The other two kids screech to a halt and stare in dismay.
I cover my face with my hands, screaming silently inside.
“Oh my God,” people are saying.
Emilio and Lyla, Tripp’s parents, jump up and run to the kids. “Tripp! What are you doing?” They’re followed by Clark and his wife, Hannah.
Harvey bursts into tears, and when Emilio hauls Tripp up out of the cream cheese frosting, Tripp is bawling, too. Knox’s bottom lip quivers.
I drop my hands in consternation. “Is he hurt?” I too rush over there. “Are you okay, Tripp?”
He just cries harder.
I crouch down in front of him. He’s impressively frosted with mauve and purple icing. “Are you hurt, buddy?”
His face red, he shakes his head, howls, and grabs his mom’s legs, pushing his face into the skirt of her dress, smearing the black velvet with cream cheese and sugar.
I press my hand to my throat.
“You are in so much trouble,” Lyla hisses to him. “You, too, Knox.”
Now the tears slide down Knox’s face.
My heart is breaking for the kids who were just having fun, now seeing the consequences of their actions. And I can’t believe Nonna’s favorite Italian cream cake, that was made by her favorite bakery and brought all the way from New York City, is destroyed.
I look over at her as I stand. “I’m so sorry.”
She shakes her head, her smile crooked. “Shit happens.”
Harvey’s little sister Polly has planted her butt on the carpeted floor next to the cake and is scooping up cake and frosting into her mouth.
“Polly!” Hannah swoops and grabs her daughter. “You can’t eat that off the floor!”
“Nooooo.” Polly arches in her mom’s arms. “I want cake!”
“Polly! Quiet. We can’t eat that cake.”
“I WANT CAKE!” She’s flailing now in a full-blown tantrum. “WANT CAKE!”
“What were you boys doing?” Lyla demands.
“W-we were j-just playing,” Tripp sobs. “I didn’t s-see the cake.”
“It was an accident,” I tell him.
“Now Nonna has no birthday cake!” Knox wails.
“I wanted birthday cake!” Harvey sobs.
“Me, too!” Polly cries.
“Me, too,” I mutter. Now what am I supposed to do?
As the parents lead the kids away to clean them up and probably scold them more, I, too, want to cry. I stare at the wrecked cake.
I know it was an accident. The kids weren’t really misbehaving. They were just having fun, dancing and running around. There were other hazards that could have caused even worse accidents: servers bringing coffee and tea, carrying trays of dishes and glassware, and my laptop hooked up to the projector for the slide show. I don’t want to pin blame, but maybe their parents could have supervised their children a little better? MaybeIshould have supervised the children a little better.
Shit.
