Cheating Gods of Death (Sequel to L: Find A GirLfriend)

Cake

"Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday, dear Erica! Happy Birthday to you!"

Mom had made the cake earlier that day, and devised a way to cover it in fondant to make it a pristine white. In a paper gift bag (the size of a gift card) on top, she had dug out the cotton candy machine she had and made a tuft to put inside of it. It was adorable- and a wonder the bag didn't catch fire when the flames danced and the candles were blown out.

"Happy birthday, honey! Make a wish!"

Mom manned the camera, sang, and enticed enthusiasm from Dad and me. It wasn't like I didn't care- I did- I just don't celebrate as joyously as some. Mom forced the joy from her, and it worked every time. Her real celebrations (bank accounts swelling, the dress she liked on sale in her size) were celebrated boastfully, with her fist bumping and "YES!"-ing all the way.

It was March 16th, Erica's twelfth birthday.

"Woo!"

The wish had been made, and Mom was eager to reveal the filling she had put between the square layers of cake. Whipped cream icing beat with strawberry compote to give it a balmy pink speckled by strawberry blemishes. Chocolate was melting in her small crock pot, and waiting to be drizzled onto the cut slices. If there was anything my mother did completely void of common sense and inhibition, it was baking sweets. Ever since I could remember, she would lovingly make diabetes-infused everything, from brownies, to ice cream, to gelato, to batches of flavor-fucked crème brulée. All of them artful and delicious, the ultimate symbol of her love for Father.

He knew how he wanted a wife to be, and he got the classical Japanese beauty with American glitches and design. Serves him right- to do what he does, you have to manipulate police officers of all languages of the world to follow the digital voice slipping out of the computer. Which is why the older I got, the more I resisted him. Lately, my hypothesis had been shaking- how manipulative can he really be?

Mom hugged Erica around the shoulders and cut the cake, passing out slices and gleefully tasting her own creation. It was nice to see Mom so excited, so happy. We really weren't enough.

"How's the season coming along?"

"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask, George."

Erica and Mom were always the ones to ask the questions. Following Mom, I felt Dad turning his head to await my response. What a gentleman.

"It's going well, we've won the past three games."

Playing sports was another prop to occupy my time. It just stopped being fun the day I had to try out for it. Pretentious guys from the city were just so much better, even if they never tried out at my school. Really, I guess the fun was lost after Dad died. Mom was a lot more hostile about taking me to games, taking me to practice, and everything technical about playing rec ball. She apologized for that the day I came home accepted onto the team, but I still turn my (disgustingly) sweaty socks right side out before putting them in the hamper. I'm not a momma's boy, but I really don't want to piss her off. She's a lot more patient at work. They all deserve it there, anyway.

Kinda how I speculate she's so... like that with Dad.

"... I don't understand the progression in team sports. Please explain."

He meant the progression to the regional and state championship levels. Most fathers know that.

"Uh, you win games. It's really not at the true competitive level yet, then it goes on."

"Oh."

We all ate cake in the comfortable silence. Before long, Mom took up the plates and rounded up the presents and began awaiting... wait for it... gleefully for Erica to rip them apart. No, not the objects, but Erica has always taken wild abandon in opening presents. To my surprise, she started on the corner, and neatly shucked the paper off in two pieces.