The Cake is a Lie Read online

  What good are these memories? They must be forgotten. They must.

  Contents

  Part 1 4

  1. Sempre e un Giorno (Summer, 1997) 4

  2. Journal Entries (Summer, 2012) 9

  3. Loren Larsen (Summer, 1998) 15

  4. Jonsen Palmer (Fall, 1998) 18

  5. Jonsen and the Ladies (Winter, 1998) 20

  6. Duncan Anderson (Fall, 1999) 26

  7. Pacey Baker (Summer, 2001) 28

  8. First Day of Middle School (Fall, 2001) 32

  9. The Bottom (Fall, 2001) 44

  10. Rumors 45

  Part 2. 47

  11. Brandon Ledoux (Winter, 2001) 47

  12. The Nug (Winter, 2001) 52

  13. Nora (Winter, 2001) 58

  14. Sarah Faith Hall (Spring, 2002) 60

  15. Crack Shack (Summer, 2002) 66

  16. Waiting (Summer, 2002) 72

  17. Jordan Gillete’s Party 76

  18. Soiree at Benny Reed’s (Summer, 2003) 81

  19. High School (Fall, 2003) 92

  21. Avi Miller 104

  22. Oakley Carter (Fall, 2004) 105

  Part 3. 113

  23. Mike (Fall, 2004) 113

  24. The Trip (Summer, 2005) 130

  25. Science Class with Oakley (Fall, 2005) 144

  26. The Top (Fall, 2005) 152

  27. Robby Blue (Fall 2005) 163

  28. Journal Entry (Spring, 2011) 178

  29. Horse Dewormer 182

  30. Rehab (Spring, 2006) 183

  31. No Worries (Spring 2006) 187

  32. Casey Something (Summer, 2006) 192

  Part 4. 198

  33. We Cannot Hold (Summer, 2006) 198

  34. The Deep-Down Freudian Reason I Will Never be Able to Enjoy Doing Drugs Again 203

  35. The Party (Winter 2006) 205

  36. Last meaningful night with Oakley (Spring, 2007) 221

  37. Downfall 226

  38. Larry Swoosh (Winter, 2009) 227

  Part 5. 235

  39. Um, like, you know. (Spring, 2010) 235

  40. The Wait-to-do-drugs Speech 240

  41. Negative Thoughts. 247

  42. Positive Thoughts 254

  43. Ladies Man (Summer 2012) 262

  44. Mia Illy (Spring, 2013) 270

  45. It’s Art, Get Off Me 280

  46. “Driftwood Annie,” published by Puget Soundings magazine in May 1969. Junior League of Seattle Creative Writing Contest, First Prize. Author, Barbara Caldirola. Age 18. 281

  Part 1

  1. Sempre e un Giorno (Summer, 1997)

  Sitting at my cousin’s big kitchen table, dunking whale-sized cookies into my big cup of coffee and milk—I was content for the moment. The trip to Italy had not been smooth. Tantrum after tantrum greeted the news that I’d be saying goodbye to my friends for half the summer. I wouldn’t be back until school began and who knew if we’d be in the same 3rd grade class? I felt mollified only after we arrived in this warm place and my relatives began to spoil me.

  Mom was in the kitchen too, talking in Italian with Cousin Elena. I had no idea what they were saying. The sunlight pouring in from the windows was forcing me to squint. There was no T.V. or computer and not much to look at besides the cracking, orange pastel walls. They were so different from the plain white walls back in Seattle.

  I hopped down from the big stool and headed over to them. I grabbed my mom’s hanging hand and gave it a good tug as I leaned back. “Mom translate for me,” I whined.

  She left her hand dangling in my grasp but didn’t acknowledge me. It struck me that they must be talking about something important. Elena reminded me of Strega Nona, the old wise Italian woman from my favorite picture book, because she was always wearing an apron and cooking.

  Not wanting to interrupt again, I tried to listen very patiently, steering my eyes back and forth as they took turns speaking.

  From my mom I’d learned to look people in the eye and nod at the right time so it looked like I was genuinely fascinated with them. She’d also given me my dark brown hair, my relative happiness with my symmetrical face, olive skin and the imperceptible tilt in my nose that you’d recognize if you saw me every day.

  Another visitor had come that morning, an old man. He was standing quietly next to Elena, hunched over with a grotesque crook in his back. Sweat kept a few of the hairs from his comb over stuck to the top of his head while the rest peeled off and lay askew. Long grey hairs climbed down from his nose, entwining with his untidy beard. I didn’t like looking at him, I just pretended he wasn’t there.

  When my mom spoke in Italian her voice climbed two octaves and both her arms shot into the air. But she was nothing compared to Elena, Elena’s voice got going so fast and her hands became so animated, you couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement. But their gibberish could only occupy me for a moment, my perfect child act started to wane. Slowly, I reached around my mom’s waist and then stacked both my feet on top of her shoe. This was my favorite balancing act–I liked standing completely off the ground on my mom.

  “Stop it, Marcolino,” she scolded while shrugging me off.

  “Translate for me please, mom.” I begged again.

  “Alright, honey.”

  She held a finger up to Elena. “This is Elena’s father, Gabriele,” she pointed to the gross man.

  Only his eyes acknowledged me, standing next to Elena he was an ice cube. He must be so grumpy because he’s so old and ugly, I pondered. My dad always said, “Getting old is not for sissies, Marco.”

  “Elena is retelling Gabriele and Olimpia’s famous love story, Marcolino,” mom told me. She said something in Italian, and Elena started once more. But right as she began rolling again, my mom waved her hand, and Elena reluctantly screeched to a halt.

  “Sixty years ago in Altzono, the town your cousins are from. Back then, everyone in the village made their living raising cattle.” When my mom translated Italian into English she always added an Italian accent in the hope that it would help me learn the language.

  Elena began again, and my mom let her go for a while until just when I thought my mom had forgotten about me, she stopped Elena again. “All the big families owned plots of land where the cattle would graze. And you’ll think this is funny, Marco, they had a saying in Altzono, ‘You don’t touch another family’s women or their cows.’” I was suspicious of my mom’s translating because her summaries were much shorter than the time Elena spent speaking. But the story continued on in this fashion, going, stopping, summarizing.

  “Olimpia was the most popular girl in all of Altzono. People would always say Olimpia was bigger than life, big in personality, big in heart, just plain big. And every afternoon she would go out to the fields and sing to all the workers. She sang like an angel, still the most beautiful voice Gabriele has ever heard.”

  Spitting saliva, the old man said something to Elena and my mom as if they’d forgotten something important.

  “You have to understand…working in the fields was very hard, Marco, and every day Gabriele had only Olimpia’s singing to look forward to. He would weep in the fields listening to the wind carry her voice to him.

  “Gabriele loved Olimpia, but she didn’t pay him much attention. He was shy, quiet, and small–the exact opposite of Olimpia. But Gabriele tirelessly courted her for six years as the other suitors came and went.” A big smile that I didn’t think he had in him spread across the ancient man’s face.

  “Every month he would come and leave flowers at her door. Isn’t that beautiful, Marcolino?

  “Eventually Gabriele saved up enough money to buy his own plot of land and was finally able to convince Olimpia to marry him. They were happily married until the day she died. She would ask him, ‘Do you love
me, Gabriele?’ and he’d always reply ‘sempre e un giorno.’ That means, I will love you for forever and a day.” The grin was stuck on Gabriele’s face. The genuine look of longing on the old man struck me. I had a gift for picking up on these sort of things. Olimpia must’ve been something, I wondered.

  Gabrielle muttered something else, and my mom translated, “Now she’s waiting for him in heaven.

  “Alright, Marco,” Mom began after everyone had taken a moment to pause and reflect. “Run along and find your brother while I talk some more with your cousins.”

  My older brother was in their room reading so I headed out to the garden. Navigating through the cornstalk tunnels, picking cherry tomatoes, chasing the chickens—I’d spend hours out there, lost in imagination land. Each afternoon I’d become a handsome prince, the best fighter ever born, but more interested in pinching maidens’ bottoms than battling orcs and stormtroopers. Or a general in Sparticus’ army, or the union, winning battles that would be remembered in the history books for forever. Listening to my dad and older brother argue about history, I’d picked up enough to convince everyone my age I was really smart. Even a 4th grader who invented her own math theorem and went on the tonight show, Koleka Furlott, told me it scared her how smart I was.

  That morning, I strolled around the garden deep in my dreams. The love of my life, the one that would wait for me in heaven, was somewhere on earth. I imagined what she was doing at that very moment. I pictured her getting ready for bed back in America, brushing her hair in her Lion King pajamas. If that disgusting hunchback could have won over Olimpia, I could marry anyone. Probably an actress or a rock star. I was going to be ten thousand times better than that gross old man.

  I saw my one sinking her head into a big comfy down pillow, completely unaware that we were destined to fall in love.

  2. Journal Entries (Summer, 2012)

  When I broke up with my girlfriend of four years, Emma, she composedly went into a spiel where in so many words she said we were doomed from the beginning because, “You never wanted to commit yourself to love with me.”

  When we’d broken up before, she’d said nasty things or hung up crying. But when we broke up for real, she was as cool as a frozen fan.

  “I was a fool in love with someone who doesn’t even know what love is. And that hurts more than anything.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.” I couldn’t think of anything great to say in the heat of the moment. It’s a true gift to think up a great line spur of the moment.

  My prepared statement was great, I just said, “Hey Emma, I don’t feel good about our relationship anymore, I want to break up.” I was intentionally direct and brief because I had taken heavy criticism throughout our relationship for over thinking everything and being too nice. I was also careful to say “don’t want to be in a relationship” instead of “I want to be single” because she’d always accused me of wanting to be single. I’m a natural spin-doctor. It felt so good to finally get it over with. I’d been so anxious about it, hesitant right up until the moment when I somehow forced the words out.

  The truth is that she was right–I was never the “rest of my life” in love with her. I said “I love you” for the first time for the same reason that so many people do: pageantry, because it was expected. We had been dating for six months and she’d been hinting at it. I planned it out perfectly. It was a warm summer night, we were cuddled on the grass. Seattle’s biggest fountain played in front of us. I was so incredibly nervous and sick to my stomach that getting it out was more like a car crash than anything dreamy. Emma even made me suffer for a few timeless moments before leaning in and whispering perfectly in my ear, “I love you too.”

  Once you say it, well there’s no going back. I was nineteen then, I’ve learned a few things since. Emma always picked up on my fear of commitment. Call it a woman’s intuition. Not that it exactly took a detective. I was always reluctant to show her affection in public, because I didn’t want to appear tied down in front of my friends, family or old acquaintances we might happen to run into. I gradually stopped doing anything super special for her. She would ask me about it and I would say, “Emma you’re only my second girlfriend. I’m 23, you’ve slept with twice as many people as me. Yes 40% of me wants to be single.” But then I would go on about how great she was and why I loved her, how every guy has a part of them that wants to be single. Honest enough to have a clear conscience, deceptive enough to waste more of her time.

  When I would stay up way too late, Emma, half asleep on my bed, would stick one of her arms straight up in the air and flap her little hand up and down beckoning me to bed. I will always miss that. I could’ve settled with Emma. Settling isn’t as bad as it sounds. Emma was intelligent, a nurse, very cute, a solid eight, one of the hardest workers I’ve ever met. She’s the best kisser I’ve ever kissed, and I’ve tongue kissed around 25 girls. She knew almost everything about me, my mannerisms, how I think. She would reach her hand up my shirt and scratch my back at social events when she could tell I was getting tired and cranky. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with me, even with all my imperfections. She would have stuck with me and taken care of me if I got sick. If that’s not close to real love I don’t know what is.

  Staying with Emma would have been worth it just to avoid having to start all over again with someone new.

  But I’ve seen how almost love, so-very-close love, can become something ugly. The small digs and criticisms, the yelling and crying, the resentment and regret. Emma had plenty of flaws, many that I will only ever see. People are so different it’s amazing we find matches at all.

  No, settling isn’t as bad as you might think. Just don’t you dare confuse it for a second with reaching out against all odds, beyond all your means, and winning over the person of your dreams. That was why I had to pull together all my strength and let her go.

  I try to ignore the fact that eventually I will never see her again, even though a part of me wants to run back to her, pick her up and hold her, tell her that everything is going to be alright.

  Spring, 2012.

  Last night Emma became FB official with a guy she’s been dating. I’m looking at a big blown up picture of his face. He’s wearing a desert army helmet and shades, he just deployed to Afghanistan. Just above the picture is a big decorative banner that says, “Emma is in a relationship with…” They slept together for the first time the night before he deployed. The romantic notion of this repulses me. She’s told me a about him. He religiously gets on Reddit for a half hour as soon as he wakes up every morning. She went on birth control just for him, “Because he doesn’t use condoms with his girlfriends.” He calls her his firecracker. I’ve fallen into one of those episodes where I just lie on my bed and stare off into nothingness for hours. His muscles are freakishly big. And he’s actually handsome too, “GQ handsome” as Emma puts it, and he’s a tough solider. I imagine he’s carefree and full of energy. Picturing her spending hours talking to him, having his child, is misery.

  Winter, 2012.

  No, I never committed myself to growing in love with Emma. From the beginning I was just passing the time. Never compromising my nostalgia for the adventure of the chase. And something else, much worst. The truth is, I was, and am, obsessed with a girl I grew up with. Oakley Carter. The most beautiful name that has ever been given to anything. It’s been with me every single day since I first really learned it, ruminating in my thoughts. The last great name left from my youth–and trust me, there were legends. Oakley beat all of us. She grew up to be the most popular person I’ve ever been friends with, acquaintances with, ever touched. In literature it’s called an “enchanted object.” In movies a “pixie dream girl.” I’ve heard some cool sorority girls call it their “unicorn” before.

  Now at this point you might say, “You don’t know anything about love.” Well, this is true–I don’t. But put me in a room with any other girl in the entire world, even famous girls, even Scarlett Johansson, and
I would not be filled with as much anxiety and excitement as if I saw Oakley again. That’s something.

  But she’s far out of reach now, about as far gone as someone can be while still leaving behind a sliver of hope. And there is a sliver. Oakley Carter–the girl whose picture alone makes me cringe–she once had a crush on me. We were friends for a long time, but for a while she was crushin’. Fact.

  Oakley’s Facebook wall is private now. You can’t see it if anyone writes on it. And she’s never been lame enough to write anything on it more than twice a year herself. She’s made her pictures private, too. There used to be over a thousand of them. Glimpses into all the parties. Mexico, Whistler, Westin rooftop pool parties with guys whose faces can’t be on camera, Hollywood hills. Scenes filled with an endless supply of light beer, stunning outfits and secrets I will never know. Semi-scandalous pics that entice, that feature her in skimpy swimsuits, with captions like, “They'll either want to kill you, kiss you or be you.”

  There all gone now. All that’s left is a big number next to her name: 1,700 friends. You know she hasn’t added anyone in forever either. She doesn’t even allow birthday wishes on her wall anymore, even though she used to get hundreds of them. Even though to lames like me the random, halfhearted birthday wishes mean a lot.

  There’s still a little green dot by her name though, indicating that she’s online, only a click away. Apparently she still likes to chat online.

  I decide to message her. F-it. I usually do once a year anyways.

  I start off, “Hey, you should write a book.” Send.

  Then I write quickly, “I would buy the first copy.” This is clever.

  “Lol Random. What up.” She responds. I’m thrilled, not the most thoughtful reply, but whatev, at least she’s playing ball.

  “Random and funny, but true.” I counter. Then I ignore her “what up” completely, I’m not trying to talk about me.

  “You dating anymore famous people in L.A.?” Ouch. I immediately regret this, bringing up her high profile boyfriend from two years ago is not the best move. I have to write something though.