Cake Walk
by Keith Moore
She was big and round and licked her fingers when no one was looking. Her job at the supermarket bakery didn’t pay much, but she didn’t mind. She liked food and the store gave her free pie at Christmas.
Her co-workers called her Cupcake. Someone in the meat department came up with it. He got himself fired—something about missing ground beef and a phony timecard—but the name stuck. She got used to it.
It was her first job after high school. She mopped floors and wiped counters and sometimes worked the cash register. Customers approached the display case and tapped their fingers on the glass. I want this and I want that, they would say pointing to the frosted cupcakes and the crème-filled snack cakes and the fruit-covered pastries. She placed the items in a box and tied it with string.
She was eventually moved to the kitchen. There she baked chocolate chip cookies and lemon blueberry turnovers and cranberry orange scones. Every so often she’d make celebration cakes. “Happy Birthday!” and “Congratulations!” she’d write across the top in colorful cursive letters.
She loved the smell of freshly baked muffins and croissants, but there was nothing like a warm loaf of bread just out of the oven. Occasionally, she’d sneak a piece and cover it with butter. She would eat it in the corner and wipe her mouth when she was done.
It was the holiday season. Shoppers lined up to order apple pies and fudge brownies and mini cupcakes. Her boss offered her time and a half to work the weekend, but she was busy. Saturday was homecoming, the day of the big high school football game. The cross-town rivalry stretched decades; she hadn’t missed a game since graduation.
She awoke early and filled a thermos with hot chocolate and tiny marshmallows before stopping at the bakery to pick up a half-dozen donuts—Boston creme and chocolate frosted and powdered sugar. I’m going to the game; she’d tell anyone who would listen.
She placed the donuts in her backpack and drove to the high school. Once there, she found her favorite spot in the bleachers—an aisle seat on the top row—and covered herself in a blanket, the checkered one with blue and white squares, the school’s colors. “Go Eagles!” was sewn in block letters across the front.
There were cheerleaders and marching bands and food trucks, too. People ate hot dogs and hamburgers and sipped coffee and tea. Old friends shook hands and hugged and slapped each other on the back. It’s good to see you, they would say. How have you been? What have you been up to?
This year, she hoped to reconnect with her old classmates. She was embarrassed last year when she saw Sarah, Beth—and was that Liz, the girl she sat next to in homeroom?—and how they ignored her when she said hello. Maybe they didn’t recognize me, she thought to herself. Maybe they didn’t see me.
Her co-workers called her Cupcake. Someone in the meat department came up with it. He got himself fired—something about missing ground beef and a phony timecard—but the name stuck. She got used to it.
It was her first job after high school. She mopped floors and wiped counters and sometimes worked the cash register. Customers approached the display case and tapped their fingers on the glass. I want this and I want that, they would say pointing to the frosted cupcakes and the crème-filled snack cakes and the fruit-covered pastries. She placed the items in a box and tied it with string.
She was eventually moved to the kitchen. There she baked chocolate chip cookies and lemon blueberry turnovers and cranberry orange scones. Every so often she’d make celebration cakes. “Happy Birthday!” and “Congratulations!” she’d write across the top in colorful cursive letters.
She loved the smell of freshly baked muffins and croissants, but there was nothing like a warm loaf of bread just out of the oven. Occasionally, she’d sneak a piece and cover it with butter. She would eat it in the corner and wipe her mouth when she was done.
It was the holiday season. Shoppers lined up to order apple pies and fudge brownies and mini cupcakes. Her boss offered her time and a half to work the weekend, but she was busy. Saturday was homecoming, the day of the big high school football game. The cross-town rivalry stretched decades; she hadn’t missed a game since graduation.
She awoke early and filled a thermos with hot chocolate and tiny marshmallows before stopping at the bakery to pick up a half-dozen donuts—Boston creme and chocolate frosted and powdered sugar. I’m going to the game; she’d tell anyone who would listen.
She placed the donuts in her backpack and drove to the high school. Once there, she found her favorite spot in the bleachers—an aisle seat on the top row—and covered herself in a blanket, the checkered one with blue and white squares, the school’s colors. “Go Eagles!” was sewn in block letters across the front.
There were cheerleaders and marching bands and food trucks, too. People ate hot dogs and hamburgers and sipped coffee and tea. Old friends shook hands and hugged and slapped each other on the back. It’s good to see you, they would say. How have you been? What have you been up to?
This year, she hoped to reconnect with her old classmates. She was embarrassed last year when she saw Sarah, Beth—and was that Liz, the girl she sat next to in homeroom?—and how they ignored her when she said hello. Maybe they didn’t recognize me, she thought to herself. Maybe they didn’t see me.
She wasn’t popular in high school. She blamed her thick glasses and bad acne and maybe that fight she had with Susan what’s-her-name, but most of her weekends were spent watching sitcoms and playing board games with her cousin.
None of her classmates came to her graduation party. Her aunt and uncle were there, and a couple of neighbors too, but no one from her class showed up. She made invitations, greeting cards with the date and time, and stuffed them into envelopes with red bows and silver glitter, but no one responded. Maybe they didn’t get them, she thought to herself. Maybe they got lost in the mail.
Her father split years ago, but she thought he might call or write. The last she knew he was in Tennessee. Or was it Georgia? Arkansas? She hadn’t heard from him since he remarried. There was rumor she might have a brother or sister, but no one wanted to talk about it.
She received a few small presents—gift cards, free movie passes and a half-off coupon for a bacon double cheeseburger and a large ice cream cone at her favorite fast-food joint—all of which sat on the nightstand beside her bed.
After the party, her mother threw out the noisemakers and tore down the banner—“High School Graduate,” it read in sparkling gold letters—and they ate leftovers for days. There were cupcakes with white frosting and creamy mac and cheese and crispy thin-crust pizza and lots of chips and pop. Waste not, want not, said her mother, a heavyset woman with long hair and bad teeth.
She was proud of how far she had come. Her job got her out of bed in the morning, and she got to eat free samples. She hoped to get her own apartment and maybe even a car; she was ashamed every time she had to borrow her mother’s truck. I need my own ride, she’d say. I need my own place.
One day, she hoped to open her own bakery. She’d serve salted caramel macarons and cherry and cheese Danish and vanilla-flavored cake pops. She’d sell those fancy coffee drinks, too, the ones topped with sprinkles and whipped cream. There would be tables and chairs and magazines for people to read. Customers would laugh and smile and tell her how much they loved her food. She’d call it Cupcake’s.
None of her classmates came to her graduation party. Her aunt and uncle were there, and a couple of neighbors too, but no one from her class showed up. She made invitations, greeting cards with the date and time, and stuffed them into envelopes with red bows and silver glitter, but no one responded. Maybe they didn’t get them, she thought to herself. Maybe they got lost in the mail.
Her father split years ago, but she thought he might call or write. The last she knew he was in Tennessee. Or was it Georgia? Arkansas? She hadn’t heard from him since he remarried. There was rumor she might have a brother or sister, but no one wanted to talk about it.
She received a few small presents—gift cards, free movie passes and a half-off coupon for a bacon double cheeseburger and a large ice cream cone at her favorite fast-food joint—all of which sat on the nightstand beside her bed.
After the party, her mother threw out the noisemakers and tore down the banner—“High School Graduate,” it read in sparkling gold letters—and they ate leftovers for days. There were cupcakes with white frosting and creamy mac and cheese and crispy thin-crust pizza and lots of chips and pop. Waste not, want not, said her mother, a heavyset woman with long hair and bad teeth.
She was proud of how far she had come. Her job got her out of bed in the morning, and she got to eat free samples. She hoped to get her own apartment and maybe even a car; she was ashamed every time she had to borrow her mother’s truck. I need my own ride, she’d say. I need my own place.
One day, she hoped to open her own bakery. She’d serve salted caramel macarons and cherry and cheese Danish and vanilla-flavored cake pops. She’d sell those fancy coffee drinks, too, the ones topped with sprinkles and whipped cream. There would be tables and chairs and magazines for people to read. Customers would laugh and smile and tell her how much they loved her food. She’d call it Cupcake’s.
She fell down the stairs headfirst. The blanket twisted around her feet when she got up to use the bathroom. The “g” in “Go Eagles!” ripped. Powdered sugar covered the front of her jacket; drops of hot chocolate slowly dripped from the wooden slats of the bleachers. The thermos tumbled to the ground.
People turned and looked--holy shit, someone muttered; oh my God, said another—before two men stood and slowly helped her to her feet. Are you alright? they asked. Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor? She thought one of the two men might have been an old classmate—Mark? Doug? From math class?—but couldn’t be sure.
She had a slight scrape on her chin, and the frame of her glasses was bent, but she managed a smile and a small wave to let everyone know she was ok before grabbing her belongings and walking down the stairs. The torn blanket dragged behind her on the ground.
As she crossed the parking lot, she noticed the door to the school auditorium was open. She remembered the drama club’s performance of “Anything Goes” during her senior year. Her audition failed, but she helped sell tickets at the door. She wondered if Mr. Hobson still ran the department.
Climbing into the truck, she straightened her glasses and wiped her jacket with her hands. She dabbed her chin with a used tissue from the glovebox before placing the blanket on the seat beside her. Reaching into her backpack, she removed a half-crushed chocolate-frosted donut. She blew on it and took a bite.
One day, she hoped to open her own bakery. She’d serve salted caramel macarons and cherry and cheese Danish and vanilla-flavored cake pops. She’d sell those fancy coffee drinks, too, the ones topped with sprinkles and whipped cream. There would be tables and chairs and magazines for people to read. Customers would laugh and smile and tell her how much they loved her food. She’d call it Cupcake’s.
People turned and looked--holy shit, someone muttered; oh my God, said another—before two men stood and slowly helped her to her feet. Are you alright? they asked. Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor? She thought one of the two men might have been an old classmate—Mark? Doug? From math class?—but couldn’t be sure.
She had a slight scrape on her chin, and the frame of her glasses was bent, but she managed a smile and a small wave to let everyone know she was ok before grabbing her belongings and walking down the stairs. The torn blanket dragged behind her on the ground.
As she crossed the parking lot, she noticed the door to the school auditorium was open. She remembered the drama club’s performance of “Anything Goes” during her senior year. Her audition failed, but she helped sell tickets at the door. She wondered if Mr. Hobson still ran the department.
Climbing into the truck, she straightened her glasses and wiped her jacket with her hands. She dabbed her chin with a used tissue from the glovebox before placing the blanket on the seat beside her. Reaching into her backpack, she removed a half-crushed chocolate-frosted donut. She blew on it and took a bite.
One day, she hoped to open her own bakery. She’d serve salted caramel macarons and cherry and cheese Danish and vanilla-flavored cake pops. She’d sell those fancy coffee drinks, too, the ones topped with sprinkles and whipped cream. There would be tables and chairs and magazines for people to read. Customers would laugh and smile and tell her how much they loved her food. She’d call it Cupcake’s.
Keith Moore is a native New Englander with an advanced degree in literature from the University of Oklahoma. His short fiction has appeared in Blue Stem Magazine and Ponder Review; his writing has also been published in The Boston Globe and the Cape Cod Times.