”

“Okeedokee,” Papa says.

Gripping the mirror, I crab-walk through his doorway, down the hall, into my new room and place it next to the nightstand. It reflects too much light from the window, so I move it to the other side of my bed. Perfect. I stare at the photo of Nana stuck into the edges and at the purple and yellow scarf tied to the stand.

I wish I could go back in time, to look like Nana did in this pic. Nobody dresses up fancy anymore. I rummage through my bag and pluck out what I’ve been avoiding. The red dress Sabrina bought me. I appreciate that she was trying to help me.

I turn on my phone plug-in speaker. Wartime music comes on.

I head into the bathroom, set up all my hair and makeup stuff neatly into the drawers and spend the next hour working my hair into hot rollers, releasing the curls and spraying them, combing it into a gorgeous pinup style. I don’t put on makeup very often, but when I do, I look nice. I go easy on the eyes, not too vixen, more sexy, then I really seal the look with a hot, red lipstick.

I slip the dress up my body, and yeah—

That’s the clincher right there.

Had I dressed this way around Caleb the last couple of months, he might’ve asked me out. Sabrina was right, I’m more powerful than I give myself credit for, and this dress brings that out.

Do I have the courage to go to school looking this way?

Maybe not in this dress, per se—I think I’ll save it for the Battle of the Bakers—but I can buy new tops and shoes to go with my jeans while still using this retro style for hair and makeup. What if people laugh? I’ll ignore them. Better yet, what if my look inspires someone else to be who they are?

I smile at Vintage Rosie in the mirror.

I can easily win Battle of the Bakers. I can easily win back Caleb, too. I can easily become a famous cake designer, the youngest ever to score her own Netflix show. Yeah. I can do this. I didn’t come from a long line of witches for nothing.

Seventeen

Wendy Rivera is way more intimidating up close than lurking behind Caleb. Sitting in Dr. O’Dell’s office, going over contest details, the “albatross” has perfect medium-length hair and a porcelain doll face. Her posture is impeccable. She nods perkily every time the principal explains one of the contest rules, but if I ask a question, she glowers at me.

She keeps talking like an annoying adult too. “That makes total sense, Dr. O’Dell. I’m with you two hundred percent.” Dr. OD smiles a lot, no doubt thinking that Wendy is such a mature young lady.

I’m glad I came to school in my new hair and makeup. Wendy’s eyes rove over me every so often, like she can’t decide what’s worse, having to bake against me or the fact that I’ve upped my game with a more kickass appearance.

Dr. O’Dell drones on. “Bring whatever you like, cakes, cookies, brownies, enough to sell for three hours. Here are your rules and regulations.” She hands us each a stapled packet. “Look it over. Make sure everything is homemade, nothing from a professional bakery, be here by 5:00 PM to set up, you’re allowed one assistant…am I forgetting anything? Oh, yes, look your best! It’s possible a news crew will show up. Any questions?”

I raise my hand. “Who’ll be judging?”

“A few teachers and students. Also, everyone at the bake sale will have a voting form to fill out. Our judges will count those at the end of the night and combine with their scores.”

Wendy raises her hand. “Can we put up flyers around school for people to vote for us?”

Dr. O’Dell thinks about it. I hope she’ll say no; this isn’t a popularity contest. But instead, “You know what? Go for it. Anything to make people want to attend and help out is fine by me. Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition, is there?”

Damn it.

What’s to keep this from turning into a popularity contest?

Dr. O’Dell stands, our cue to get out of her office so she can talk to the parents waiting outside. Wendy gathers her things and extends her hand to me. “May the best baker win.” She flashes the most perfect row of teeth I have ever seen on a human being or any species for that matter.

“Yeah, good luck.” I shake her totally limp hand.

My teeth are just as nice.

During lunch, I take my tray to a bench in the hallway where it’s quiet, except for a group of freshmen practicing a dance around the corner. After a few bites of my chicken burrito, I pull out my Rules and Regulations packet to read in peace. I worry about my super-behind Spanish project due in two days. I worry about the baking-a-thousand-cupcakes thing. Gah, I hate to admit this, but I’m starting to feel overwhelmed.

I can’t focus on Chile’s government, nor am I in the mood to review all these rules. In fact, all I can think about is what I’m going to bake for the Battle of the Bakers. My menu will determine everything. Wendy might get the F-boy vote, but I have the baking chops, which gets the hungry boy vote, plus the smart girl vote, plus the teacher vote.

I pull out my purple pen and open to the next page in my homework notepad.

For the first time in days, excitement rushes through my veins. Let’s start with the classics—vanilla, chocolate, and red velvet. What else. I need inventive, kickass cupcakes that will blow everybody’s mind out of the water:

Just then, what sounds like a herd of happy gazelles stampedes down the hall. It starts through the double metal doors and heads my way in the form of a giant crowd. Not just any crowd. A crowd comprised of lots and lots of chatty girls with one guy right in the middle, looking a little besieged.

Skinniness and doofy face, Kirk, the hundred-cupcake order guy, has a harem of women following him. My eyeballs fall out of my head. He got what he wanted. Look at them—all in love with him alright, trying to touch him, talk to him, smush their faces next to his while simultaneously taking selfies with him.

Well, I’ll be damned. It worked. He tries escaping their caresses and kisses. I watch with fascination behind my binder. As he gets swooped away by the girl-tide, he recognizes me sitting here and salutes. “I owe you, cupcake girl.” He gives me a thumb’s up. I warily return it, then he flows down the hall with the wave of babes.

Actually, he does owe me. About fifty bucks.

I’m so relieved that the spell worked for him. I cannot imagine what might’ve happened had my anger and disappointment been baked into those cupcakes like I did to Tracy and Leo’s cake. In fact, I made those when I made Caleb’s mini-cake, so love was definitely in the air at the time.

Where was I? Ah, yes…

The hall becomes quiet again except for the distant cafeteria noises. Suddenly, someone’s displacing the air next to me. Alexandre, settling onto the bench. “Mademoiselle… What are you doing?” He peeks at my list.

“Strategizing.” I show him my plan to rule the baking universe, one cupcake at a time.

“Excellent. What about a coconut-lemon combo? To add something citrusy in there.”

I jot that down. “Aye, good call, Captain.”

“It’s getting down to the wire. Do you need help with anything?”

“Actually?” I swivel my butt around to face him. “Dr. OD said that we could each have one assistant. Do you want to be mine?”

“You mean on the actual stage or behind the scenes? Do I get to wear an apron and do my hair 40’s style?” He laughs.

“Up to you. But I was hoping you could make me some flyers. Wendy is going to litter hers everywhere, so I’ll need something good. How about using this list here?” I shove my cupcake list at him.

“I think you’ll need something snazzier. I’ll come up with several comps for your approval, darling.”

“Thank you. Hey, any more flavors you can think of?” I ask.

“A S’mores cupcake? Or a Dr. Pepper one?”

Before I can consider it, another commotion bursts through the opposite doors of the hall. Only this time, the happy gazelles are replaced by angry bulls, chasing after Kirk’s flaming mop head, and this time, he’s running. Down the hall, horrified, cursing, angry girls yelling and pulling and poking. One slaps him over the head.

“What in the heck?” Alexandre gawks.

The closer they get, the louder I hear them fuming. “How? How come you look at her and not me?” one girl demands. “I told you to call me, but you make me wait for three days! Do you even know what that feels like?” another yells in his face.

Oh, my. What a difference thirty minutes makes.

Kirk yanks his arms away from the angry mob. “Stop! I said stop! Just…give me a second…will ya?” He parks in front of me, as the girls huddle around him. I hide my face. Hands on his knees, he lowers a bit to stare at me. “I want my money back.”

“What?” I stammer. “How’s this my fault?”

He stands up straight, annoyed with two dance chicks tugging his sleeve for his attention, and pushes them back. “This isn’t what I asked for. You better have my refund tomorrow.” Then he storms off, surrounded by the triggered posse.

I think back to when I made Kirk’s cupcakes. Did I make them all the night of Caleb’s cake? No. I made half that night and half after “the Caleb-Sabrina incident.”

“What was that all about?” Alexandre asks.

“Ugh.” I drop my head into my hands. “An unforeseen glitch.”

“I don’t understand. Didn’t he ask for cupcakes? You gave him cupcakes. I saw them. They looked perfect. What’s there to refund? You laced them with something?”

“Nothing like that.” How much more should I tell Alexandre?

If I tell him about the Cakespell, he’ll think I’m crazy or try to use me like Caleb did. Then again, I have no other friends to talk to. “Alex, I have to tell you something, but not here. Can you come to my grandfather’s after school?”

“Sure, I’ll ask my mom to take me.” He picks up his backpack and laptop. “I have something to show you later, which I hope you’ll appreciate. I have to get to class. Au revoir?”

“Auf wiedersehen.”

“Bye.”

I feel bad about Kirk’s predicament, but then again, I don’t. He deserves what the Cakespell backfired on him. But what about when customers I actually like have a bad experience? Should I return money then? I know there’s no guaranteed results, but I can’t help but feel directly responsible. I mean, they were my feelings.

I toss my garbage away, and that’s when I see it. A bulletin board displaying a bunch of bright pink flyers that say, “EAT THIS!” And there’s Wendy Rivera looking over her shoulder holding a tiny cake, dressed in a sex kitten outfit I would say is highly inappropriate and possibly grounds for expulsion in some schools.

Battle of the Bakers this Friday, Oct. 26th

Help Wendy Win against the Cake Witch!

The Cake Witch? There’s a small pic of what’s supposed to be me, Photoshopped to look like the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz. A fire ignites in the pit of my stomach. I rip off the flyers, crumple them up, and toss them into the trash.

First of all, I will be winning Battle of the Bakers. My cakes were known to make mouths water and tummies tingle long before I ever activated the Cakespell. And second of all, I’m not just any witch. I’m a freakin’ SVAKHA, baby. If anyone is going to insult me, they better get it right.

Eighteen

Whose car should drive by right as I’m getting home to Papa’s? Caleb slows down, waves at me, then drives on. Does he want to talk to me, or just stalk me? I give him the finger and slam the door. Fine, not true. I wave and smile back.

#PatheticSap

Today’s order is small, thank goodness. I’m baking cinnamon vanilla cake with dulce de leche buttercream, making a mental note to add that to my Battle Cupcake List. While it cools, I lie down to decompress my scrambled brains.

My Spanish project is due soon, and I’m only halfway through it. The Rules and Regulations packet, which I haven’t had a chance to read sits on my nightstand. Kirk wants his money back, my best friend and I are still not talking, and the man I’ve loved all my life can’t decide who he wants.

Who needs this mess?

When Alexandre arrives, he’s wearing a buttoned-down blue shirt and he’s brushed his hair. “You look nice,” I say. “Got a job or something?”

He closes the front door behind him. “Actually, yes. Working for you.”

“Ha!” I lead him to my room. Papa waves hello and gives me a wary glance for bringing a boy to my room. I shake my head to show him it’s not like that. Papa’s stink eyes are not convinced.

“What did you want to tell me earlier, Rosie?”

I throw myself on my bed. Alexandre sets up at the desk, sliding my laptop aside to make room for his entire workstation. “You brought a printer? Who goes around with a printer?”

“Everyone makes fun until they need one. Go ahead, what do you have to tell me?”

I close my eyes. I feel like I’m with a therapist. “Remember Kirk today and all the girls who were mad at him? How he came to me for cupcakes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s more to that story.”

“Please don’t tell me the witch rumors are true. I saw that poster. Wendy is going to play dirty. You need to be ready.”

“Did you tear it down for me?”

“No, but I drew a mustache and albatross wings on about twenty of them.”

I laugh, imagining Alexandre sneaking down the hallways with a cape and mask, vandalizing Wendy’s posters. “I love you. So much,” I tell him.

“I know.” He taps at his keyboard.

We’re quiet for a moment. I don’t know how to tell Alexandre that the witch rumors are, in fact, true. I think of my mother telling Papa how she lost her friends when word started to get around. Maybe it’s better if nobody knows for sure.

But I love him. So I’ll tell him some of it. “Alright, this might sound crazy, but… About a month ago, I acquired my grandmother’s old baking stuff. When I did, I unleashed something.”

“Something?” He raises an eyebrow.

“A love spell. My grandmother and great-grandmother could both do it. We’re svakhas—matchmakers. Everything I bake gets infused with love. Well, almost everything.” I wait for a reaction, but Alex only stares at me. It’s like someone has shot him with a tiny stun gun. “That’s what happened at first, but the last two orders haven’t come out that way.”

“Okayyy…”

I explain about my emotions being baked into the cakes. I tell him about Kirk’s cupcake batch coming out half happy, half angry.

“You’re jesting, right?” he says, deadpan.

“I wish. People come to me for my spells, not my cake. Which sucks. Because my cake is really good!” I pout.

Silence. Big brown eyes droop and assess.

“Alex? What are you thinking right now?”

“I’m wondering when was the last time I had your cake.” He blinks.

I smile, relieved. “It wouldn’t have worked on you anyway. The baker can’t be the giver. That’s one of the rules.”

“There’s rules to magical love spells?”

I sit up, clasp my hands, and explain everything I know about the Cakespell. He doesn’t have to believe me. I only need him to listen. I know how crazy it all sounds, but we can’t continue to be friends unless he’s heard it all. “And so…in a way, it’s kind of witchcraft, but not the Hollywood wart-nose witch kind. It’s just energy,” I say, using Papa’s famous words to my mother.

“So, in essence, your electric mixers are your cauldrons.”

I smile so big, I have to bite it back. “Yeah, something like that. You still want to be my assistant?”

“Of course, but…”

“Watch.” I grab my laptop and log onto my cake email. “See? This lady is complaining she got an upset stomach after eating my cake. This guy is complaining about feelings of ‘severe loneliness’ coming from his slice. What am I supposed to do, Alex? I’ll have to give back all the money.”

Finally, he lets go of a breath, rubs his eyes, and cracks his knuckles. “No. First of all, you need a disclaimer at the bottom of your order form saying you are not responsible for people’s sad feelings.” His fingers hook into air quotes. “That’s just…dumb, for lack of a better word. There’s no proof that you can make people happy. Not saying that you’re lying about this Cakespell thing. Just saying, if someone pays you for something they believe in, they can’t get a refund.”

“Okay, good.”

“Second, that Kirk guy got what he deserved for being an idiot. You can’t expect to trick a hundred girls into liking you and not catch slack for it. So, screw him. Third, everybody’s always loved your cake. You have a natural talent, a je ne sais quoi, not only for making it moist and delicious, but for decorating. You’re a beast, and your grandmother’s baking tools did not make that happen.”

“Aww, thanks.”

“So yes, you might be getting more orders because of this magic,” he stresses with finger quotes again, “which I understand you feel is like cheating, but realize you’d be getting those orders with or without the reputation, right? You’re just talented, Rosie.”

I can’t help my big smile. I get up to give him a hug, but he swivels in his chair like he just remembered something and quickly starts tapping away on his laptop. I stand awkwardly next to him instead.

Maybe I should come right out and ask Alexandre if he’s gay. I mean, he’s different from other boys, he’s never mentioned liking anybody, plus every other gay stereotype under the sun, but none of this changes the fact that I am seriously crushing on him right now.

“Observe what I have for you.” He pushes his mouse around. “It goes with your 40’s style. If you don’t like it, please tell me.”

He pulls up the old wartime poster of Rosie the Riveter, when women stepped up to do men’s jobs while they were off fighting in WWII. She wears a blue jumpsuit, red bandana on her hair, and a no-nonsense expression. Only it’s my face he seamlessly worked in, instead of Rosie’s. I’m holding a pink, glittery cupcake. The names of all my cupcakes serve as a light background. “Do you like it?”

Wow. That is insanely amazing. He must have worked a long time on this. I can’t stop staring at it. “Rosie, the Baker. I love it, Alex.” I stare at myself in print. I look strong and confident. “It’s absolutely perfect.”

He nods, happy with his work. “Good. Then I need to work this into a flyer, print ASAP, and post them all over school tomorrow.” He swivels back to his screen, moves around windows, selects print options, and I can only stand here, watching him in total awe.

Alex made that for me. He went through all that trouble for me. I know he enjoys making graphic designs and all, but I couldn’t have done this on my own. I feel so grateful. Whether or not he likes it, I crouch down and give him a bear hug from behind. He stops what he’s doing long enough to reach up and ruffle my hair as a “you’re welcome” then goes back to working his own magic.

I lie in bed, exhausted after finishing baking. The cake will be ready for pickup while I’m at school tomorrow. Further ignoring my Spanish project, I watch Singing in the Rain on my iPad. I just can’t work anymore. Not baking, not homework. It’s been a tiring day. Besides everything that’s happening, no sign of Sabrina either.

It’s been five days since I talked to her.

Maybe I should apologize. It’s not like she can control people falling in love with her.

Still, she accepted the cake from Caleb knowing about the Cakespell, and that wasn’t cool.

I hear Papa and Sheila’s laughter in the living room. I don’t know why, but it sends me into tears. Fat, rolling blobs run down my cheeks and hang off my chin. I blot them with my sleeve, fighting off sleep a few minutes more, so I can watch this scene—Debbie Reynolds saying goodnight to Gene Kelly with a kiss.

Why can’t it be simple like that all the time?

Why does love have to be so complicated?

I’ve never felt this stressed before. Is this how life is supposed to be? Random, sparkling gemstone moments embedded deep inside the dull bedrock of everyday life? Look at Gene Kelly. What’s his secret? How come he got to sing and dance in his dapper coat and hat, swinging off lampposts, spinning his happy umbrella, whereas I got Cake Nazi for a mother, two non-boyfriends, and a best friend who sucks?

Because Gene lives inside his fantasy world, and I live in real life.

Shut up and go to sleep now, Rosie the Baker tells me. Pity party over. Tomorrow is a new day.

Okay, I reply. You’re in charge now. Don’t let me down.

Nineteen

It’s only third period, and already, I’ve been called five different names, everything from witch to bitch, to rising star by Sperm-Man, and, because of Alexandre’s early morning flyer-posting session, I’m now “sexy motherbaker” and “pinup poser.”

His flyer came out awesome. It doesn’t bash Wendy like she did to me. That’s just not me, and I believe in karma now. BOY, do I believe in karma. It only focuses on my “old-fashioned delights with a modern twist,” with the supercool composite of myself as Rosie. Hopefully, people will appreciate that I, unlike Wendy, play nice.

I choose to focus on my strengths. So there.

But all this “cake witch” bashing has had an interesting effect on me. I give zero effs now. I’ve started to grow a thicker skin. Negative comments are only people’s reactions and perceptions. They have nothing to do with me personally. So I’ll just wear my red-lipstick smile and keep my eyes on the prize. Which includes—the $250 gift card for baking supplies, positive notoriety and exposure for my kitchen’s creations.

Most of all, the ability to flip my mother off and tell her HA-HA, I TOLD YOU SO!

“Nice poster, Rose. I’m definitely going to vote for you,” someone says just before I walk into class.

It’s a petite girl with a tall, long-haired boyfriend. “Thanks.”

Her boyfriend agrees. “Yeah, but be careful with Wendy. She talks a lot of smack.”

Okay, so maybe I care a little about what people say. “Like?”

“She’s saying you use black magic. She says you made half the school’s girls be mad at Kirk Engle for passing out cupcakes. She says she’ll find a way to disqualify you at the Battle of the Bakers if you keep it up. Honestly, I think she’s just jealous.”

I break into a nervous giggle. “Where does it say I can’t use black magic?” I ask, feeling brave. Not that anyone can prove it. “The Witchcraft and Wizardry Rulebook, Rule VI, Section A, Clause iii?”

The couple laughs and heads off. “Good one, Rosie. See you Friday!”

“Bye.”

“I like her,” I hear the girl say.

“Yeah, she’s funny.”

Whoa. First of all, I made a joke out loud, using my own voice, making not one, but two people laugh. And second, I just made two new fans. I really do feel like a living Rosie the Riveter “We Can Do It!” poster.

But then, Señora Fuentes has to go and remind us about the Spanish country project due in one day, ruining my euphoria. ¡Gracias, so mucho, señora!

A bunch of us sit on the curb after school to wait for our late bus. I pull out my flyer to admire it. I can’t get over how great it looks. The glittery cupcake is the proverbial icing on the cake. Alexandre is going to be really talented at whatever he’s going to be.

A shadow blocks the sun, darkening the flyer. “It’s really gorgeous.”

I know that voice. I shield my eyes from the sun. “Hey.”

Sabs squats down, her black hair almost touching the ground, and I have to say, it’s nice to see those blue eyes again. “Can I sit?”

“Sure.” I scooch over a bit and fold the flyer.

Sabs holds her hand out. “Can I see?”

I hand her the thick paper and she studies it. “This is the work of Alexandre.”

“Who else?”

“He’s the only other person I know as talented as you.”

“I’m blown away by it, actually,” I agree. “And thanks.”

It’s quiet a few seconds. Then, she pops up, real animated. “I’m proud of you. You had this vision of what you wanted to accomplish, and you did it. Most people I know can’t say the same, including me. So, for whatever that’s worth.” She scans the row of kids waiting, the stop sign, the houses across the street, anything but me.

“Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you. You believed in me,” I say, because it’s true. Without Sabrina telling me I’m a goddess and buying that dress for me, I might still be pretending it all in my head instead of manifesting it.

Maybe Sabrina’s a witch too. Alexandre, Sabs, and I should all start a coven.

“All the more reason why I was hurt by what happened the other day,” I say.

“Yeah, about that…” She turns to me. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought you knew that I liked Caleb, too. I mean, we’ve always acted like idiots when he’s around. We have for years, haven’t we?”

“Yes, but you’ve also acted like I’m stupid for liking him, so I had no way of knowing.”

“That’s only lately,” she says. “Because I noticed him starting to like me, so I was hoping it wouldn’t happen. Because I knew how you felt about him. I could tell it was going to be a problem.”

“I didn’t know you liked him-liked him. I thought you just liked him.”

Her hands stress her words. “I did just like him, as a friend, but then he began staring at me, showing up at your house, and I think I didn’t want to believe that he was doing that for me. Because it would disappoint you. So I played it off, telling you he was interested in you, because honestly, I was tired of hearing you hate on yourself.” She rubs her forehead. “I don’t know if I’m making any sense.”

“But that’s called ‘false hope,’ Sabs. You gave me false hope. I don’t know if you realize, but I look up to you, so of course I’m going to believe anything you say.”

“Gah, it’s so complicated. Just know that I’m sorry. And I didn’t eat the cake.”

“Only because you don’t like red velvet,” I say.

“No. Because I love you.” Her eyes pierce through me. “It could’ve been your amazing vanilla with almond buttercream, and I still wouldn’t have eaten it.”

I lay my head on her shoulder.

She rests her hand on my hand, then I rest my other hand on her other hand, and we play hand-slap a few times. “You sure you haven’t gone out with him?” I laugh.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you did. Or if you want to. Just…tell me how he kisses, how his hands feel. I’ll live vicariously through you.”

She holds back a giggle, but then the stress all comes rolling out until we’re both snorting with tears coming out of our eyeballs. “I’m not going to kiss him, Rosie. I’m still determined to get him to want you. I’ll help you get his attention, if you still want.”

“Forcing things is a bad idea,” I tell her. “I’ve kind of been realizing that. I need to accept that he just doesn’t like me that way. Same way I need to accept that you’re beautiful and perfect in every way.”

“Rose, I am so not perfect. Look…” She grabs her thigh to show me her “cellulite,” which is, in reality, actually just a perfect chunk of shiny, lean muscle.

“Oh, my God. Look at that hunk of fat. You cow.”

She shrugs. “Can I come home with you?”

“I guess I can let you.”

“I’ll do whatever. Just tell me, and I’ll do it. I missed you, Rosie. I missed my best friend.”

“I appreciate that,” I say, “because I’m actually tired of replying to my customers’ emails. Can you handle that again? You’re good at PR, and I’m misanthropic at heart, you know this.”

“Yes. I would love that.” She taps her phone screen. “As a matter of fact, let me check your messages right now.”

“Oh. And since you’re coming home with me, which by the way, is now Papa’s…” I wait for her mouth to drop open before continuing. “Yeah. You can help me start the decorations for the battle’s cupcakes. I’ll need hundreds of tiny fondant flowers, mini pumpkins, and whatnot.”

“Only hundreds? I’ll try, but I’m not artistic. I can’t even draw a stick figure. Oh, wow, what’s with all these emails? Have you been slacking?”

“No, I’m keeping up with my orders. It’s school that’s killing me. Decorations are easy. You roll the fondant out, cut them with a cutter, sprinkle on some glitter. Simple.”

“Simple. Sure, okay.” Just then, the bus rumbles around the corner and screeches to a stop. We all form a line of zombies on the curb. “It’s not simple, Rose. You just make it look simple. That’s what geniuses do.”

She steps onto the bus ahead of me. I know that everything is going to be okay between us. “Thanks, Sabs.”

“Aaaannnd, you just got a new order. Cheerleading squad wants fifty cupcakes for a cheerleader’s birthday before the game tomorrow. Coach will pay for it. Can you do it?”

“Are you serious? I was hoping to catch some sleep.”

“You just said you were handling your orders just fine.”

I am. I mean, I was. I want to run a business, and here I am, running a business. Plus my Spanish project, plus getting the contest cupcakes ready for Friday. I don’t know if I can do it all, but I refuse to let my mom be right about a cake business being overwhelming. I will figure out how to handle it all.

If I can’t, I lose, she wins. And there’s no way I’m going to let that happen. Besides, after a million gazillion cupcakes, what’s fifty more? I plonk down next to Sabs on the bus seat, staring straight ahead. “Tell them yes.”

Twenty

I know what I have to do. In my heart, I should let Caleb go, only I can’t.

Obsessing over someone for ten years is no joke, especially when ten years is two-thirds of your life. He’s worse than caffeine, worse than my sugar addiction. My head tells me to move on, find someone new, or be alone. We actually have nothing in common, nothing here to see, keep it moving, folks.

But my heart still aches. I still see his emerald eyes, flecked with a color like golden cupcakes fresh out of the oven. Maybe it’s the wrong time. Maybe he’ll grow to love me one day. Maybe our love is more the Bogart–Bergman kind, the standing-on-a-runway-in-Casablanca-looking-into-each-other’s-eyes-while-your-plane-awaits kind.

Maybe…

Caleb insists I board the plane destined for America, but I can’t. I can’t go without him. “But Caleb, no, I…”

“Now, Rose, you’ve got to listen to me. You have any idea what you’d have to look forward to if you stayed here? Nine chances out of ten, we’d both wind up in a concentration camp, isn’t that right, Sabrina?”

Captain Sabrina nods at me sadly. “I’m afraid Major Caleb would insist you board.”

No. I bite my lip. I don’t want to leave without him. I want to stay here in Casablanca with Caleb. Oh, why can’t we be together? “You’re only saying this to make me go,” I sob.

“I’m saying it because it’s true. Inside of us, we both know you belong with Alexandre. You’re part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground, and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”

His gray eyes sparkle in the diffused light of the silver fog. How can he tell me I belong with Alexandre? Doesn’t he know that Alex doesn’t think of me that way? What kind of confusing daydream is this? “But what about us?” I ask.

“We’ll always have Paris…we lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.”

“When I said I would never leave you.”

“And you never will…”

My eyes shed silent, silver tears. Doesn’t he love me? If he did, he wouldn’t be sending me away. I must move on. Why does love have to be so hard?

“Now, now…” Caleb says, lifting my chin so our eyes meet. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Violins chime in our ears. These violins follow us everywhere, I swear.

As much as I hate to admit it, I get it. It’s time to move on.

We’ll always have memories. And Paris.

“Rosie?”

“Hmm?” Where am I? Papa’s kitchen. At the counter. Cupcakes cooling on their racks. I’m staring into my laptop screen, only my eyes were closed a moment ago. Something smells weird. A hand settles on my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin. “Yes?”

Sabrina stares at me. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You’re doing that zone thing again.”

“I’m fine.” Holy crap, she scared me.

“You were asleep.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Then why are your cupcakes burning?”

“What?” I shake off the grogginess. “Crap!” Lurching at the oven, I yank it open and pull out the four trays of twelve cupcakes inside, tossing them onto the counter and waving off the smoke. They’re dark brown, not so very golden. No way can I use these.

Sabrina throws open the window. We fan the smoke outside for the next thirty minutes. Thank goodness Papa is at Zumba with Sheila. “I finished all the flowers you wanted.” Sabs points to the dinette table.

“Thanks, Sabs.” I examine the flowers. A little on the amateur side, but they’ll do.

“Is there anything else you need? It’s already 8:30. I have to get home for dinner.”

“No, not really. Actually, yes!” One more thing. At this rate, I’ll finish at three in the morning only to wake up at six. “Please don’t kill me, but I need one more thing.”

Sabrina smirks. “Wow, you’re really milking my guilt for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, but my Spanish project, it’s not finished. If I fail, I can’t bake in the contest on Friday. Do you think you can finish it for me? I already have seventy-five percent of it done. I just need the last couple pages written, printed, and pieces glued onto my board.”

“Oh, that’s it, huh? I won’t be done ‘til three in the morning.”

“Me neither with these cupcakes.” My puppy dog eyes beg. She is my best friend, and I would do anything to help her out if she were in a bind, and she did steal my thunder and non-boyfriend last week.

“Fair enough.” She sighs. “Give it to me. I’ll bring it with me to school tomorrow.”

“Sabs, thank you!” I pull her skinny body into me. I can’t believe I was mad at her for almost a whole week. “I missed you. I really did.”

She hugs me harder. “I thought I had really ruined our friendship.”

“Nothing could ruin it. Not even Caleb.”

After Sabs goes home, Papa gets home and starts helping me in the kitchen with Sheila. I don’t refuse it. Sheila cuts out shapes of fall leaves for my pumpkin cupcakes, and Papa gets all the ingredients set up for my chocolate set. By midnight, both of them are exhausted, and they head off to the front door to say goodnight.

Papa comes back a few minutes later. “Don’t stay up too late, pumpkin. You need to be awake in less than six hours.”

“I won’t,” I say, though it’ll be a while before my head hits the pillow. I search for another baking tray to put the finished cupcakes on, cover them in plastic, and take to the dining room. I’m running out of space to put these suckers. I’m out of steam as well.

But this is the life I wanted. And sugar and spice…they come at a price.

I hit snooze twice. Is that the sun coming up? Ugh.

I’m barely awake but I mange to shower, brush my teeth, and get dressed. Slipping on a vintage cream blouse with a bow at the neckline, I add jeans and work my hair into a tight ponytail, swiping on bright red lipstick to create the illusion of vibrancy on my dead face.

When I text Sabrina asking if she was able to finish the project, she doesn’t reply. Alexandre texts the sticking-tongue-out face. I reply by blasting a cupcake GIF fifty times.

At school, my first course of action is to drop off the cheerleader cupcakes in the Athletics Office with Coach Jones, who gushes and scoops me into a one-arm hug. “Amazing! Perfect! The girls will love them! Josie will love them! Thank you, thank you for making them on such short notice, Rosie!”

“You’re welcome. I got three hours of sleep, so I’m good.” I note her expression of concern, then zombie-walk out of there. In the hallway, I feel like I’m navigating behind large sheets of glass. So this is exhaustion.

Flyers of me are everywhere. A bunch of people I’ve never seen wave at me, so I wave back. “Rosiiiieeeee!” they cheer. One pauses to take a selfie with me. Good thing I dressed up cute today and added plenty of under-eye concealer. I smile, while she makes a duck face.

“Send me that,” I ask her.

Sabs finally replies to my text. She is alive. We agree to meet outside of Spanish. She has a look of extreme satisfaction on her face. “You like it?” She flips my board around, and I DIE. It’s the most incredible project on Chile I have ever seen, construction paper-framed color printouts, pretty shiny border, and little flags and food knick-knacks glued on.

“Wow, where did you get those?” I touch the little flags.

“My mom’s craft room. She has a box full of world flags, and wouldn’t you know it, she’s never used Chile for anything.” She beams. “I guess getting a less-popular country worked in your favor.”

“Having you around worked in my favor. I can’t thank you enough.” I take the project from her hands. I’m so going to get an A on this.

“Anytime. Oh, and hey…can you take a break from the cupcakes tonight, so we can go to the football game? Please? You haven’t come to a single one since school started.”

“I wish I could, Sabs. But the contest is in two days, and I’m only halfway through baking. Besides, I thought you were going to help me.”

“I was, I am, but come on. Caleb will be there, playing with the band. Maybe if he sees you, it’ll make a huge difference. It’ll also be good for PR if the whole school sees you being involved.”

The bell’s about to ring. “They’ll see me Friday. Besides, I don’t know…” Caleb and I said goodbye at the plane in Casablanca. It’s no use. “Sabs, he likes you, not me. Maybe one day.”

“Maybe one day? Rose, you sound like one of your old movies. Just come. If only because you need to get out. You can skip school tomorrow and bake all day, can’t you?”

Hmm. Not a bad idea. I’ve never skipped class without being deathly ill, but this whole baking contest really is Dr. O’Dell’s idea, so she would understand if I didn’t come tomorrow, on account of making a gajillion cupcakes for her fundraiser and all. Earning our school a ton of money should count as an excused absence, right?

“Fine, I’ll go.”

Her face lights up. “Seriously? I didn’t think it would work. Nice. I’ll pick you up at six. Text me later.” She runs off. I guess I’m going to a football game tonight after all. Good thing I stood my ground.

After school, Alexandre calls to ask if I want to hang out with him at either of our houses. I tell him about my decision to venture over to the football game. “Why don’t you come with me?” I ask him.

“A football game?”

“Why, what’s wrong with that?” I ask, as though I’ve suddenly become the football type.

“Nothing, I just didn’t peg you for the football type, that’s all.”

It’s like we’re twins.

“I’m not, but Sabrina asked me to. You sure you don’t want to come?”

“Nah, thanks. Not into football. I have something else I’m designing for you. I’ll show it to you tomorrow.”

“Another something? Wow. Hey, I’m not paying you overtime.” I smile.

“I don’t ever want your money, Rose. I help you, because I want to.”

“Duly noted.”

A moment of silence falls between us. “Anyway, until tomorrow.”

“Okay, bye.” I hang up and drop my phone to my chest.

I’m in an awkward daze. Alexandre is disappointed that I’m going to watch football instead of hang out with him. In more than the standard shunned-friend kind of way, that is. I wish I had the energy to figure this out, but I’m falling asleep, and so I… dream… of… winning… cupcakes…

and…

money…

And fame.

And doing it my way.

In the crowded stands, I’m reminded why I never go to these games. Too many people all screaming their heads off over a weirdly-shaped ball and burly boys killing each other while trying to run back and forth for some odd reason.

I sit with Sabs and a bunch of her friends whose names I barely know—Angela, Synthia—soaking in the bright lights, drumline cadences, energy of the crowd, camaraderie, but most of all, the back of Caleb’s head way down in the stands where the band sits, stands, sits, stands every time the war chant plays.

“How did the cheerios’ cupcakes turn out?” Sabrina takes a break from talking to Synthia to talk to me. She claps at something I obviously missed down on the field. I clap along, pretending to know what it was.

“Super cute. Here, I’ll show you.” I locate the last five pics I took this morning of the cheerleaders’ purple and silver treats with glittered pom-poms all over them. Sabrina’s friends lean over to get a look, too.

“You did that?” They all ooh and ahh, returning to chat in their seats again.

“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” Sabrina says to Synthia.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “Coach told me they would sing Happy Birthday to Josie before the game. I just hope they’re not mad at each other right now, with the way I’ve been feeling.” Glancing down at the cheerleaders, I half-expect to catch them yanking out each other’s hair, but so far, they look civil. However, for a pep squad, they don’t look too peppy. “Are they always so slow?”

Sabrina watches them too. “No. You’re right. They’re usually high energy. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. They don’t look like they won a county competition last week.”

“Maybe they partied a little too hard before the game?”

“Maybe.”

The cheerleaders begin working through a routine. Three girls line up in a row, while two more jump onto their shoulders, wobbly at best. As they’re hoisted up, one of them trembles like she’s about to fall, then two of the bottom girls look like they’re struggling with the weight. One actually releases a leg she’s supposed to be holding, so she can stifle a yawn.

“Hold that leg, girl,” I mutter.

The cheerleaders misplace their footing and grip, and two girls up top lose their balance. They come crashing down onto the shoulders of the girls at the base. The crowd gasps, Sabrina gasps, and I gasp. We all gasp.

“Did you see that?” Sabrina shoots out of her seat.

“That looked like it hurt.”

“And Coach doesn’t even care. Or she didn’t see it.” Sabrina shakes her head in disbelief.

“Where is she?” I crane my neck for a better view, but everyone in front of us is standing and gawking at what happened.

“Right there. Her head’s down. Doesn’t look like she feels well,” a guy says in the row right below us.

“Who doesn’t?” Sabrina cranes her neck. “Coach?”

What’s going on with the squad? Are they sick off my cake? Please tell me they’re not. I would feel so guilty, and I don’t think I could handle another mishap. It’s not like I felt sick last night or anything. I wasn’t angry at Caleb. In fact, I was emotionally fine, only falling asleep from exhaustion standing at the counter maybe—

Oh, shitake mushrooms. “No.”

I can only stare ahead. As spectators quickly resume their seats, I spot Coach Jones, head down on a table at the sidelines.

“What? What is it?” Sabs asks, following my gaze.

“She’s not sick,” I whisper.

“Then what is it?”

The cheerleaders, all of them, begin taking seats in the first row of bleachers, resting instead of continuing their routine. One by one, they lay down their heads on the shoulders of the girls next to them. One by one, they slump over as though this is a great time for a nap.

“Coach…the girls…all of them,” I say. “They’re exhausted.”

Twenty-One

The witch strikes again!

Wendy posts this on her Instagram after the football game, eliciting a hundred-some comments from her friends making fun of me. I ignore it, spending most of the day going back to my wallflower ways, blending into the crowd.

One day, I’m going to be making gorgeous wedding cakes for celebrities, not a thousand stinky cupcakes for a stinky school fundraiser, and I won’t have to deal with this crap.

I call all hands on deck. After school, Sabrina, Alexandre, even Caleb showed up to help me cut fondant shapes, glitter the cupcakes, and box everything by the door for tomorrow night’s contest. Papa and Sheila can’t believe the team I’ve assembled. “It’s a real bakery in here.” Sheila hangs off my grandfather’s arm watching the busy kitchen.

I smile proudly. “Yeah. It is.”

Sabrina and Caleb talk about school the whole time. I wish I could say it doesn’t bother me, but it does. “I know, right?” Caleb says to Sabs, something about Battle of the Bakers. “They shouldn’t do it by student votes next year. They should let the judges decide, and those should only be baking professionals. That way, Rose has a better chance.”

Ugh, thanks, Caleb. Because Rose is so unpopular.

“Yeah,” Sabrina agrees. “It doesn’t help that everyone thinks she’s a witch now either.”

“Hey, guys? I’m right here,” I say, throwing the last of my carrots into the food processor. “Can you talk about something else? I’m trying to stay positive.” I turn the food processor on to drown out their voices.

“Besides…” Alex taps away at his laptop. “I have proof to the contrary.”

“What do you mean?” Sabrina says.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

When I turn the mixer off, Sabrina whispers by my side. “Did it affect them, you think?” She’s talking about the cheerleaders’ sleepy episode last night. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day. A hard knot forms in my stomach. “You okay?” Sabs touches my arm.

“No.” I rest my head on the counter. At some point, I have to stop baking, stop wearing Nana’s apron, stop infusing the Cakespell, or else the stress is going to find its way into every customer who’s ever ordered from me.

I wanted to run a cake business, not sell my soul.

Papa has to face the facts—I am not a happy, peppy Nana and never will be. I am moody, and I am fifteen, and I probably shouldn’t have inherited the Cakespell yet.

As we work, I’m hyper-aware of Caleb. I avoid his eyes. I don’t want to see any pity there, nor do I care to catch him exchanging googly eyes with Sabrina. But the truth is, my stomach still flips when I hear his voice, when he laughs at Sabs’ jokes, or when he directly asks me, “Rose, you want these boxes all together or sorted by type?”

“Sorted.” And then I make the mistake of looking up, and I do catch his eyes, and he smiles at me, and while I’m secretly swooning, I feel Alexandre’s disapproving stance from my other side without even looking at him.

“Guys, come here, I want to show you something.” Alex taps on his keyboard and shifts the screen for us to see. “I created a survey on the school page. ‘Who do you think will win the Battle of the Bakers?’ See? Wendy has forty-eight percent of the votes. You have fifty-one percent of the votes.”

I stare at the screen. Am I really ahead of Wendy?

“And one percent say they’re undecided,” Alex adds.

“Oh, wow.” I had no idea I was in favor. A spike of confidence shoots through me. “That’s as of when?”

“As of now. It’s up to the minute current.”

“Yeah, baby!” Sabrina gives me a high five and goes back to sorting cupcake boxes.

“Congrats, Rosie.” Caleb smiles at me in that brotherly way that’s starting to irk me.

“Thanks.” I try not to care about him.

Alexandre points to the computer screen. “Wendy’s post about you and the cheerleader mishap hasn’t affected your rating. If it did, it wasn’t by much. You’re still in the lead.”

“Weird, ‘cause I don’t feel in the lead,” I say. “I feel shitty about all the problems I’ve caused.”

Alexandre’s big eyes regard me seriously. “You’ve got this, Rose. Wendy pales in comparison to everyone’s favorite—you. Maybe people like the witch angle.” He winks.

I smile at Alexandre.

Then Caleb says, “Yeah, and considering how hot Wendy is…”

We all look at him. What the eff is that supposed to mean? Sabrina and Alexandre both glare at him, while I tear my gaze away. I don’t have time for Caleb right now. Imagine that.

“What I mean is, hotness doesn’t matter in this battle,” Caleb tries to fix his idiotic comment. “Not that you’re not hot, too, Rosie. That’s not what I mean.”

“Shut up!” Sabrina and Alex both yell at Caleb.

One more conduction of my negative emotions, and the scale might tip in Wendy’s favor. I focus on Alex’s comment about me instead and force that feeling straight into the next batch of carrot cupcakes, knowing that whoever eats them will be grinning from ear to ear, too.

The doorbell rings. Papa says, “I’ll get it. You kids keep working, and working, and working…”

A minute later, my heart sinks. I hear Lovely Mother’s voice. “What’s going on here?” She appears at the kitchen counter to behold the cake-making operation.

“Getting ready for the Battle of the Bakers,” Sabs says, like it’s obvious. Did she forget my mom doesn’t want me doing this?

“Yes, I see that, Sabrina. Thank you so much. Rose, may I speak to you a second?” Arms cross over chest, and I so do not need this right now.

“Mom, I’m kind of busy.”

“Yes. And I’m kind of waiting.”

I sigh and put down my spatula. “Yes?”

“Did I, or didn’t I warn you that this would overtake your life?”

“Yes, you did.”

She stares at my hips like I have a live chicken clinging to them.

“What? What’s wrong?” I touch Nana’s apron. “Cake batter?”

“Nothing. I just…I haven’t seen that in years. I…” Her expression softens, and her cheeks flush. Suddenly, she waves her hands in front of her eyes to dry them. “I didn’t expect to ever see it again, that’s all.”

“Oh.” I look down at Nana’s crème and green apron with the little cherries. “Cool that it has a new life, isn’t it?” I know how my mom is feeling. I felt the same when I first saw the apron again.

She dabs at her eyes with her manicured fingertips. Something occurs to her, though, and she leans in to peer inside the front pocket of Nana’s apron. The pentagram is there, same way it’s been for some seventy-five years. Her eyes lock with mine.

I push her hand away. I don’t want my friends seeing it.

Any softness melts away, as she remembers her original purpose. “Rose, you can’t participate in the baking contest.”

So much for sentimentality. “Why not?”

She sucks in a sharp, impatient breath. “Look, I’m not here to make a scene. I know this is important to you, but we had a deal. I even asked Papa to stick to that deal. The deal was that was you wouldn’t bake if your grades dipped below a C, and right now, you have a D in Spanish.”

“No, I don’t,” I say, confused. “I did have a D last week, but I just turned in my project, so maybe my teacher hasn’t put the grade in yet. I’m sure once she does, it’ll be at least a C, possibly even a B. That’s why—”

“It’s not.” She holds up a hand to silence me. “And tomorrow is that event. And I can’t have you sacrificing school for a hobby, Rose. I’m sorry.”

I point to the boxes by the door. “Do you see that? I’ve already baked six hundred cupcakes, Mom. I can’t stop now!”

“Is something the matter?” Papa comes around the corner. He’s probably been listening to the whole thing. Everyone has, judging from how quiet my friends are in the kitchen.

“Papa, please tell her that I can bake. I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”

“Katherine, she’s been working hard,” Papa implores.

“Dad, that’s the problem. She shouldn’t be working hard at this. She should be working hard at her classes. Instead, she’s failing one of them.”

“It’s just Spanish!”

“It’s important!”

“I told you that grade is going up!” I yell.

“Don’t…” She raises her finger at me, her shapely eyes cutting into my skull. “You talk to me that way, Rose. I’m not yelling at you, am I?”

“I’m sorry, but you’re not listening.”

“You are the one who’s not listening!”

“Girls, let’s just stop this,” Papa interjects. “Katherine, haven’t you ever wanted something in your life so bad, it hurt? Can you just imagine for a second what this means to Rose? If she wins this, she wins—”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars, yes I know,” LM interrupts with a sneer. She looks at me. “Yes, I read the school emails to parents, Rose, believe it or not. I know what’s happening.”

“It’s not about the money,” I say.

“It’s about respect,” Papa adds. “From her peers, her teachers…Katherine, it’s an opportunity to shine. Let her. It will fuel her drive to do better in school, not the other way around.” Papa closes his eyes, off-balance from all the arguing.

“You okay?” I ask him. He nods, letting out a tired sigh.

My mom scans the mess and sees everyone glancing at her, as they box cupcakes. She’s feeling the pressure. “If I don’t see a C or higher in the gradebook by tomorrow, you’re not attending.” She turns to leave.

“But what if it’s not posted by tomorrow?” Monday is a Teacher’s Work Day, the day teachers finalize their grades for the report cards. It might not be in by tomorrow, but I can’t push it right now. She’s relenting, and that’s better than anything else she’s said about the topic thus far.

Her face shifts through concern, unhappiness, but also, the realization that she’s losing power. Maybe Frank has softened her. Maybe I should call him right now and thank him for coming into our lives and taking her focus away from me, because, for once, our discussion has not ended in screams.

Sheila peers into the kitchen. “Everything okay in here?”

I watch my mom’s head turn in slow motion, as her gaze lands on the statuesque beauty queen. Her expression changes again from startled, to confused, to hurt. Her eyes question Papa silently. Who’s this?

“Katherine, this is Sheila.” He doesn’t call her his girlfriend, doesn’t have to. From the way Sheila’s hand glides to Papa’s shoulder, it’s enough. Sheila realizes it and extends for a handshake instead.

Mom stares at the wrinkled, manicured hand. Sheila, understanding that she’s probably not going to shake it, lets her hand down slowly. I feel bad for her.

“Mom?” I question. Can’t she be nice for just once?

The room sizzles with energy. I sense the maelstrom of emotions swirling around my mother’s heart. Seeing her father with another woman, a woman not her mom.

My mother’s face reddens, something I’ve never seen before. Her eyes well up, and suddenly, they spill over, as Papa, Sheila, Sabrina, Caleb, Alexandre, and I all witness. She doesn’t even wipe them away. They slide down over her jawline.

Sheila presses her lips into a sad smile. Maybe Papa should’ve prepped my mom for the possibility of one day seeing him with someone new. Maybe my mom feels like people get replaced too easily.

I touch her hand. “It’s okay.”

But I can see that it’s not. She misses Nana more than I realized. Her eyelids squeeze out fat tears. She pulls her hand out from under mine, wipes them away. “Okay.”

Mom grabs her keys off the counter and leaves. I feel her pain as she goes. That had to be a shock seeing Sheila come around the corner like that, much like it was for me when I first saw Papa flirting, especially since she stared at me like I’m Nana’s ghost. I feel bad for all of them. But I have learned one thing—LM isn’t made of stone.

Those were big tears I saw fall out of her face. Deep sadness. I felt it. My mother loved Nana. Loves me too, or else she wouldn’t have come here to “voice her concern.” She has reasons for being crazy. And since I’m not a mother yet, I guess I can’t understand. Calling her LM doesn’t sit right with me anymore, so I need to stop that. From now on.

Twenty-Two

I asked Papa not to wake me in the morning, since I’m skipping school today. So what’s the first thing he does? Knocks on my door and shouts, “Get up, Rosie the Baker! The cupcakes aren’t going to finish themselves!”

“Fuuuuuudge muffins.” I throw off my blanket, blinking against the brightness. He’s right. I have about two hundred cupcakes left to crank out today—by myself. If I’m lucky, I’ll be done by dinner time.

I slog out of bed, tie up my hair, extend my arms, and let Papa tie my apron. I yawn, do the Cakespell chant, yawn again, make coffee, start my big band playlist, and preheat the oven while all still in my PJs. “You have Zumba today?” I ask Papa.

“Nope. Swimming with Sheila.”

I barely break a smile. “Cute.”

“Not cute. A power couple, that’s what we are.”

“Cute,” I mutter.

By lunchtime, I’ve made good progress, but a noise in the house stops me.

Turning my music down, I strain to hear. Maybe it was a background noise in one of these old songs I listen to. Sometimes, you can hear people muttering in them. But then, I hear it again. “Uuhhh…”

I burst out of the kitchen and down the hall, stopping outside Papa’s door.

“Uhhh…”

“Papa?” When I peek into his room, it’s empty. But then I spot a pair of legs, Papa’s legs, lying flat in his bathroom. I’m about to run over to him when I remember this has happened before. When I found him lying in the garden with Yasmine. I freeze in the doorway, unsure what to do.

Are he and Sheila in there? I don’t want to find them doing weird things. “Papa? Sheila?”

Nothing.

If Sheila was here, she’d at least reply, wouldn’t she?

Forget it. I don’t care if Papa is doing it with his girlfriend on the bathroom floor. I have to go in there and see if he’s okay. I run over and pause just outside. He’s alone, wedged between the toilet and the bathtub, wearing his swimming trunks with a towel thrown over him. I drop to my knees. “Papa, are you okay? What happened?”

His eyes are closed, as he lets out a moan.

“Papa?” I feel panic rising from the pit of my stomach into my chest.

His eyes open slightly. “Uhhh.” He grips my hand. I’ve never seen him looking more fragile than right now at this very moment. “Gloria?”

“It’s me, Rose.”

He nods, coming back to reality. “Rose.”

“Yes, you fell. What do I do? Call 911?” Crap, I left my phone in the kitchen. I don’t want to leave him, but I need to call my mom, an ambulance, anyone. I hate that I don’t have Sheila’s number. I never bothered to get it, because I thought she’d be temporary. What a shitty thing to think about her.

Suddenly, he reaches out with both arms. “Help me up.”

“You sure? Maybe you shouldn’t move.” But he’s getting up regardless, so I take a hold of both his hands and pull him to a sitting position.

He grabs a hold of the tub’s edge. “I was getting my towel when everything went black. Lost blood pressure. It’s happened a few times this year.”

“Did you hit your head?” I check his scalp through thin hair strands for any cuts or bruises but don’t see any.

“Don’t think so.” He rubs his head and presses his fingertips into closed eyelids.

My nerves are a mess. “Do I call rescue? I don’t know what to do.” I feel the sting of tears against my eyes. Why am I so helpless all of a sudden?

“I’m alright. Just need help getting up into bed. I’ll relax for a while. Tell…” he pauses, thinking for a moment, “Sheila…I won’t be meeting her at the pool right away.”

“Right away? I don’t think you should go to the pool at all. No offense, Papa, but you don’t look well.”

“Meh.”

“I’m serious.” I grab his hand. He places the other one firmly on the toilet lid, while I wait patiently for him to bring his legs underneath him. I’m impressed by how quickly he does it. All his yoga and Zumba have paid off. I stand and hoist him up as best as I can. “There. Did I lift you okay?”

Scratching his butt, he heads out of the bathroom. “Better than a full Viagra.”

Really? Okay—he’s fine.

“Why do you have to say things like that?”

“Go do whatever you were doing.” He flings my hand away. “I’m fine.” He stumbles a bit before reaching his bed, then pulls back his tightly-made coverlet, sitting on the edge to rest a minute. Grabbing a glass of water and small pill from his nightstand, he swigs back both.

I watch him, thinking how much he’s acting like a stubborn old man.

“What?” He waves me away. “I said go.”

I linger in the doorway. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

He gives me a thumbs’ up while chugging down more water.

Wow. I feel like I just got electroshock therapy, whatever that feels like. I flomp down at the dinette table and stare at the baking trays I abandoned, still filled with batter. My stomach crunches, my hands are shaking, and I don’t feel like baking anymore. I only want to keep an eye on my grandfather.

I check the time. I can finish baking later or pull an all-nighter.

That’s what I’ll do.

Turning the oven off, I twist a stovetop burner onto high and grab Papa’s lentil-making pot, filling it with water then setting it back on the stovetop. While that boils, I search the pantry and pull out dry green pea soup mix. My brain shoots off a million thoughts—how will I get these cupcakes done in time? Should I call his doctor, my mom, or Sheila? My stomach squeezes tighter.

Just get his soup ready, Rose.

The doorbell rings. I’m running over to answer it, but then Sheila uses her key to come in. One look at me, and she melts into a flurry of worry. “Oh, Rosie, are you alright? He just told me what happened.”

My face drops into my hands. I’m going to lose it. “No. I’m not.”

“Honey, it’s okay. Come here.” She hugs me a long time, like my own grandmother would have. Then, she leads me back to the kitchen and checks the stove. “What are you making?”

“Soup. He needs soup.” I hold onto the counter and start crying. What if something bad had happened to him? What if he’d died? I wouldn’t have been able to handle that all by myself.

“Honey, I’ll take it from here. You get back to baking. No worries.” I feel my hair being tugged and a kiss lightly planted on my forehead, the light scent of pressed makeup powder wafting into my nose.

Thank you, Sheila. Thank you for taking over.

She leaves me to my work, but I can’t bake. Not my famous banana walnut cream cheese cupcakes, not my cookies-and-cream ones, which I know will push the judges over the top, not my cinnamon vanilla with dulce de leche buttercream. No, the bake-off will just have to do without them.

Sheila can take care of Papa without me, but I need to be here for him, too. What’s the worst that could happen if I don’t finish the cupcakes? Get fired? You can’t fire a slave. An angry mob of students will chase me down with forks? Dr. OD will disqualify me? No, Wendy will win, proving to my mom and the world that I can’t handle stress.

I unlace Nana’s apron and pull it off, hanging it in its place. A minute later, I’m by Papa’s bedside, ignoring his and Sheila’s concerned faces. She whispers on the phone to the doctor, as I gently take his hands.

“You stubborn girl. I said I was fine,” he mutters.

“Just checking to make sure you’re okay. I’ve made a million cupcakes. Don’t really need more.” The banana walnuts would’ve given me an edge, but it’s okay. Papa is more important. “How are you feeling?”

“Fit as a fiddle.”

“How are fiddles fit exactly?” I smile. “I never got that.”

He tries to smile, but I can see he’s not okay.

Sheila nods. “A hundred micrograms, yes…”

I suddenly feel really happy that my grandfather has her, that he was able to find a good woman after Nana, that he found one as loving and beautiful as this lady right here. I feel guilty for not getting to know her better.

“Thank you so much. Buh-bye.” She hangs up and taps Papa on the foot. “I’m going to go pick up a prescription at the grocery store. Will you be okay?”

Papa nods, eyes closed.

“Great. Be back soon.”

After she leaves, it’s just me and him. A calm comes over me as sunlight filters in through the white blinds of his room. His shoes are lined up perfectly against the wall, old photos in their frames on his dresser. Same as always. “I’ve never seen you like that before,” I tell him. “It scared me.”

He nods. “I’m sorry. Getting old is no walk in the park.”

I run my thumb over his yellowing thumb nail, getting hit with a realization—he won’t be on this earth much longer. Maybe a year, two years, ten years. Either way, he’ll be leaving before me, entering the great beyond, the place all of us long to understand.

“I’ll stay with you as long as you need me to, okay? Even if Sheila is here.” I fight back a sob.

His eyebrows pinch together. “Oh, no, you don’t. You have things to do. You’re not going to waste your time taking care of me.”

“It’s not wasting.”

“Rosie.” A hand touches my chin. I open my eyes to see him staring at me. “Listen to me. You know how you asked me once if I had any regrets, and I said no?” I nod. “Well, I do. I have one.”

“What is it?” I wipe my face.

“Nana was always there for me, always there. If I needed something, she’d stop whatever she was doing to help me. If I wanted attention, she’d stop to tend to my wounds or rub my back. If I was sick, she’d stop baking to take care of me. Just like you’re doing now.”

“That’s what I’ve always loved about her, you guys, your generation. You’re so dedicated to each other. I don’t see that anymore. I’m not baking anymore today. I’ve baked enough.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “That’s just it. Nana could’ve been a huge success. She was talented, so popular. Everyone loved her! She could’ve opened her own bakery, but every time she got close, she had to stop. To be a wife, a mother, to be there for everyone else. And…” He closes his eyes. “I allowed it. She could’ve been a huge sensation, she was that good. She could’ve soared, Rosie.” He swipes my cheeks. “But she didn’t. Because I was the man, the Great Husband, a big baby who needed to be first.”

I get what he’s saying. He did to Nana what my mom is doing to me now, holding me back. I suppose that’s why he let me bake here. I appreciate it, but I don’t care. He’s still sick. “I’m not going back to the kitchen, Papa. I’m done for the day.”

“You stubborn girl. You have a competition tomorrow. Go and finish what you started. Be a star. Show them who Rosie the Baker is. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

“No.”

“Don’t say no to me, young lady.” He shakes a finger at me. “You’re going to go finish those cakes, and you’re going to win that contest tomorrow—”

“Papa—”

“No Papa.” He gives me a don’t-mess-with-me look. “Don’t you dare argue with me. I’ve let you do whatever you want here. I’ve given you the freedom you wanted. This is all I ask in return.”

Dang it. Guilt works surprisingly well.

I lay my head on his arm and more tears spill. I can’t talk. His hand sifts into my hair, like he used to do when I was little when he wanted me to listen, to let his words make their way through my thick skull.

“Rosie, you have a job to do, young lady,” he adds, running his thumb across my eyelids. “And nobody can do it like you can. Nobody. You hear me? So, get to it.”

Twenty-Three

I can’t argue with the alpha male of the Milkovich Family.

Against my will, I get the banana cream cheese cupcakes done.

The cookies-and-cream done.

The cinnamon vanilla with the dulce de leche frosting done.

Wendy Rivera is SO screwed, and she can thank my grandfather!

I still don’t feel right attending Battle of the Bakers knowing that Papa might be sick or that he might need to go to the hospital at any moment. Sheila was awaiting doctors’ orders when I left this morning. I also called my mom before school to tell her to check on him, but she was in a meeting, so I left a message.

I made sure to dress up—my style—to show everybody who’s boss. I channeled Nana and the movie stars of her youth in a chenille skirt, satin top, pin-curled hair, and bright red lipstick.

Alexandre sees me leaving the office before first period. His eyes pop out of his head, jaw drops, and a keyboard he’s holding against his chest goes sliding out of his arms.

“You’re dropping something,” I giggle.

He squats and gathers the board back up. “Wow, you look fantastic, Rose.”

“Thanks.” I smile. I can always count on Alexandre.

“No, truly amazing. Not just saying that. Did you talk to Dr. OD?”

“Just came from seeing her. I had news to tell her.” I told Dr. O’Dell that there was the slightest chance I might not make it tonight, if my grandfather ended up going into the hospital. Sheila was waiting to hear from his doctor this morning before I left.

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me you didn’t get to finish. Sorry I couldn’t help you yesterday.”

“Oh, I got it all done, went to sleep at two this morning, but the thing is,” I pause to take a photo with a group of freshmen who stop to say hello.

“Rosie! Rosie! Rosie!” they chant and saunter away.

“Team Rosie is going to take it tonight!” one of the girls says.

Alexandre smiles. “You were saying? The thing is?”

I hook my arm through his. “Walk me to my first class. I’ll explain. My grandfather got sick yesterday. I don’t know what’s going to happen. If he’s still sick when I get home today, I’m not going to the battle.”

“Are you serious?” he says, slowing down slightly. “We haven’t come this far only for you not to show up.”

It’s a bit off-putting to hear him talk about “we” working this hard when I’ve done all the baking, but he’s right about being a team. He’s invested just as much time making flyers, a website, order form, and everything else. “I know, Alex, but family comes first.”

“Is this because you’re nervous? Because you don’t like talking in public?”

“I am nervous, but it’s not that…”

“Can’t your mom watch over him? Or his girlfriend? I don’t see why it has to be you. We need you here.”

Whoa, what? Where is this coming from? I stop cold in the hallway, students shifting their courses to weave around us. “No, Alex. Papa has taken care of me. He’s been my biggest support. None of this would even be possible if it weren’t for him. If he’s really sick, and I hope he’s not, I can’t just leave his side.”

Alex shakes his head. I can see he doesn’t agree, but he’s not me right now.

“Like I told Dr. OD, in case I can’t be there tonight, I need you and Sabrina to sell the cupcakes instead of me.”

He sighs. “If I must. But I want you to have your moment, you know, to shine like a diamond.” My heart warms like a freshly toasted Pop-Tart. “You deserve it.”

“That…” I reach for his hand, “is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.” Alexandre looks like he wants to say a million things, but there’s less than a minute ‘til the bell. “Time to get a move on,” I add.

“Let’s go.”

Except a wave of Calebness comes swishing into our view, blocking our path, then ebbing and flowing alongside me and Alexandre. Suddenly, I’m the crème middle of an Oreo. Alexandre lets go of my arm.

“Hey, you, ready for the big night?” Caleb punches my bicep lightly. Whereas I would normally go mute at this point, surprisingly, I feel more normal around him.

“Mostly ready, barring a few minor setbacks.” I bat my eyelashes, feeling more diva than ever.

“By the way, I love this sixties retro look you got going.”

Alexandre interjects, “It’s forties, the era style she’s achieving. Forties, not sixties.” I can almost hear him add crétin in his head.

“Whatever, dude.” Caleb side-eyes him. “So, Rose, I’ve been thinking…”

He’s been thinking about what? I feel something coming. At this point, I should be swooning. And I am. Unfortunately. But I try so very hard to tell myself not to. Caleb still hasn’t re-earned his spot on my Future Husbands list.

Caleb clears his throat. “After the bake-off tonight, if you’re not doing anything…”

“Ha, ha, you not doing anything,” Alexandre says in my peripheral. I shoot him a look—will you shut up? About to get asked out here.

I turn my attention back to Caleb whose gaze is on fire toward Alex. “Sorry, what were you saying, Caleb?” I place my hand on my hip, Sabrina-style. I shouldn’t be flirting with him after he hurt me. “If I’m not doing anything?”

“Yeah.” He faces me.

Alexandre slows down too but lingers a few feet away. Does he have to wait around while Caleb proposes? I mean, talks to me? Sheesh.

Just then, who should hurry by but Wendy, stopping in her tracks when she spots Caleb. “Hey, you almost done?” She gives me a momentary look of contempt before smiling back at him. “Can I talk to you a second?”

It’s hard not to notice Alexandre’s eyes rolling around in his face. I agree. Her presence at this precise moment is utterly annoying.

“Hold on one sec,” he tells Wendy. “You know what, Rose? I’ll text you. Or catch you after school at your grandpa’s before you leave for the bakeoff. You’ll need help carrying all the cupcakes, right?”

“Yes, I will. I’ll see you later,” I say all smiles. Good, this will give me time to better prepare how I want to react when he finally asks me out.

My tummy butterflies dissipate. That was a close call, even though Wendy was right there, all fake diplomacy, waiting to talk to him. What did she want? Doesn’t she have cow chip brownies to prepare?

I hurry down the hall, Alexandre still by my side. “Well, that was maladroit,” he mutters.

“What does that mean, awkward? Wendy? Yes.”

“No, the whole exchange. You with your googly eyes all over him.”

“I don’t have googly eyes.”

“You most certainly have googly eyes.”

“And what if I do?” The bell rings. My World History teacher, Ms. Newman, is about to close the door, but I need to hear this out. I face him. “Why would that matter to you?”

“Nothing.” He keeps walking. “Forget I said anything.”

“No, tell me,” I call out.

Alexandre crosses his arms over his keyboard. “It matters to me, because you fall for that guy’s shenanigans every time.”

“What shenanigans?”

“His ‘hey, Rose,’” he imitates an overly-sappy Caleb, “and his, ‘you look hot,’ but then, right when you think he likes you, he uses you. First, to get closer to Sabrina, and now…who knows?” He shrugs. “I don’t know what his agenda is, but you’re blind to his BS.”

Is he kidding?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean by blind?”

“Yes, blind. Can’t you see when a guy doesn’t take the least bit of interest in you? What has he ever done for you that he hasn’t asked to get paid for? Nothing, but you still like him. He doesn’t even know what decade you adore. Please, Rose.”

Wow. Where is this coming from? “So what you’re saying is, that Caleb would never actually like me. That he’s only being fake. That I’m not worthy of his attention. That’s what you’re saying?”

“I never said you weren’t worthy. I’m saying he’s not worthy. Of you.”

I stare at him and his agitated forehead. “God, Alexandre, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re acting like a jealous boyfriend.”

“If you didn’t know better? What do you think you know?”

What the hell brought this on? Why did we escalate from zero to sixty in three-point-five seconds? “Nothing. I know nothing.”

“Fine. Keep ignoring the writing on the wall.”

I have no idea what he’s jabbering about. “You’re crazy. And overprotective, which I appreciate, but I’m a big girl. I can handle this without your help, so back off.”

“That’s fine, I’ll back off,” he says, throwing one hand up in the air. “I’ll back off.”

And he does. All the way to his class, skulking without another word, as students around us, overhearing the whole argument, fall back into motion. While all I can do is stand here, wondering what happened, as if a huge box truck has just careened out of WTF Street and run me over.

Twenty-Four

It’s hard to be happy about Caleb nearly asking me out with Alexandre’s little tirade hanging over my head. What exactly am I blind to? Yes, Caleb wasn’t into me before, but it’s possible he’s changed his mind. People can learn to appreciate, can’t they? Wasn’t that my goal all along? To get him to notice me?

Pfft, Alex, pfffftttt.

The whole bus ride to my corner and on my walk to Papa’s, I check my phone obsessively, for texts and voicemails from Caleb. Nothing. I decide to send him and Sabrina reminder texts to please meet me at Papa’s at 5:30 to start loading the cupcakes into Sabrina’s mom’s car. Maybe that’ll prompt Caleb to call, and we can finish our conversation from earlier.

Turning into Papa’s neighborhood, I drag my feet the last couple of blocks, tired from little sleep, tired from today’s drama, when I freeze. An ambulance sits on the street outside the townhouse—Papa’s townhouse, the Secret Operation Location, my second home.

Air drains from my lungs.

Slow steps. It takes me a moment to register the extra car parked in the driveway—my mother’s Beemer. A few steps closer. The lights of the ambulance spin red and white, red and white, circling silently.

I break into a run, cutting across the street, noticing the people standing outside on the sidewalk. Most I don’t know, but also Jasmine of garden kiss fame, hand clasped over mouth. I reach the front walk. The ambulance door is open.

No siren. No hurry.

A driver clings to the door, awaiting his crew. “Miss, are you family? I need you to step back.”

I feel like throwing up.

Did he fall again? Are they taking him to the hospital this time? I need to see Sheila.

“Miss?”

I need to see my mom.

I walk up the steps, but for some reason, I can’t enter the house. I can only stand at the doorway, staring in. A paramedic says something to somebody behind the kitchen wall. I stare at the photo of Nana and Papa in black-and-white, movie stars from another place and time, up on the wall.

“Miss, I need you to back up, please—”

“He’s my grandfather.”

Voices mumble inside the house, men’s, women’s, strangers. My mom appears from behind the wall. The first thing I notice are her cat eyes. Unpainted, crying. Behind her is Frank, concerned. Mom sees me and manages a tender smile. Her fist clenches a tissue to her mouth. She click-clacks down the hall to me. Frank stays behind with a paramedic.

“Hi baby.” Her arms wrap around me. I feel her shaking.

Baby. When was the last time I heard that?

“What’s going on?” It’s my voice coming out of my mouth, but it sounds like an echo from a faraway place.

She withdraws, eyes down. Her beautiful mouth opens and closes, forming words. Tunnel vision. I feel like I’m going to faint. Her eyes fill up with tears. It’s Papa. Go on home. Frank will drive you. He’ll help you load the cupcakes.

I hear these words, but from another place.

I’ve lost him, haven’t I?

From the sobs pouring from my mother’s chest and the way she leans into me, weak and shaking, I know she heard me. I know in the core of my heart that he’s gone.

I have to hold her body up, console her, my mother’s straight black hair against my cheek, as if she needs the support more than I do. I remember Papa lying in bed, quilted coverlet up to his chest, eyes shut, gripping my hand, the way I last saw him. When we last spoke. Last night.

He’s in there right now. Asleep forever.

My mom is awaiting his transference to the ambulance.

Go on home with Frank, love. I’ll see you over there in a bit.

Meaning, they won’t do it as long as I’m standing here, my young eyes burdened by the finality of death. Part of me wants to push past everybody and make my way inside, scurry up to his bedside, and clutch his hand. What would it feel like? Would he be able to hear me? Would his soul be watching?

I must wander off, because I find myself standing in the small patch of grass in front of the townhouse. I feel my mother’s hands wrap over my shoulders. “Rose, the car is that way, hon. Frank will help you with the cupcakes. I’ll call Sabrina to come help.”

“I’m not going.” I stare at the long street I just came down, the neighborhood that still looks alien to me. I miss their old house, their old neighborhood, a life left behind. I’ll never see it again. This is it, isn’t it? This is what they call “the end of an era.”

My mother speaks. “Yes, you’re going to the Battle of the Bakers. Go and have a good time. You deserve to.”

“Deserve?” I stare at her. “You didn’t want me to before.”

“Well, you can go now, Rose. Really. It’s okay.”

For once, I don’t want to. I want to be with Papa. I want things to be the way they were before. What good is having my mom forbid me from doing stuff if my grandfather’s not around to defend me?

I double over, sobs choking my throat and chest. “Is he in there? Can I see him?”

“He is, but that’s not a good idea, Rose.”

“How did he go?”

“Heart attack…didn’t feel any pain…in bed…” Mom’s words are particles of glitter floating in the wind, wispy and unfocused.

“While sleeping?”

“With Sheila. Poor thing. She’s torn up.”

Wait. My grandfather died while in bed with Sheila? Oh, my GOD. Then he must’ve gone smiling. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Somehow, this feels so appropriate for Papa. “I can’t go tonight.”

“Yes, you can. You will.”

“No, I need to be here with you.” I fall against her shoulder. “I have to keep working…”

“You’ve already baked them all,” she reminds me, wiping my tears.

“You don’t want me to bake.” I look for more excuses. “You don’t want me involved with the Cakespell.”

“Rose,” she sighs.

I only want to crawl into bed and forget about life. Sabrina and Alexandre can sell my cupcakes for me. Dr. O’Dell will understand. I don’t care anymore.

“The Cakespell has a mind of its own. I’m scared of it. One day, it’s the answer to everyone’s prayers, and the next…it’s your worst nightmare. At least it was for me,” Mom explains.

“What happened to you?”

“Besides your father running off with a co-worker?” She scoffs.

“Oh.” I let her take my hands into hers. Such smooth, delicate, pretty skin, and perfectly painted nails. I can’t remember the last time these hands held mine.

“It’s fine. We’ve been better off without him. But look at what you’ve done, all the magic you’ve brought to people’s lives, to my life.” She glances back at Frank, looks at me again.

“I’ve caused just as many problems,” I say.

“You’ll learn to control it with time. Nana was a master. I wasn’t a particularly good svakha, Rose, but you…” She squeezes my hand. “You are a great one. I’m jealous. You said something to me a while ago that struck me. You asked what was wrong with me, did I want you to be miserable like me. Maybe I did, Rose. Maybe I did.”

Whoa, an apology.

“You could be a good svakha again,” I say. “We could be a team.”

Such a pretty smile, my mom has. When she uses it. “Maybe, we’ll see. Go to that contest and win. Go, because Papa wants you to go. He did the absolute right thing by encouraging you. And win, because…” She takes my face in her hands, runs her thumbs along my cheeks. “Win, because I want you to.”

I’m all about my mother’s change of heart, but I can’t do this.

Not today. It’s over. All over.

I wait by the car, as Frank and my mom file out with boxes full of things from my room and boxes loaded with cupcakes, one after the other. As I slide into the seat of Frank’s car, I’m vaguely aware of Sabrina and Caleb arriving in different cars, everybody pitching in to carry out a thousand cupcakes and drive them to the school for set up. All quietly. All reverently.

“Is my dress there? The red one?” I ask Frank, as he loads one last box into the car.

“Pretty sure it is.” He closes the trunk, kissing my mom on the cheek, then sliding into the driver’s seat. “Ready?”

I nod, staring at my hands.

But I’m not ready. Still, I have to move on. To make Papa proud whether I like it or not. Wallowing won’t solve anything. They’ll take him to the hospital, wait for the person who examines dead bodies, and do a bunch of paper-signing things that will take all night. My mother will have to endure it all.

Me, all I have to do is show up to Battle of the Bakers, sell cupcakes with Sabrina, and call it a night. Clearly, I’m getting the better end of the deal.

When we arrive at my house, I almost don’t recognize my room. It’s been three weeks since I set foot here. The first thing I notice is how much more elegant it is than Papa’s townhouse. Such a show home. No wonder my mother didn’t want me baking here. She put a lot of time and effort into glamifying it, especially the kitchen, anything to forget the domestic pastime that ruined her life.

I trudge to my room and collapse on the bed.

Frank knocks on the door. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” I mumble into the pillow.

He walks in, sets down boxes of my stuff, then comes back a minute later, carrying Papa’s full-length mirror. “Where do you want this?”

It’s Papa’s full-length mirror. His mirror. “I don’t know,” I mumble.

“I’ll put it here.” He places it between my desk and the door frame, kicking a pile of clothes out of the way to set it down nicely. He admires his placement, lingers in the doorway for a minute, then decides it’s better if he doesn’t say anything.

I’m grateful to him for that.

“I’ll go get the rest of the boxes.”

But I also want him to know I’m grateful for him. “Frank?”

“Yeah?” He pauses.

“Thanks for coming into our lives when you did.”

A big smile spreads on his face. “Sure thing, Rose.”

After the last box is set down, he closes the door, and I sit there a minute staring at my room. I never would’ve thought, when I woke up this morning, that I’d be back home by late afternoon. That my grandfather would be gone. That the time I spent with him last night would be my last. Here today, gone tomorrow.

I drop my face into my hands and let it all out.

When my eyes have leaked enough, and my face feels like a swollen tomato, it’s time to get up, rifle through my boxes, and find the infamous red dress. I shower, blow-dry my hair, and begin my makeup as 1940’s as I possibly can get it, covering the dark circles under my eyes with concealer. My hair is half up, half down, with pin curls on either side and combs to keep them in place.

When done, I slip into the dress, which slides on a lot easier than it did last time. I zip it up, slip my feet into a pair of high black heels, and check myself in the mirror. There she is, Rosie the Baker all dolled up, even better than my poster. A WWII-era goodie goddess with the charm and flavor of ten dozen cupcakes.

Papa would be proud.

But something is missing, and I suppose that will always be the case from now on.

I reach into the box on my bed and pull it out.

I don’t want to do it, but I have to. I wouldn’t be Rosie the Baker without it.

Over my head, I slip the straps of Nana’s apron. It complements the red dress like frosting on the most delicious of cupcakes. The pentagram peeks at me as a reminder that there’s more to what meets the eye. There’s magic hidden if you know where to look.

“Through layered cakes and whipping cream…” Behind my back, I pull the straps and pause, staring at myself in the mirror. Something’s wrong.

“Bring the Cakespell…”

It’s not the spell.

“Onto me.”

It’s not the apron.

It’s the fact that Papa isn’t here to tie it for me.

And never will be again.

Twenty-Five

“I’m doing this for you,” I silently tell my grandfather’s spirit, as Sabrina and I arrive at school. I love you. I miss you. I’ll try and make you proud.

We drive around to the school’s courtyard where a parking spot has been reserved for just us. “Look at this, ladies,” Sab’s mom says, as she drives into the space. “You’re getting the rockstar treatment!”

As we step out, the crowd begins cheering, “Rosie! Wendy! Rosie! Wendy!” They hold posters and flags, and some of them have even dressed up like Rosie the Baker. From here, I see at least one girl who got the hair totally right. I wave to her, as two TV cameras capture our arrival. The crowd parts to let us through.

“The mistress of sugar and spice has arrived!” I can hear Dr. O’Dell saying on the microphone. The cheering grows louder.

My instinct is to flee. I’m not used to all this attention. Had someone told me a month ago that I’d be appearing in public, baking for the masses, wearing a sassy red dress, I would’ve said no way is that possible. But so much has changed inside of me in just the last month, I feel like a new woman. I am done hiding in the broom closet.

We make our way to a stage on one end of the courtyard.

“Are you ready?” Sabrina asks, taking my hand.

I stare straight ahead. “Yes and no. Yes, because I’ve waited for this, but no, because I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Sorry, Rosie.” She leans her head against mine.

“Not now, Sabs. I have to stay strong for this.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry.”

“Sorry.” She winces. “I mean…let’s win this.”

Dr. O’Dell stands onstage ready to greet us. Wendy is there already, hands clasped in front of her, looking annoyingly cute in pigtails, a frilly pink and white apron, and matching pink T-shirt with her assistant. “Man.”

“What?” Sabrina asks.

“I wish I would’ve thought of matching T-shirts.”

“Shirts won’t win the contest, but if it’ll make you feel better…” Sabrina sticks her ample chest out through her tight shirt and smiles big for the cameras. Thank God for her boobs. “Just smile and wave.” She beams for the cheering crowd. “Is this good?”

“Perfect. Keep doing that.” I smile and wave too.

“And here she is, our other baker of the evening,” Dr. O’Dell speaks too closely into the microphone, and it screeches. “Rose Zapata, or as you all know her, Rosie the Baker!”

The crowd erupts into cheers and shouts. Phones go up into the air to snap pics of me. Bright lights shine in my face, and TV cameras focus on me.

I can’t believe I’m here. I’m too heartbroken to enjoy it. Papa is gone. My rock. My defender. How am I going to live without him?

Sabrina walks up to Dr. O’Dell and whispers something in her ear. Dr. O’Dell’s expression sours, and I can only assume that Sabs had filled her in on the day’s tragedy. Good, maybe she won’t ask me to talk in front of everyone. The thought of talking in front of cameras is making me queasy.

Dr. O’Dell holds the microphone away, her mouth close to my ear. “I am so sorry about your grandfather. You are an amazing young lady for being here, Rose. I’m rooting for you, just so you know.”

I fight back the tears. “Thanks.”

She brings the microphone back to her mouth. “You know, ladies and gentlemen, this all began when Rose here took it upon herself to share some cupcakes in our teachers’ lounge, the most delicious cupcakes we’d ever had. Who knew this would blossom into this wonderful opportunity to support your school and community?”

Who knew this would make my LIFE blossom?

“Then, our lovely Wendy stepped up.” She gestures to my rival baker, and cheers rise from the crowd from Wendy’s camp, a few boos from others. “And said she could do better!”

The crowd buzzes once again. Standing there looking out at everyone, I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I wish Alexandre were here with us. He’s part of our team, but no, we had to go and have a stupid fight.

“Needless to say, this sparked some healthy competition.” Dr. O’Dell beams at me, Wendy, Sabrina, and Wendy’s peppy, glittery assistant. “So, that’s what we’re here to do, because we’re all about healthy competition here at Coral Cove High, right? Who’s with me?”

There’s more applause, and one camera man brings his heavy shoulder camera right up to sweep across the stage. I do my best to smile and rock my ensemble. It’s what Papa would have wanted.

Dr. O’Dell continues. “So, who will be the reigning queen of cupcakes, the sheik of sugar, the bombshell of baking? Will it be Wendy? Or will it be Rosie?” Her energetic voice grows louder to match the fervor of the crowd. “Tonight, we need your help by purchasing as many cupcakes as you can. Also, don’t forget to fill out the voting forms and deposit them in the box by the judges’ table. We also have refreshments for sale in the back, boys and girls. Spend, spend, spend!”

We get situated on the stage.

“The bakers are now getting ready, folks. When you hear the horn, you will be free to start the battle. Be sure to try both teams’ goodies in order to make a fair vote. Don’t just vote for your friend.”

Yeah, you hear that, people?

We each have our own tables set up on either side of the courtyard covered in white tablecloths. Someone has taken all the cupcakes out of their boxes and set them up in nice neat blocks according to kind. Tent cards identify the different types of cake, and I can only assume Alexandre made mine, because they look super professional with nice fonts and Rosie the Riveter images. And he’s not even here to thank.

Each table has four parents to collect money and help. I have to say, staring at the setup, that my cupcakes, with all their varieties, colors, and decorations, look simply amazing. Papa and Nana…and Sheila would be so proud. I can just imagine these babies sitting inside a bakery display case not too far in the distant future.

I take my place behind the tables, as my team greets me with high fives and cheers. I feel like a celebrity. I guess I am today. A small paparazzi requests my pose, but my smile feels forced. My eyes are frowning. I have to get into this, so I think of Papa, how he wanted me to succeed, and a genuine smile appears.

“What do we do, just push cupcakes?” I ask Sabrina.

“I guess so. Looks like the rest of the team handles sales. Here…” She hands me a pair of latex gloves. Already, my booth has several long lines forming behind each block of cupcakes.

“Everybody ready?” Dr. O’Dell’s voice echoes throughout the courtyard, mixed with the cheers and shouts. “And…begin!”

A horn blasts, as Sabrina bursts into action. “Hi, what can I get for you? Those? Those are red velvet. The absolute BEST! One? Why don’t you get two, one for you, one for your girlfriend?” And the customer buys two. Cha-ching!

“Nicely done,” I tell her.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

“Hi, thanks for coming,” I tell another girl at the head of a second line. “What would you like to try?”

“What’s good?” she asks.

“Everything,” I laugh. “If you like chocolate, get chocolate hazelnut, if you like coconut, the lemon coconut is ridiculously yummy, and if you like…”

And it goes on this way for the next hour or so. I have to say, it’s fun promoting my cupcakes. When people ask me if they’re good, I don’t feel snobby telling them yes. I’ve worked hard to make my baked goods delicious. I deserve to be here, and after a while, I actually start having fun.

Occasionally, I spot Caleb walking around talking to people, but I never see Alexandre. He’s nowhere to be found. I never got to tell him about Papa.

I glance over to see how Wendy’s table is doing. Her station gleams with pink, shiny, striped, swirly frosting things, which I guess are cupcakes, though they look more like something out of Candy Crush. I can’t imagine that they taste very refined with all that fake stuff piled on top. My cupcakes are about real flavor combinations, less about blinding the customers.

As much as I want to win this, though, what I care about most is how people react when they bite into one of my cupcakes. Sometimes, their eyes go wide. Sometimes, eyelashes flutter. And sometimes, they look like they’re having a religious experience between just them and the cake. They say things to each other like, “Oh my God, you need to try this,” and “Wow. This is insane.” Wendy’s cupcakes don’t garner nearly the same reactions. Many are passed from friend to friend and are eventually tossed in the garbage.

Dr. O’Dell’s voice cuts through the DJ’s lowered music. “Ladies and gentlemen, our staff has counted the votes for the first hour of the competition, and so far, we have Wendy with fifty-five points, and Rose with sixty-seven!”

Wait, what did she say?

Sabrina turns to me and throws those skinny arms around me. “Did you hear that? You’re in the lead, Rose! I told you!”

All around, people congratulate me. Even though it’s not over, I smile from ear to ear. But then, every time I imagine myself coming home to tell Papa I won, I lose all enthusiasm and go back to faking my happiness instead.

“Keep those votes coming! Winner receives a $250 AMEX gift card!” Dr. OD goes on. The DJ’s volume resumes, as does our cupcake pushing.

One of my team parents literally moves into my personal space, all big brown eyes and mascara. “You,” she says, “are amazing. This,” she says, showing me a half-eaten banana cupcake with cream cheese frosting sitting in a paper liner, “is the most incredible thing I have ever put in my mouth.”

“That is…wow,” I say, unsure how to respond. “Thank you.”

Her eyes grow even wider. “I’m serious. I don’t consider myself a sweets person, but this isn’t too sweet. It’s perfect. Congratulations.” She shoves the other half of the cupcake into her mouth, making yummy noises with a lingering stare to make sure I get it.

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” I smile. And I do. It’s one thing for your friends and family to tell you that you did nice work, but for a perfect stranger to tell you, it means more.

After thirty more minutes, Dr. O’Dell shouts again, “Update, ladies and gentlemen. I have an update! It appears that…Wendy is now in the lead with seventy-nine points, and Rose has seventy-four points.”

Groans and cheers echo simultaneously.

“Seriously?” I mutter. “I mean, good for Wendy! Let’s fight back, team.” I lean into Sabrina and whisper, “What the hell is she putting in those cupcakes?”

“It’s not the cupcakes she’s selling.” Sabrina nods in Wendy’s direction, showing me that my competition has taken it up a notch, tying her T-shirt in a tight knot underneath her boobs. Is that even a legal move? I call a foul!

My awesome volunteers begin peddling, hustling, encouraging customers to come buy a take-home box for family and friends, and Sabrina holds cupcakes in the air telling people that they’ll change their lives and make them fall in love.

“Don’t do that,” I tell her.

“Why not?” she whispers. “It’s true.” She tugs her T-shirt tightly behind her, ties the loose tail into a knot, and pushes her jeans lower on her hips.

“Damn girl. Pushing my goodies with your goodies. Do what you gotta do.”

She laughs. “Hey, I have no problem with it.”

“Neither do half the people here,” I say.

Finally, after three hours of utter fatigue, Dr. O’Dell takes the microphone again. Cheers of “Wendy, Wendy,” and “Rosie, Rosie” roar throughout the courtyard. I’m done. I’m so tired. This was fun, but soon comes the moment of truth.

“This is it, ladies and gentlemen, we have five minutes left in the competition. Make those purchases, take cupcakes home to loved ones, and vote, vote, vote for your favorite baker!” The whole courtyard breaks into last-minute frenzy.

Finally, the buzzer goes off, and the place roars. Sabrina and I collapse into each other. She pats my back. “Good job, Rosie. Whatever happens, just know that people really loved yours the best. That’s the truth, I don’t care what Dr. OD announces.”

“Thanks, Sabs. But I really want to win.”

“I know.” She holds my hand.

“May I have your attention, please. Our judges are adding their votes which count as fifty points toward the baker they each choose, and these are added to the people’s votes. So while we’re waiting, I would like for our teams to come up here, please.”

I slip off my gloves and make my way to the stage. This is it.

My team follows us onstage, and the crowd applauds. I may not have wanted to come tonight, but I’m glad I did. Wendy and her entourage emerge from the other side of the stage and park themselves next to me. Wendy’s eyes scan what I’m wearing, lingering around my waist. Why do I always feel like she’s judging me?

She offers me her hand. “May the best baker win.”

“Exactly,” I say, shaking back.

One of the judges steps up and hands Dr. O’Dell a piece of paper, which she waves in the air. “I have the results, ladies and gentlemen. The name I hold in my hand will be named Coral Cove High School’s Champion Baker!”

Warm fingers slip into mine. Sabrina lowers her face and does a little energetic shake. I squeeze her hand back. My whole body tightens. My stomach lurches a few inches. Not good. I scan the crowd, wishing Alexandre could be here. But then, I think I see him lingering off to the side behind the TV crews.

I twiddle my fingers just in case it is.

He twiddles them back. Yes, it’s him! He doesn’t hate me!

“The winner of this year’s Battle of the Bakers, with one hundred and eighty-seven votes and two-thirds of the judges’ votes is…”

I hold my breath.

Sabrina stops bouncing.

The whole courtyard pauses, holding its breath like one, cohesive person.

My eyes are down. Come on, come on…Nana help me out. I absentmindedly rub the little pentagram inside of my grandmother’s apron. I feel Wendy, tall albatross that she is, staring down her left side into my open right apron pocket. What is her fascination with my clothing?

No. Please, no…

Clamming up with fear, I pull my hand out of the pocket, smoothing it flat against my waist instead. She didn’t see it, did she? Because I do not need any more suck today.

My mouth fills with warm saliva, like it does whenever I’m about to—

Dr. OD finally cuts through the silence. “The cupcake enchantress herself…Rose Zapata!”

Me. My name. I won Battle of the Bakers. I beat Wendy Rivera in front of the whole school. But I feel numb as hell. Still, I have to be a good sport and shake her hand. Turning to her, our eyes meet. An invisible cloud of unsaid things exchanges between us. Our hands meet, we shake, and she tries to get a good look into my pocket again.

But it’s none of her business and I pull back. The universe swirls around me. I hear Sabrina’s voice from far away. Rose?

I don’t feel well.

And suddenly, I’m turning to the side—Wendy’s as it happens to be—and throw up all over her pair of super cute knee-high, pink, glittery socks. All covered in the contents of my stomach. The whole courtyard quiets for a few seconds, as people figure out what just happened. All I can do is stare at the mess on Wendy’s footwear. Behind me is the sound of shoes scrambling, and a moment later, someone is handing me a paper towel.

“Oh, my God, I am so…sorry,” I mutter at the ground. This is terrible. Just terrible. Fodder for the media, the school website, worst of all, bad—really bad—for business.

“GrrrrRRR-ahhhHH!” Wendy growls, stepping out of the puddle, which I must say, isn’t too big. Could’ve been worse.

Wendy lunges at the microphone, nearly slipping in the stuff, and tears it right out of Dr. O’Dell’s hand. “Okay,” she says. “I wasn’t going to say anything. In fact, I was going to let my cupcakes speak for themselves, but this girl,” she points at me, “has broken nearly every rule in the rulebook.”

“No,” I mutter to her. “Please…”

Gasps all around.

Dr. O’Dell pries the microphone away from her. “That’s enough. Give me that.”

But Wendy holds on tight. I straighten out and wipe my face with another paper towel. This is so embarrassing. “First of all, she runs a business,” she hisses, “as many of you know. And running a business is against an amateur baking competition’s policy, I’m pretty sure.”

“We’ll check the rulebook on that, Wendy. Just give me here,” Dr. O’Dell says.

“No.” Wendy and Dr. O’Dell fight over control of the microphone. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. “Second of all, she has more than one assistant, when the rules say you can only have one, and—”

“Stop. Stop it right now.” Dr. O’Dell signals some of the teachers in the wings for help.

I cover my face with my hands.

Sabrina whooshes past me, slipping a bit on the mess I made, but gaining control of her slide and fighting Wendy for control of the mic like the real Wonder Woman. “Is this the only way you can win, you little wench? Maybe that should be your baking name, Wendy the Wench.” She whispers near the microphone, so of course, everybody hears her and bursts into laughter.

“I’d rather be a wench than a witch,” Wendy replies, and half the audience ooohs at her words.

I can’t watch this. I wish I could walk off stage and carry my win with my tail between my legs. “Sabrina, leave her. It’s not worth it,” I mutter.

Wendy shoves her aside. I break Sabrina’s fall with my body. “Plus, she has an F in one class, and that is definitely against the rules, and we should not be encouraging rule-breaking, should we, Dr. O’Dell?”

“I don’t have an F!” I hiss. “You’re just pissed because I threw up on you. Which was by accident, but now I wish it would’ve been on purpose.”

Suddenly, Wendy jabs her hand out at me and tugs at my apron. With a fistful of cloth, she flips it open and shoves it at the audience. “And you see this? Here, I’ll take a pic so you all can see it later…” In a flash, she’s taken a snap of my grandmother’s stitched pentagram.

I shove her hand away roughly.

“This is the big reason right here. Witchcraft, anyone?” She sneers.

“Wendy. Stop. Please. I’m warning you,” I growl.

“Or what?” She raises her eyebrows.

Or nothing. I have no plan. I’m not an evil, heartless bitch like she is. I will probably let her get away with this, because I was raised to be afraid of who I am, of the powers inside of me, magical or otherwise. I am silent, wilting Rose, the girl I’ve always been. Why did I ever think I’d be anything more?

When she sees I have no response, because when do I ever have a good response when I actually need one, she adds, “Need I say more? Rose Zapata is a cheater.”

Dr. O’Dell lunges for the mic again and this time, gets an easier grip on it. Wendy lets go without another ounce of effort, having made her point and made it well. She gives me a dark smile, shakes her head, and walks away.

The principal smiles awkwardly. “Well, what an evening it’s turning out to be, huh? We will take a short break, as the judges and I go over the results. But please…don’t forget our refreshment bar is still open in the back!”

Twenty-Six

“I’m disappointed in you, Miss Rivera.” Dr. O’Dell paces back and forth. “Really, I mean, what do you think you succeeded in doing? I didn’t peg you for having unsportsmanlike conduct.”

“And I didn’t peg you for making up rules then not enforcing them,” Wendy argues.

“That’s enough backtalk from you, young lady.” Dr. O’Dell eyes her hard.

A blonde woman rushes over and turns Wendy sharply by the shoulders. “What is going on with you? I did not raise you to speak this way.” She hands her a towel.

“Are you kidding me? Mom, she threw up on me!” Wendy slips off her shoes, peels her socks, and throws everything into a trash can. She wipes her legs with the towel. “God, ew!”

“I said I was sorry.” I turn to Sabrina to hide my shame.

Dr. O’Dell comes up to me. “Is this true about an official business?”

“No. People ask me to make cakes for them, but it’s just side money, Dr. O’Dell. I don’t literally have a registered business,” I plead, hoping my argument will stand.

Ms. Gale hands her a copy of the rulebook, and she flips through it page by page, scanning with her fingertip. She holds up her walkie-talkie. “Bring me Fuentes, please. And my laptop.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Wendy says, yanking baby wipes out of a container another parent offers her.

“But then you figured what the hell?” Sabrina snaps at her. “Dude, her grandfather died today.”

Wendy’s indignant eyes shift back to me. “I’m sorry about your grandfather, but rules are rules. You have an F in Spanish.”

“No! I don’t!” I never checked the portal after my mom mentioned it. I was too busy. But I know it can’t be. My project was gorgeous!

“Let’s see what Ms. Fuentes says.” Wendy smirks, and it takes everything in my willpower not to jump up and rearrange her face.

A minute later, Señora Fuentes arrives, wringing her hands and trying to keep upbeat, though she knows she’s about to settle the score. “Yes, Dr. O’Dell? You ladies all look beautiful.”

“Gracias, Señora Fuentes,” I say sheepishly. May as well get on her good graces with a little Spanish. “I turned in my project, remember? That had to be worth a few As. It was awesome.”

Ms. Gale swoops in again, producing her open laptop, open to the school system’s electronic grade book. “Here you go.”

“Did you put the grade in?” Dr. OD asks my Spanish teacher. She logs onto the portal and searches, and I detect a discernible deflation of her chest. “Is that it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Ms. Fuentes says.

Huh? But tomorrow is Teacher’s Work Day, the day teachers finalize everything for report cards. She couldn’t have put in the project grades, and I still have an F. Ugh, I feel sick again.

Dr. O’Dell fiddles at the keyboard. “Everyone,” she tells the people waiting backstage, “go wait onstage. This is between us.” Turning to me, she quietly says, “You have an F, Rose.”

“What!”

“You weren’t supposed to participate unless you kept a C-average, which you assured me you were.” Dr. O’Dell appears more disappointed in me than angry. Toward herself, too, for not checking the grades sooner.

I can almost hear my mom in my head telling me she told me so. She told me so…

“Dr. O’Dell, I turned in my project a few days ago.” I try not to break into tears. Señora Fuentes whispers to the principal. They engage in a little discussion, while the parents, volunteers, and Sabrina file to the front of the stage.

Then it’s just us and awfully quiet. Dr. O’Dell and Señora Fuentes are in heavy discussion. I avoid looking at Wendy. “So?” I interrupt after a minute.

Dr. O’Dell faces me. The answer to my question is written all over her face. “Rose, did somebody do the project for you?”

“What? No, of course not. I did it.”

“You didn’t have somebody help you, or finish it for you?”

“I mean, everybody gets help at home on these projects, Dr. O’Dell. Let’s not kid ourselves.” Great. Not the full truth. Maybe I am a liar and cheater.

“Yes, she did!” Wendy speaks up. “Sabrina Oberson did the project for her. Rose was too busy with her cake business to do it herself. Caleb Anthony was at her house while she was finishing it. He told me. He tells me everything about Sabrina. He’s in love with her.”

I can’t take this. I’m going to implode. My heart and other organs will fold in on themselves. I hate everything I’m hearing. It’s like I’m living a nightmare. This day needs to end already.

“Stop it,” I hiss at Wendy.

“Rose, you’d be happier if you just accepted the truth. I mean, if the hallway tackle between you, Caleb, and Sabrina didn’t teach you anything…” She scoffs. “But Sabrina, she’s so supportive of you, that she didn’t agree to a date with him until he asked you out first.”

“What?” I lock a cold stare on her. Is this true?

“Oh, you didn’t know? Oh my God.” She covers her mouth. Good thing, because it’ll protect her teeth when I punch her. “Oops. Yeah, that’s the only reason Caleb was going to ask you out.”

I can’t believe this. Get me out of here.

I charge onto the stage, everyone following me. Dr. O’Dell swipes the mic and announces that there’s been a slight change in results and I’ll no longer be the winner. There’s boos all around, but it’s Sabrina I mostly notice, gawking at me like I’m the baking dead about to eat her brains. “What? What happened?”

“Is it true?” I stammer.

“Is what true?”

“You told Caleb to ask me out first, or else you wouldn’t go on a date with him? Why would you do that?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Never mind where I heard it. Is it true?”

She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to.

“You did,” I say. “I understand it all clearly now. This whole week has been a lie. You, your apology, everything. You do like him, and you do plan on going out with him. I don’t even care anymore. I only care that you lied to me.”

“I agreed to one date, Rosie. Just to get him off my back.”

“If you wanted him off your back, you could’ve told him to leave you alone. You did it to make yourself feel better, and now you’ve made me look pathetic to Caleb and everybody, Sabrina!”

“I was trying to help you.”

“I don’t need that kind of help!” I yell. The whole courtyard volleys between me and Dr. O’Dell, as she explains that circumstances being what they are, she must now announce Wendy Rivera as the Baking Champion to a massive drone of boos versus a few cheers.

“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 away. 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.

When our lips part, he takes my face with both hands and smiles. He looks so fine with those clothes of his to match my red dress. Alexandre knows me like nobody else, except for maybe Sabrina, but even then, he knows me more. He’s been paying that much attention, and that makes him a keeper.

I slide my hands up his arms and shoulders, wrapping them behind his neck. He closes his eyes and we hug for a long time. My knees feel weak, but he holds me tightly, keeping me from sinking. For Christmas this year, I’m asking Santa for a new airbrush, an edible ink printer, and the ability to detect gay boys from straight boys, because I have clearly failed.

“You thought what? You were saying?” He smiles.

“Never mind,” I whisper between breaths.

He kisses me again, his mouth and tongue soft and exploring, and I happily give in.

Nope. Not gay. Not even close.

Twenty-Eight

The Monday after Thanksgiving weekend, my mom and I are sitting in the legal offices of Papa’s lawyer, whatever-his-name-is, holding hands, as the cheerful old man flips through papers. He reads aloud about trusts, the sale of the townhouse, and other boring things. Then, he hands my mom an envelope.

“And this…is for your daughter.”

She takes the envelope, lifts the unglued flap, and slides out a letter which she unfolds. In the silence of the office, her lips move quietly, and her eyes well up with tears.

What? What is it? I want to scream.

Mr. Papa’s Lawyer, Esq. folds his hands. “He requested that she open a small, part-time business, after school hours only, provided that you oversee everything. At least until she earns a business degree after high school, which he’s also provided for in the other envelope.”

Mom’s eyes widen. Her hands shake.

Wait.

“What is that?” I ask. My mom pulls out a bank check from behind the letter to show me. “For me?” I read my name on it. “For a business?” Will Mom even allow that?

“And he made sure we had to work together too.” She wipes her eyes and chuckles. “Bastard.” She and Mr. Papa’s Lawyer, Esq. share a knowing laugh, and Mom shakes her head.

Mr. Papa’s Lawyer, Esq. shifts his gaze to me. “You might want to start thinking about a name for your new bake shop, Rose.”

My brain lights up in sparkly bright colors. Seriously? I get to open a cake business? “I have one in mind already.” I glance at my mom. I hope she’s not upset that I’m still obsessed with this whole owning-a-bakery thing, but yeah, I’ve had one in my head for a while now.

“Do you now?” She plays with a strand of my hair hanging over my forehead.

“Yes, I do.”

“What is it?”

1945 in the good ol’ US of A.

The blank store window awaits a new name. The sign installer is here, but I’ve been putting off having the store name hung, because of a crazy feeling that my beloved, dreamy fiancé will be marching home today. I’ve been waiting for him since they announced the end of the war. I haven’t received any Western Union telegrams, always good news. And I’ve made sure not to sit under the apple tree with anyone else but him, so hopefully, my inkling is right.

I’m in the back office, wearing my gray spring frock from Sears, working out my budget, ordering ingredients to stock my brand-spanking new General Electric refrigerator, when I hear the chimes above the door.

My stomach flips—it’s him, I know it. But when I peek out the door, a beautiful woman stands there. A beautiful woman who was once difficult to love but is making things easier. “Mom!” I reach the counter and cover her black, manicured nails with mine.

“Rose, baby. I thought I’d come by and see the new store.” She kisses my cheek.

I inhale the soft scent of her pressed powder. “Oh, do you like it?”

“I love it!” She smiles gaily. “And not only that, but I brought you your very first customer.”

“You did?” I glance behind her, but I don’t see anyone. Maybe they’re outside waiting. “Who is it?”

She takes both my hands in hers and raises an eyebrow like only my mom can. “Why, it’s me, darlin’.”

Her? But why would my mother need a…

“Will you make my wedding cake, Rose? Frank and I are engaged.” She extends her ring finger, and I behold a shiny emerald-cut diamond bigger than the budget of an air-conditioning repairman. Her beaming smile reminds me of a young mother I used to see a long, long time ago. I’m glad she’s back.

“Oh, would I!” I hug her over the counter. I can’t believe it! My first official wedding cake! For my own mother! I’m officially a professional wedding cake designer. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you and Frank! But uh…wasn’t it because of the Cakespell?”

She shakes her head. “No, honey. I had a crush on him before I had your cupcake. Why do you think I kept calling him back for more estimates?” She smiles coyly. “The cupcake might’ve helped, but we’ve kept our love going.”

Just like Papa said should happen.

The door chimes again, startling me, and we both turn. My heart stops when I spot him. It’s my uniformed Romeo, removing his hat, running a hand through his thick hair, flashing me that striking smile I’ve missed so much. “Hello, gorgeous.” He opens his arms wide.

“Alexandre!” I jump over the counter faster than he can call me Toots. He feels so good and solid in my arms. Realer than real. “You’re home. You’re really home.” I bury my face in his neck.

“How I’ve missed you so.” He squeezes me, then looks up, remembering our company. “Oh, hello, Ms. Milkovich. So nice to see you.”

“Welcome home, soldier,” my mother says, turning to me with a sigh. “Well, I guess I’ll be going now. We’ll talk more about that cake later, baby.” She touches my face, then sashays off in her tight, black pencil skirt. The chimes tinkle, and she’s gone.

“So, how do you like it?” I twirl around.

“Real nice place you got here, Rosie. Better than the slop houses my sore eyes have seen lately. I’m only sorry I couldn’t help you fix it up. But you finally did it.”

“I had a feeling you were coming today. I even told Lenny to wait. Hold on…” I let go of his broad shoulders and run outside real quick where Lenny is finishing his lunch. “Go ahead and hang the sign now,” I tell him.

“Sure thing, Miss Rosie.” He wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin from his lunchbox and hops to work.

Back inside, I whirl around in my dress. Alexandre picks me up by the waist and swooshes me into the air, landing me right on the counter. His quirky smile gets me every time. He pulls out a small box from behind his back. It’s dark gray with light gray ribbon. Of course it is. “For you, angel cake.”

“What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

“Oh, you are just heaven sent.” I loosen the ribbon, pull off the box lid, and peer inside. Reaching in, I lift out a shiny round silver bell. “My own customer call bell! Thank you, honey!” I tap it a few times—ding, ding, ding!

The chiming echo yanks me out of my daydream and into the full-color reality of the present. With freshly-painted light gray walls, shiny white iron bistro tables and chairs, and framed photos of my grandparents, mother, and best friends, my new store is a baker’s dream come true.

Alex leans against my counter, hair gelled back, huge smile and lovely big eyes. “Does that mean you like it?”

“Like it? Oh, Alex, it’s perfect!” I tap it a few more times, taking in the pink, brown, and cream interior of the best cake shop ever—mine.

“Now your customers can call for you when we’re busy making out in the back.” He smiles that swoony Alex smile, and together, we watch some guy (whose name I doubt is Lenny) put up the sign right above the front window. It’s a glossy brown, wooden plaque with carved-out, bright, pink letters that reads:

CAKE MAGIC by Rose

Together, we watch it swing lightly, as the installer climbs back down his ladder. I take Alex’s hand. “We did it, didn’t we?”

“You did it, doll.” He kisses my cheek. “You’ll have customers lined up outside for miles and miles around. And I’ll still be here to help any way I can. For as long as I can.”

“Well, you do know that, growing up together, you have a one-out-of-four chance of marrying the girl next door, don’t you?” I give him a sly smile.

“If I’m anywhere near as lucky then as I am now…” He pulls me off the counter into his arms. “What do you say we leave and go watch a classic movie down at the old theater? Mick is there tonight, and you’re not officially open ‘til tomorrow at 9 AM.”

“That is definitely a most excellent idea.” I press my forehead onto his. “But first…let’s try your other idea first.”

“Which one?”

“Going in the back to see if anyone interrupts us with the bell?” I press my body against his and lean in for a kiss.

In my mind, a big, gray heart appears, perfectly capturing and framing our faces, as the orchestra plays, and the credits roll. But in reality, there’s no orchestra, no piano plinking, no Casablanca moon hovering over the evening fog. Just me and Alexandre headed to the movies. And it’s all good. Because it’s real.

And that’s what makes life sweet.

Acknowledgements

In 2013, I was at a party in L.A. that my literary agent, Deborah Warren, was giving for her clients during a Society of Children’s Books Writers and Illustrators conference. She suggested I take all my experience running a cake design studio called Cakes by Gaby and turn it into a YA novel about a teen baker. Because I’d recently closed the studio and felt defeated, I didn’t want to write about anything to do with cakes, decorating, or baking anymore. It hurt too much to remember the hard times that had forced my business to close.

But I considered it.

Maybe through writing, I could bring back the magic. I could focus on the fun times I had baking without focusing on the details of running a business. I could remember why I fell in love with the art of cake decorating at the age of 15 (same as Rose) in the first place. I credit Deborah Warren with forcing me out of my comfort zone and making me face the sadness. Because of her, I wrote a story I absolutely adore and hope you all do, too.

I also want to thank Curtis Sponsler for being my Alexandre. He’s the yin to my yang and will always know me better than anybody else. Thank you also to my early readers: Jodi Turchin, Stephanie Hairston, and Virna DePaul. I know how hard it is to make time for others, so I appreciate it. To the rest of my critique group—Danielle Joseph, Christina Diaz Gonzalez, Alex Flinn, Linda Rodriguez Bernfeld, Adrienne Sylver, Alexandra Alessandri, and Sylvia Lopez—even just a few chapters of your feedback helped me form my story.

It’s my hope that CAKESPELL inspires you to never stop dreaming. To push past the “no’s” and “you can’ts” and take matters into your own hands. You’re in charge of your life. You make your own magic. So, go do it.

About The Author

GABY TRIANA is the award-winning author of YA novels, Cakespell, Wake the Hollow, Summer of Yesterday, Riding the Universe, The Temptress Four, Cubanita, and Backstage Pass, as well as 40+ ghostwritten novels for best-selling authors. Originally a 4th grade teacher, Gaby earned Teacher of the Year in 2000, wrote her first middle grade manuscript called Freddie and the Biltmore Ghost, then left teaching to launch a full-time writing career. She went on to publish with HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, and Entangled, win an IRA Teen Choice Award, ALA Best Paperback Award, and Hispanic Magazine’s Good Reads of 2008. She now writes about ghosts, haunted places, and abandoned locations. When she's not obsessing over Halloween or Christmas, she's taking her family to Disney World, the Grand Canyon, LA, New York, or Key West. Gaby dreams of living in the forests of New England one day but for the meantime resides in sunny Miami with her family, a dog, and four cats.

Visit me at: www.gabytriana.com

Author Links

Website: www.GabyTriana.com

Facebook: Gaby Triana

Instagram: @gabytriana

Twitter: @gabytriana

Also By Gaby Triana

BACKSTAGE PASS

CUBANITA

THE TEMPTRESS FOUR

RIDING THE UNIVERSE

SUMMER OF YESTERDAY
and…

WAKE THE HOLLOW

A “Legend of Sleepy Hollow” paranormal mystery

(Entangled TEEN)

A Note To My Readers:

Hey! Guess what? I’m now a hybrid author. That’s a new term in the publishing world that means some of my books are published traditionally by the “Big 5” publishers in NYC (HarperCollins and Simon & Schuster for my YA books, for example), while some are published through Gaby Triana Books, my own imprint at Alienhead Press.

Most readers don’t care where a book is published, as long as it’s entertaining and well-written. However, being a hybrid author means hiring my own editor, copyeditor, proofreader, cover artist, and marketing team to make this book happen. Which means…if you enjoyed this novel, please take a moment to rate it on Goodreads and/or the online store you purchased it from (Amazon, iTunes, Kobo, Barnes & Noble). Reviews mean everything to us! So does word-of-mouth. Without these two, we can’t continue to bring more books to more readers, and nobody wants that.

Reviewing takes one minute. A quick few words and/or rating will go a long way. Every little bit helps, so I can continue to write quality stories for my fans. Thank you guys so much!

Love, Gaby

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Author Links
- Also by Gaby Triana
- A Note to My Readers