Page 12 of My Family

Ethan gets up, and I get up with him. He smiles at me again and says, "Thank you."

It's so tender, so truthful, wholesome, that I can't even make any jokes. I just nod and try not to tear up. Stupid fucking tears, always trying to fall.

☐

I show up at the kitchen twenty minutes before my shift, which Lu notices immediately because I'm never early for anything, not once in my entire life. Especially not after lunch just ended and I desperately need either coffee or a nap. She's at the prep station, her head wrap today a deep purple that makes her look like royalty, and she clocks me the second I push through the swinging door.

"Something wrong?" she says, not looking up from the plantains she's slicing. The dishes from lunch are all waiting for whatever unlucky bastard gets dishwasher duty, and I hope it isn't me.

"No. I mean, nothing's wrong. I just… I need to ask you something."

She stops slicing. Wipes her hands on her apron and gives me her full attention, which is a little like standing in front of a spotlight, and which ALSO makes my eyes want to water. I can feel them prickling. It's so ridiculous how attention-starved I am, how being raised the way I was did that to me, and how nowadays I can't stop crying at the first sign of affection. Oh, well. Her dark eyes search my face with that unsettling ability she has to read people.

"I want to bake a cake," I say, trying not to chicken out. "A chocolate cake. For someone. For… for Ethan. His birthday is Friday, and nobody's ever done anything for it, and I just thought..." I trail off because Lu is already smiling, this wide, gap-toothed grin.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, my sweet boy." She turns to Dora, who's just arrived and is tying on her apron. Lu talks to her in Portuguese and Dora's face lights up with a smile. She's still tying her dark curly hair under the net.

"We make cake," Dora confirms, as though the matter has been decided by committee. "Good cake. Not box mix from America."

"It's also Valentine's Day on Thursday," Margarete says from her station, where she's preparing today's snack: cheese sandwiches cut into little triangles.

"I… I didn't even remember it," I say, blushing. I'd never celebrated Valentine's Day; I’d never had a boyfriend. I had a girlfriend for a week back in sixth grade when I chickened out before kissing her, and everybody kept making fun of me for the rest of the term.

Lu pulls cocoa powder from the top shelf, the good stuff, she says, not the institutional kind that tastes like chalk. Margarete retrieves eggs, butter, and milk from the refrigerated section. Dora appears with a bag of sugar and a bottle of vanilla extract that she guards like it's liquid gold, because apparently it basically is. It's so cute that all three of them are helping me on this mission.

Lu sets me up at the largest mixing bowl and lines the ingredients along the counter in order. "First, flour. Two cups, leveled, not packed. You know the difference?"

I don't, but I nod. She sees through it instantly and demonstrates, scooping flour, then dragging the flat edge of a knife across the top of the measuring cup so the excess falls away in a fine white curtain. She tells me to crack the eggs and mix it all. I try. The batter resists, clumping in places, but gradually it smooths out into something dark and glossy.

While we wait for the oven to preheat, the women start talking about birthdays. Lu goes first, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed.

"In Haiti," she says, "when someone has a birthday, you make diri ak djon djon. Special rice, black mushrooms, so the rice turns dark like the night. You serve it with griot, fried pork, and pikliz, the hot cabbage. Everyone comes. Everyone eats. The birthday person doesn't lift a finger."

"That sounds incredible," I say.

"It is. Because the food says: you are important enough to feed." She taps the counter with one finger, emphasizing the point.

That's really important, I think, and I can't forget it, even though I often forget things I tell myself not to forget ever.

"In Brazil," Dora says, "the birthday person cuts the first piece of cake and gives it to the most important person. Not themselves. Someone else." She looks at me with an expression that's half teasing, half tender. "You think about who Ethan gives the first piece to, yes?"

My face goes hot. "I'm scared it won’t be enough. It's just a cake."

"Oh, no, sweetheart. It is never just a cake, and he'll know it," Lu says.

These women are always trying to teach me life lessons, and I appreciate it a lot.

The twenty-eight minutes it takes the cake to bake feel like twenty-eight hours. I pace around the kitchen, basically bouncing off the walls. Lu tells me to stop pacing. I sit down. My leg bounces. Lu tells me to stop bouncing. I drum my fingers on the prep table. Lu gives me a look, and I shove my hands under my thighs.

When the timer goes off, I'm at the oven before the sound fades. Lu pulls it out; she doesn't trust me to do stuff like that after I burned myself last year, and sets it on the cooling rack.

It's lopsided. The left side has risen higher than the right, creating a gentle slope that resembles a chocolate hill. There's a crack along the top where the crust formed too fast.

"It's ruined," I say.

"It is not ruined, darling," Lu says. "It is homemade."

Lu's chocolate frosting saves most of it. With three precise strokes, she creates a simple pattern on top, a series of waves. I stare at it. It's not what you'd see in a bakery window. It's dark and slightly crooked, with uneven frosting, but it looks amazing.