Frosting and Candles Make a Cake

“Ma is turning fifty-five in a few days. We should all chip in and give her a surprise party with a big cake with candles on top of it.” Fifteen-year-old Titus whispered with the five other children in the yard behind the house.

He was the only one who had been adopted by Idell Marcassell, the others were foster children. Normally Titus was not attached to the kids who came through, with most of them only staying for a few weeks at a time. This lot here had been around for a while, and it did not appear as if they were going anywhere in the near future.

“I don’t have any money. You’re the only one with a regular allowance,” said Brent, a fat, redheaded boy from Denton. Upon divorcing, his parents had tried to pawn him off to each other instead of fighting over him. The family court took him away; hoping one of the parents would miss him and ask for him.

Titus turned to the tall 14-year-old. “You are such a cry baby. We can go wash the neighbors’ cars or mow lawns. If we tell them what the money is for they’ll pay us well.”

Brent moaned. Titus punched him in the arm.

“What about you, Bing? Are you with me?” Bing, an Asian girl of only seven, nodded. She was a quiet little girl with jet-black hair. Titus picked her up and threw her in the air. She laughed. He was the only one who played with her, and she adored him for it.

Named for her French grandmother, Claudine, a blonde freckle-faced farmer daughter piped up, “If we bake the cake ourselves we can make it with the things Ma has already in the kitchen. I saw the big bags of flour and sugar she has. She always buys eggs and milk in bulk. All we would need to buy is frosting.” She smirked at Titus. “You should have enough money for that.”

“How long does it take to bake a cake?” he asked.

“A few hours. We need her gone at least for half the day.”

“There is no way we are going to get her to leave for that long.”

“We could tell her Billy is sick. She’d be stuck at the pediatrician for a while.” Brent suggested. Billy was the infant Ma cared for.

Titus shook his head. “She’s not going to fall for that. She knows exactly when a kid is sick.” He turned to the last two who had stayed silent so far. “You always complain about this and that. How about you two hold your bellies and look a bit green in the face so we can have the place for ourselves.” Jean and Joan were eight-year-old twins. They had been adopted from a Russian orphanage but their adoptive parents lost patience with their bedwetting and the other inconveniences that children bring with them.

The children planned the whole week how to go about it. Joan and Jean practiced looking sick. They did such a good job at it that Ma almost took them to the pediatrician a day too early. On the morning of her birthday she realized with sadness that she should have gone with her first instinct. The twins looked positively sick.

While she was gone, Titus and the other children turned the kitchen into a wonderland of flour, sugar, broken eggshells, and empty milk cartons. Titus had raided his savings to buy frosting and candles. Luckily, Ma owned a large oval baking dish.

Bing was in charge of measuring the ingredients. Claudine read from the cookbook and bossed everybody around. She claimed that she could not get her hands dirty in case Billy woke from his nap and needed to be picked up from his crib. Titus and Brent stirred, poured, and finally positioned the baking dish into the oven.

Titus and Brent swept and mopped the kitchen as good as they could while the layers of the cake baked. Bing sat at the table. There was nothing to measure for her. Claudine flitted back and forth between the glass window of the oven and the hallway to make sure she didn’t miss it if the baby cried.

Titus pulled the hot cake out of the oven. “It’s too hot to touch. How are we going to make the layers and decorate it?”

“Put it on the window sill,” Claudine said.

Titus read the cookbook. “It says here to let it cool for four hours. Claudine, did you even read this recipe before? Ma is coming back any minute now. With Billy here she will want to come back quickly.” He started to lose patience. This was his Ma’s birthday and they had already messed with her to get her out of the house. Now, she wouldn’t even have a birthday cake.

The doorbell rang. Titus peeked through the spy. A woman in a white chef uniform held a large white box with both her hands. A van was parked in the driveway. He opened the door. “Yes?”

“Is this the home of Idell Marcassell?”

“Who wants to know?”

The woman smiled friendly. “I am supposed to deliver this cake. If you open the door a bit more I can give it to you.”

Titus carried the box into the kitchen. He looked inside. It was perfect. It was white without any writing on it. Careful not to smear the letters, each child signed their name under the inscription Titus had written: Happy Birthday Ma.

Ma, Joan, and Jean arrived back at home right as Billy woke up from his nap. The three had little smiles in their faces as if they shared a delicious secret. When she visited him in his room before turning off the light, Ma told Titus that the twins had confessed to her as soon as they were in the van on the way to the doctor, and she had sent the cake home herself.

997 words.



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ID: 333655   (Rated: 13+) The Writer's Cramp  Write the best story or poem in 24 hours or less and win 10,000 GPs! by Sophy

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