She is Not Made of Roses

six: the man-eaters are out, and they're not messing around

“Yep,” Ella says. “I’ll be home late tonight, too.”

“Council?” Her father inquires, curious.

“Nope.”

“Rehearsal?” Her mother prods.

"No—”

And yet, they persist. “Cheerleading?” Her father wonders.

“A bake sale?”

“Gay-Straight Alliance?”

“Volunteering?”

“Piano lessons?”

“—Or Violin? Flute?”

“Tutoring French?”

“—Or Italian?”

“—No, to all of the above!” Ella bursts, suddenly snapping.

Her parents exchange a quick glance, chuckling to themselves. “Did we miss one?”

"No—well, I mean, you missed dressage, but that’s not it, either,” she says. Her father looks at her pointedly; still listening, he begins to artfully drizzle the frosting over the cinnamon buns. “I’m meeting a friend after school to talk about some fundraiser things.”

“Is it Peter?” Her father asks instantly, stopping everything to look up with alarm.

“Oh, I miss Peter,” her mother laments sorrowfully. “Why did you ever dump that sweet boy?”

“He kept this business alive,” Don comments. “He must’ve bought every variety of every sweet we offer at the bakery.”

Ella rolls her eyes, “No, not Peter. You don’t know her.”

“Oh, it’s a girl?” Her father muses.

Her mother swipes in and grabs one of the freshly frosted, now cooled, cinnamon buns and takes a hungry bite. She smiles into the pastry, “C’est la vie!”

Ella rolls her eyes and laughs, “Not that kind of friend.”

“For now,” her mother whispers. “That’s how it always begins….”

Before Ella can snap at her, her father pipes up. “But honestly, invite that Peter over again! Even if you’re not dating, he can still buy our pastries—”

“—Bye, guys,” Ella says briskly, pecking him on the cheek before he can drawl on any further. She kisses her mother on the cheek, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and swiping a cinnamon bun before she departs. Marching out of the kitchen, she turns to wave goodbye to them.                                                                                                                                                    

“Tell your mystery friend we said hi!” Ella’s mother shouts after her.

“And remember to call Peter! We need his money!”

Ella’s about halfway out the door when her parents finally stop going on and on about her prospective love life. She unlocks her door, throws her backpack in the passenger seat, and makes her way over to the high school.

Once she’s made it safely to school, she parks her car in the parking lot. She unbuckles herself, licking the excess frosting off of her fingers before popping out of the car. Reaching across to grab her backpack, her eyes catch sight of her seat cover– and they nearly pop out of her head.