4
I Really Do Hate Cake
Once out of the store and back in the safety of my car, I rush to lock the doors and slouch down as far as possible into the driver’s seat. I can’t let him see me while I try to catch my breath and calm my stupid racing heart down.
After rising from the floor with as much poise as one can have after impaling themselves on so many boxes of Ritz, I had basically just turned and walk-ran right out the exit. I probably looked like some kind of mime-in-training as I flailed my way out of the store to my car and said absolutely nothing to anyone. I didn’t even apologize to the manager for the mess I made. And I’d definitely said nothing to McCoy, the man I secretly gave my heart to so long ago.
Starting my car, I take one last glance toward the store and decide it’s time to get the heck out of here before he does come out and possibly see me again. I seriously contemplate driving to my older brother Keaton’s tattoo shop, Inkredible, where I’d have every right to storm in and demand he tell me what the hell McCoy Graves was suddenly doing back in town. But, of course, that would only make things worse. And let’s be honest, I am so not that girl. Sure, I’m a bit shellshocked, but there’s no need for any more theatrics—not just yet, anyway.
You see, my brother and McCoy have always had the ultimate bromance. Both a year older than me, they’ve been almost inseparable since forging their friendship when McCoy moved here for Grade 8. So, my marching into Keaton’s shop now and fishing for information about Coy—after I’ve successfully dodged all of Keaton’s attempts to keep me posted about McCoy and his successes over the last few years—would only add fuel to Keaton’s ongoing witch hunt. The hunt where Keaton has tried in vain, since we were young, to get me to admit that I am secretly obsessed with his best friend.
“I see the way you look at him, East.” Keaton had called me out one night when I got a little too excited—smiling and in an instant good mood—the second I’d found out McCoy was coming with our family to the cottage up in Haliburton for the week. God, I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was sixteen and so freaking excited to get to be in McCoy’s proximity every day and night for a whole week. Unfortunately for me, my smile was the slip of face that started the whole Eastlyn Loves McCoy debate with my brother, a battle which persists to this day. And my only defence? Deny, deny, deny. Which is stupid, really. Keaton isn’t an idiot, and like any good brother, he continues to tease me where the subject of McCoy is concerned.
Still, if Keaton knew how far gone I really was, it might be another story. Rather than listen to Keaton fill me in about all things Coy during his absence from Guelph the last few years, I had taken it upon myself to try and keep privy. I had literally taken up stalkerhood as a pastime. I’d lurked all of McCoy’s social media pages a few times a week since the day he first left town. My sole purpose was to try and catch a glimpse into his new life once he’d gone, and on my terms. Keaton knowing this would not bode well for me, especially coupled with my constant denials. But Coy was never an avid poster, so that’s definitely toned down my lurking over the years. But—regardless of how much I’ve cut down—stalking is stalking, so this little habit is one I’ve kept all to myself (well…and Kami. She’d never judge me or want to have me committed like Keaton might.)
After some more musings, I turn the wheel to veer left and hop back on the highway, having pushed the idea of going to Keaton’s shop far out of my head. I could go to my parents’ house, but then my mom would probably just try to coerce me into baking a cake together. Being a professional baker, she thinks the ingredients used to create her treats can solve any problem. I know with one look at me right now, she’d have us making enough for a bake sale while she tried to goad me into telling her what was wrong. And—though I rarely say this—this isn’t a time for cake. This is a time for something stiffer, and I’m not sure how my mom would handle my turning down one of her cakes in favour of alcohol. With my luck, she’d decide we could incorporate the two, and I’d be stuck in her kitchen overnight soaking ladyfingers in Grand Marnier. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom and her cakes, although she can be a little over the top—just like my grandmother. But if you knew Mildred, you’d know my mother never stood a chance. My mom would kindly say that her mother was “a woman who marched to the beat of her own drum.” If you ask me, though, I’ll tell you she was a little bit batshit crazy.
Case in point: when I was seven—shortly after my grandfather passed away—I’d gone to my grandmother’s for a sleepover to keep her company. I think I’d always known she was a little eccentric, but that night I witnessed firsthand how the crazy gene expressed itself in my family. We’d been watching the news, sipping our nightly tea and crunching chocolate digestive biscuits, when the screen suddenly turned red, alerting us to a storm that was approaching. It was expected to have high winds and heavy hail, and there was a chance of a tornado. My grandmother had let out a high squeal and sprang into action…
“Pet, I’ve got to save the yard. Looks like we’re in for a doozy. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She stood, spilling the remnants of her tea, long strands of grey hair falling across her forehead.
“Okay, Grandma. I’ll help you,” I said, getting up to follow her.
“No! I’m not sure how fast it will blow in. You’ll stay right inside, you will,” she said, her pleading hazel eyes so much like my mom’s.
She wasn’t exactly a spring chicken, and although I was admittedly scared at her reaction to the news, I followed her to the backdoor and stood watch. She literally became her own tornado, storming outside and battening down every hatch, then spinning around and lifting large pieces of furniture from the yard into the safety of the garage—all the while engaging in what looked like a full-on conversation. Watching her, I was kind of surprised she hadn’t turned into the Hulk himself.
“It will take more than a storm to get me gone, my dear Lord!” she howled at the sky as she marched up the back stairs, huffing and puffing, once everything was safely put away. I stood there, frozen, feeling terrified that my life might end in the coming tornado based on her behaviour and her babblings.
Back inside, she gave me a flashlight and led me down into the musty basement. “We’ll wait out the storm here. It’s best we be underground with those big winds they’re calling for in case the house collapses. I won’t be surprised if the power and phone lines go down, too. Hurry, let’s get ourselves set up while we still have time!”
“Grandma?” I asked, on the verge of tears. “Can I call my mom?”
“Not now, dear! Don’t you know anything about storms? If lightning strikes the lines while you’re on the phone, you’ll be electrocuted. We need to prepare to ride this out. It might be hours.”
“Okay.” I simply nodded my head, agreeing. Never had I wanted my mother so badly in all my life. I was petrified. Once settled in the basement, my grandmother turned her old radio on and began flipping stations to get a storm update.
It turns out there was no impending doom or storm coming to us in Guelph, we discovered from the announcer on the CBC in his weather report. “…and it’s 6:20 p.m. in beautiful Guelph. Clear skies and sunshine expected for the next several days, all across Southern Ontario. No rain in the forecast. This is Kent Broadbent, coming to you from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation.”
Grandma Mildred had crept back upstairs. After gingerly turning the TV back on, she realized we’d been watching an American news channel from Wichita or someplace. She had forgotten to switch it back to the local station after the latest episode of “The Young and the Restless” had aired earlier that afternoon.
Needless to say, that was the last time I’d spent the night at my grandmother’s alone.
So, I guess it’s no wonder that my mom had a tendency to go a bit overboard about things when we were kids, and still does to this day—it was inherited. For my mom, every event—small or large—was either something needing to have a big deal made out of it or an outright celebration. But, crazy gene aside, she and my dad were the most loving parents on our block, even if they were also the most embarrassing.
The household of David and Katie Hatfield was a home where the neighbourhood kids and our friends were always welcome to come swim in the summer, or to hang out somewhere warm in the winter. My mom is definitely the apple that didn’t fall far from the tree, as they say. She, too, is her own brand of special, like my grandmother. My mom’s standout specialty, though, is her cakes.
My mom literally baked a cake and added a page in the family scrapbook for each and every thing that ever happened to us! She said it was so we would never forget anything good that we experienced. Everything—and I mean everything—was a cause for festivity with my mom, including—and not limited to—the day Keaton discovered his first pubic hairs, and the day I got my period. Yep, it was always good times in the Hatfield household, let me tell you.
With these memories surfacing, I pull into my subdivision, deciding my safest bet is to call Kami once I’m back in the privacy of my own home. At home there will be wine, and I can freely pace and wave and flail my hands around while I talk, and share just how flustered and exasperating my whole experience was when I saw McCoy this afternoon. The last thing I need is for my brother to get wind of it and have more ammunition against me, and I’m not in the mood for one of my mother’s bake sales. Plus, hello? Girl Code—Kami will completely sympathize with me as she knows the depths of my struggles when it comes to Coy.
Pulling into the driveway of my three-bedroom bungalow, I shake my head when I remember the day my peaceful world was first knocked out of its orbit: the day Keaton brought the new boy home for the first time. Luckily, I’d had May—my diary—to talk to and to keep my secrets, since McCoy soon became an almost-permanent fixture at the Hatfield home. I’d needed an outlet, one who wouldn’t judge, tease, bake me a cake, or use my crush against me. I must’ve filled eight or so books over the years from the time I started and stopped writing to May. It’s upsetting me to think of her now, as I have no idea where the series of diaries that was May ended up. She just disappeared one day.
“I should check the storage unit again,” I mutter to myself, putting my Prius in park, and wracking my brain to try to figure out where the books could be. Did my mom dump them during the basement renos? Oh my God…does Keat maybe have them? Perish the thought!
Funny, some entries I remember so vividly and others I think might be fun to reminisce about while having a glass of wine or two, maybe on a night like tonight. Suddenly, I miss May so badly.
June 15, 2003
Dear Diary, I mean, Dear May,
Today my mom bought me a training bra.
“I can see her nipples through her shirt, it’s time to cover the girls,” she told the salesclerk way too excitedly while the lady measured my chest. Because from where I was standing, that was about all I had going on right now—a chest, not boobs.
“Barely,” I’d huffed out, so annoyed. I was happy to get a sports bra, but nooo, Mom insisted on buying me something “pretty”.
“Pretty bras and panties, sweetheart. Always go for the pretty ones,” she said, placing an array of training bras in her hand after having me sized.
Oh, and it didn’t stop there. Of course, she thought we should celebrate by baking a cake and having a big family dinner. Dinner I got to choose, being my big day and all. I swear this craziness of celebrating embarrassing stuff needs to stop. I try to act excited, knowing it makes Mom so happy, and, well, ’cause I know she’s a bit crazy like Grandma Mildred. That’s just the stuff she does to show her love.
“Milestones,” she said, and swore we’d remember days like these forever because times like this are worth remembering.
And OMG, May!!! She was right, in a way. I can promise you, I will NEVER forget tonight, EVER! You’ll never guess what happened!!! If I thought the shopping trip was bad, dinner was a zillion times worse!!!
Because guess who Keaton brought home for dinner? Guess who his new best friend is??? Yep!!! McCoy FREAKING Graves!!! I almost died when they walked in the house. I’d been avoiding him at school for days, so I had no idea how close McCoy and Keaton had become. I knew they talked and hung out at school, but coming over for dinner?? That’s real friendship!!!!!! Seeing him in my house made my palms sweat. I wasn’t sure if I should smile and say hi, or run and hide, after having embarrassed myself that day in the office. Plus, I was sure he could see the outlines of my new bra through my T-shirt.
My mouth started twitching like it couldn’t decide if it should smile or not. It was sooo embarrassing, especially when his beautiful blue eyes met mine with recognition, and his mouth opened saying, “Hey, Eastlyn.” WOW, my name sounded good when he said it.
But McCoy’s coming over for dinner turned out to be the least of my worries. I’d been so wrapped up in trying not to look like a fool while eating my spaghetti in front of him, I’d forgotten about the cake. When dinner was over, I had started to excuse myself when my mom reminded me that we all needed to have dessert first.
Then, sure enough, my mom brings out the stupid cake which—in true Katie Hatfield genius—is mounded like two igloo-shaped domes joined side by side! And she’d even added candles! Not one, but two!! Two freaking candles strategically placed in the centre of each rounded hump. They looked like flaming nipples! Nipples, May! All ’cause I got a bra!!!!
I sat there, silently staring at the burning titcake, thankful that at least my mom had iced it to make it look like it was wearing a cute bra. I hoped and prayed that no one would share why we were celebrating, but I AM NOT THAT LUCKY!!!!!! Sure enough, McCoy took his piece, thanked my mom, and asked what the occasion was. Without missing a beat, Keaton opened his stupid mouth and said: “My sister’s boobs are coming in.” I choked on my milk, while Keaton laughed and laughed. Thankfully, my dad cuffed him up side the head. But God, May, it was awful.
And that’s not even the worst of it. That jerk, McCoy, had to bring it up again an hour later, too, he just flipping had to. As he was leaving, he went out of his way to make sure no one else was around before walking up to me in the hallway. Lucky for him, my brother was in the washroom. Waiting for Keaton, McCoy stood there taking me in, staring and smiling, his eyes filled with what I’d describe as mischief. He glanced down at my chest, then the little jerk stepped toward me, leaned in close to my ear and said: “Congratulations on the mosquito bites.” He shouted goodnight to Keaton as he walked out the front door, and I could hear him still laughing as he walked home down the street.
Never have I ever been so humiliated in all my life!!! God, I can’t even write anymore tonight, May. I just need to go to bed and forget this.
TTFN and thanks for listening,
East
Oh, and P.S., I officially hate cake!
Once inside my living room, I grabbed myself a glass of red wine and sat down on my couch to call Kami.