Page 36

Piece of Cake

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

I find the invitation on the kitchen counter when I get home from school. Its envelope, already opened, is addressed to my parents and me in Bernie’s loopy handwriting. A formality. Mom’s been helping with ceremony planning, and Dad’s been asked to speak.

A celebration for Connor. Well-earned and a long time coming. I’m as glad for him as my parents surely are. But it stings, considering the way they shit all over my CVU news.

Shouldn’t that have been a celebration too?

I snag the invitation, printed on cream-colored cardstock, and take it up to my room, where I tuck it into my journal.

After dinner, I feed my parents a story about studying at Paloma’s, though in truth, Isaiah’s invited me to his house for dessert. It’s not that Mom and Dad will tell me I can’t go, but there’s a murmur in the recesses of my conscience that keeps reminding me of loyalty. I’m not doing anything wrong—I want to go to Isaiah’s—yet it unsettles me, visiting a boy who’s not Beck.

It’d unsettle my parents too.

His house is lit from inside, modest, warm, and welcoming, like Isaiah. I sit in my car a minute, gathering emotional implements the way a child plucks flowers from a garden: chrysanthemum for truth, snapdragon for graciousness, geranium for friendship, and crocus for good cheer. Using the rearview mirror, I fluff my hair, which I’ve blown out smooth. I’m wearing more makeup than I do to school, with a second coat of mascara and tinted gloss rather than balm.

Maybe I want to feel pretty.

Maybe I want to feel confident.

Maybe I want a shield, a mask, a disguise.

All of the above.

None of the above.

Who am I, sitting outside a boy’s house, preening?

I leave my car, then march up the walk, stepping over another gallery of chalk drawings: starfish, dolphins, sea turtles, sharks, and a tentacled octopus rendered in maroon. On the porch, I ring the bell. When the door swings open, I exhale.

“You look like you’re about to face a firing squad,” Isaiah says, waving me inside.

“I know—I’m sorry. It’s…a lot.”

“It’s cool. Have a piece of cake. If you’re hating life after, you head home.”

Marjorie’s kitchen looks a lot like ours, with white cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and vining plants on the windowsill over the sink. A multilayered, richly frosted chocolate cake sits on the island like a centerpiece.

Naya, who’s perched on a stool at the counter, looks older than her nine years, and not particularly happy to be a part of tonight’s meet and greet. Her skin is ocher and her hair is dark, secured in a long French braid. Her eyes, a sun-faded brown, study me with guarded curiosity. I remember Marjorie from that awful afternoon back in November. She’s older than my mom but younger than my grandma, with hair styled in shoulder-length twists. She’s traded her red sweater for a lavender cardigan, and her glasses hang on a cute pearl chain.

“Lia,” she says, rounding the island to hug me. “We’re so happy to have you.”

She smells sweet and summery, like cotton candy, and her cardigan is cashmere soft. While maybe it should be awkward to embrace a stranger in a new-to-me home, my bones are no longer jittering and the intrusive thoughts have quieted.

Marjorie, like Isaiah said, is an angel.

Over her shoulder, his eyes find mine. “She’s a fan of the premature hug.”

“Well. Now I know where you get it.”

Marjorie steps away, her smile like strewn glitter. “He hugged you too soon?”

“Not too soon. But within sixty seconds of meeting me.”

She laughs and returns to the counter to slice the cake. “Isaiah told us you were accepted at CVU. That’s quite an achievement!”

My friends have been so nice about CVU. So supportive. The girls have been hyping me up since December, and when I told Isaiah about my official acceptance as we were walking out of Ceramics the other day, his eyes lit up like supernovas. Marjorie’s the first adult to acknowledge the news with enthusiasm, though. Appreciation makes my heart swell; I could cry, thinking about how this family has been so gracious in saluting my accomplishment, while my own labeled it a mistake.

My voice is unsteady when I tell her, “Thank you.”

She grins. “We thought chocolate cake was the perfect way to celebrate.”

Isaiah must sense that I’m in a precarious place emotionally, because he moves to his foster sister’s side, giving her braid a tug. “Naya did the baking herself.”

“Did you really?” I ask, glad for the deflection. “That cake looks like it came from a fancy bakery.”

“It wasn’t hard,” she says with a shrug.

“Maybe not for you,” Marjorie says. “But baking is reading and math and science—one mismeasured ingredient, and you’ve got a pan of chocolate soup instead of a beautiful cake. Our Naya is a whiz in the kitchen.”

I don’t doubt it. The slices Marjorie’s plated look delectable.

“Did you do the chalk drawings outside too?” I ask.

Naya nods. “Isaiah helped.”

“They’re so good. Did you know Isaiah and I are in Art Club together?”

“Lia draws me under the table,” he says.

“Lies. The portrait I did of you looks like I drew it left-handed and under duress.”

Naya brightens, turning to Isaiah. “The portrait hanging in your room?” He nods, making a goofy face that closely resembles my rendering. She giggles. “The eyes and nose and mouth are all out of place!”

He makes his wonky expression even wonkier. “She captured my likeness exactly.”

Their camaraderie keeps me from dwelling on this new knowledge that Isaiah hung my drawing and doesn’t appear embarrassed by the fact that I know.

“If you can draw people as well as you draw sea turtles and hammerhead sharks,” I say to Naya, “I could use some tips.”

She grins. “I can help you.”

“Later,” Marjorie says. “First we feast.”