The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky. Summer Heacock
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pokes her head around the door and lets out a whoosh of air. “Nope, just customers.” She scurries into the front to handle them, and I get back to my boobs.
“I don’t think he’d dare come back in here when it’s quiet without setting off some sirens before he opens the door,” Butter says, getting back to her glitter-dusting.
“He’d better not,” I grumble. I tuck my dirigibles back into my bra and go to wash my hands. “Even my lack of poise has its limits.” I dry my hands off and join Liz at her station. “Okay, here.” I grab the dye and start whipping up a color of fondant that is as close to the color of my own nipples as I can get. Which is easily the weirdest thing I’ve done this week, cake-wise.
“When I went to culinary school,” Liz says pitifully, “I never thought I’d be trying to match the color of my friends’ boobs.”
“It’s a proud day for us all,” I say, rolling out the fondant. “You can use this for the areola and nipple, I’d think.” Liz makes a horrified squeak. “We’re all adults here, baby. We can say areola. It’s fine.”
“Maybe I should have been a dentist like my mom wanted,” Liz whines and starts shaping the nipple. “It’s not too late to go back to school, right?”
Butter pops her head back up. “It’s funny,” she says, pointing at Liz. “You can’t say vagina, but you’re out having all kinds of about-to-be-newlywed sex with your fiancé, and then there’s Kat, who isn’t bothered by anything anywhere, and she’s the one with the broken special. There’s some unbalanced universe for you.”
She goes back to decorating her cake, and Liz and I stare at each other awkwardly for a moment. Shannon comes back in and asks, “Did we get it sorted? What boob are we going with?”
“Kat’s,” Butter says. “I’ve still got the best boobs, though.”
“She’s not wrong,” I agree. I curtsy and head back over to the sketch pad on my desk. I’ve got a small pile of royal icing next to it that I’m crafting tiny ravens out of. “Shannon, check these out.” I hold up a tiny bird. “I’m not sure how practical they are, but they sure look cool.”
“Ooh,” Shannon coos. “These are amazing!”
“I don’t think I could swing a thousand of them per game, though. They’re stupidly intricate.” I rub my hand over my forehead. “But they’d certainly make us look more badass than the other shops.”
“Maybe they could be for big events? Like for homecoming or playoffs or something.”
I shrug. “Could be.” I take the little candy raven back from her and set him on the desk. He is pretty boss. I’d likely go blind or succumb to arthritis in my thirties if I tried to make them on the regular, though.
But we really need this contract.
The idea of costing my team this deal kills me. It won’t be the flavors or the cake that does it—we rule on taste. Our online reviews always trump the other shops. My assumption is the only other shop that counts as true competition is The Cakery, but this is a college basketball team. Pretention isn’t going to get them as far as bitchin’ little candied ravens would.
The art is going to make the real impression, so I need to get it right. Every free moment I’ve had at the shop that isn’t dedicated to staring at my own tits has been set aside to perfecting the toppings to these cakes. Butter and Shannon are whipping up batch after batch of potential flavor combinations.
I know they’ll nail it. So I can’t screw this up.
“You nervous about therapy today, Pumpkin?” Shannon asks casually as she slices through a tray of brownies.
“No,” I say, turning my attention back to my notebook. “Why do you ask?”
“Because your face is all squinched up.”
I snort. “I’m thinking about ravens. And besides, the appointment is just for intake. I’m not doing the therapy there.”
Though Dr. Snow wasn’t super impressed with my refusal even to consider doing an official appointment or two, I left her office armed with new birth control pills and anxiety meds for my special, a stack of brightly colored pamphlets discussing the disorder and how to conquer it, and a new determination to get this shit done.
I might have missed the moral of her pep talk, but in my mind, if I can just get past this, things will calm down.
Shannon sighs. “I know you want to do all of it on your own, but it’s really not that bad with the therapist. It’s kind of like a half-hour Pap smear.”
“That’s what hell is,” Butter says, pointing her glitter brush at Shannon. “Hell is an infinite Pap smear. That’s not how you talk someone into going to physical therapy, girl.”
“I’m with Butter.” I shudder. “And I can handle it on my own. But I’ll keep the endless Pap smear on the back burner.”
Shannon glares at us both, but I turn back to the desk and resume working on my ravens.
“It’s okay to ask for help, you know,” she mutters into her mug of coffee.
“I do,” I say, narrowing my eyes at the majestic candy bird resting on my notebook. “I’m asking the universe to help this raven not take seventeen minutes to make, but still look this awesome.”
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