“There is competition.”
“Not meaningful competition.”
Millie laughed.
After everything that happened with Bogdan, I’d finally called Millie. I had expected awkwardness. Perhaps mild annoyance since I’d postponed our original baking date. Possibly a very justified lecture. Instead, she’d immediately asked if I was okay. Then she’d informed me that single motherhood meant canceled plans happened all the time and demanded that I stop apologizing.
Three days later, we had our makeup baking night. Three hours after that, we were best friends.
Friendship happened surprisingly quickly when two women enjoyed baking, card games, and complaining about five-year-old girls who possessed concerning levels of creativity.
These days, our families spent time together constantly. The girls played. CJ would sometimes join the girls, but most of the time he’d find a quiet place to write. Bianca pretended she was too mature for all of it while secretly having the time of her life. Millie and I baked, or played cards as we sat on the porch discussing strategies for preventing our now six-year-old girls from accidentally creating small-scale disasters.
No strategy had proven particularly effective. Still. We persevered.
A loud groan rose from the far side of the gym. I looked over. Conrad was losing an argument. Again. My lips twitched. Some things never changed. He stood beside our display table dressed as a wolfman. The costume had been my idea. The facial expression was entirely his own.
“Billie,” he was saying patiently, “you cannot charge people extra because you think they look wealthy.”
“Why not?”
“Several reasons.”
The zombie makeup covering half her face did nothing to diminish her outrage. “That man has a boat.”
“You don’t know that.”
She crossed her little arms. “I can just tell.”
Conrad sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
I felt a burst of affection so strong it almost hurt. A year later and that still happened. Far too often.
Across the gym, Bianca sat behind the cash box wearing a headband with devil horns. She was helping customers with complete competency. CJ stood beside her in a white ghost costume, explaining the plot of his novel to a cornered parent. The poor woman seemed overwhelmed, but CJ looked like he’d just found his ideal audience.
He’d finished his first draft months ago. Three-hundred-and-twelve pages. Not that anyone was counting. Except all of us. We were absolutely counting.
Billie darted past, carrying another tray of cupcakes. Bianca immediately yelled, “Walk!” Billie ignored her.
Millie sighed. “Do you think they’ll ever stop trying to give us heart attacks?”
“No.”
“Good. Just checking.”
My gaze drifted to Lady Ferdinand. She sat in a folding chair near the display. Unlike the rest of us, she had refused a costume. When asked why, she’d informed everyone that appearing as an elderly woman in public was sufficiently terrifying. Several parents had laughed. Several others hadn’t seemed sure if they were allowed to laugh. Lady Ferdinand considered this a victory.
The gym doors opened, and another wave of parents entered, heading straight to our table.
The Gory Goods display had become something of a tradition. Children found severed-finger cookies deeply entertaining. Parents found them delicious. It made for an excellent business model.
The eyeball cupcakes sold out first. Then the graveyard brownies. Then the brain-shaped cinnamon rolls. Conrad had spent an entire evening helping decorate those. His brains had looked surprisingly realistic. I tried not to read into that.
By the end of the afternoon, nearly every tray sat empty. The PTA president looked mildly defeated. Again.
Millie leaned toward me. “I think they’re going to ask you to run every bake sale forever.”
I smiled. “That’s their mistake to make.”
