Six

“Oh, there you are, Deirdre,” smiled Aunt Maureen the moment I walked through the door. “How was school? Did you stay after for Memorandum? What job do you have this year, love?” It remains a mystery to me how Aunt Mo always knows what’s happening in my life. I seriously suspect she might be clairvoyant. Because I know that I don’t tell her, and I don’t know who else could.

I put my bag down on one of the kitchen chairs, nearly sighing in relief. One of the worst things about having a messenger bag is that the weight isn’t evenly distributed, and it cuts into your shoulder when you’re carrying heavy things. It is a sacrifice I make, though, because I really do like my bag. “Production manager,” I answered my aunt, deciding that the one answer was enough. It established that I was at Memorandum, and was a direct impact on how my day had gone, and how it would go for the rest of the year.

Aunt Maureen nearly dropped her spatula in excitement. In my mental picture of Aunt Mo, she’s always baking because, honestly, she’s almost always baking in real life.
She runs a small business making really beautifully intricate (and delicious) cupcakes and cakes, which she sells to catering businesses and local families when they’re having parties. And, when she’s not baking something for work, she’s just baking things for us, because she says baking relaxes her. “Production manager is good, isn’t it, love? Second in command or something like that?”

I nodded once, but Aunt Mo wasn’t looking, so I replied, “Yes, second.”

I didn’t mention how I should have been first, or that I had been stabbed in the back by the only teacher that I’ve ever really liked, or that I would almost certainly be left out of everything, which certainly wasn’t fair seeing as I’d put together the entire spring issue single-handedly last year.

Even though I knew for a fact that the cupcakes Aunt Mo was making were for work, she handed me one, because she knew for a fact that those type—chocolate cake with chocolate icing, with her pretty spun-sugar flowers on top—were my absolute favorite. I accepted it without argument.

I made my way upstairs, with my cupcake and my book bag, and sank down onto my bed, across from where Katy was happily chattering into her cell phone. I didn’t have a cell phone because what would I have done with one? I could hardly remember the last time I’d spoken on the phone. I began to peel the paper off my cupcake.

“And Daniel looks so good, Netta.” Annette was Katy’s best friend, who went to the swanky private school across town. “Just wait until you—aah!” She had spotted me. “Deirdre has a cupcake. No fair!”

I bit into my cupcake, and opened my Psychology book. What was there to do besides study?