Slave to Love

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Making a football shaped cake turned out to be trickier than I thought.

I bought four boxes of sponge cake mix, realistically assessing my baking skills and the amount of attempts it would take to get it just right.

You cannot really buy a baking pan that is shaped like a football, so I had to be creative and cut out the shape myself. I thought I watched enough episodes of 'Cake boss' to know how to model a cake.

That's how I'd ruined the first pan.

It turned out that − surprise, surprise − sculpting in sponge cake looks easier on TV when performed by a bunch of professionals. Go figure!

I opened the second box and this time I went for a basic football contour. And being the resourceful creature that I am, I printed out a big drawing of a football, cut it out and used it as a template, tracing the lines with a knife. By the time I connected two football-resembling layers with chocolate filling I was so tired and angry that I was ready to smother Logan with the damn thing. And to think it was all my idea! Thankfully, during my battle with the frosting, mom came home and offered to do the white details of the football. I didn't even want to test my pastry bag skills.

"It looks really impressive," mom said when she finished the last touch, pastry bag still in her hand. "May I ask who's it for?"

I leaned in to admire the final effect. It looked, well, like a football. "It's for school," I confessed reluctantly.

"Someone's birthday's tomorrow?"

I winced. More like death-day, if that's even a thing. Yeah, I was THAT irritated with the whole cake mission.

"Is it for a boy?" Mom kept pushing when she noticed my uneven expression.

"It's for a friend."

"Is it for Logan?"

Here we go again. "Mom, it's not what you think."

"Wow, did you do this?" My sister barged into the kitchen and ‒ I can't believe I'm saying this ‒ saved the day. "Is this for the mission?"

I told her, "Yes. I was just about to take the picture and mail it."

"Seriously, this is mind-blowing. Hugo told me not to expect anything more sophisticated than muffins. I don't think he was kidding."

I grinned. "Good luck with that. He can't be trusted with opening a bag of M&M's." And then I remembered we weren't talking to each other. The smile faded away.

"You got a good chance at winning this one. I'd be surprised if someone topped a football cake."

"That's what I'm hoping for," I said, glad that my competitive nature was a good excuse for why I did this. I would have hard time explaining myself otherwise, because, to be honest, I wasn't sure what my real motive was. I guess, I just liked a challenge?

I also might have been suffering from a Santa Clause syndrome, if such thing even existed.

➳♥

The next day, when I entered the school, the tupperware box I was carrying burned my hands like it was a ticking time-bomb. And it kind of was, because when I emailed the picture to buddyprog@gmail.com I wrote them to post the picture on facebook after second period so it wouldn't spoil the surprise. Now that I actually had to give the cake to Logan, it didn't seem like such a good idea at all.

For me, the giving part was always the most awkward one. I totally understood Santa for dropping the presents off in the middle of the night when no one could see him. The gratitude made me feel awkward and, frankly, that's not why I did this.