Read Online 100 Days of Cake by Shari Goldhagen - Free Book Online
Authors: Shari Goldhagen
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heads. We thought it sounded pretty badass.â
Elle looks tremendously disappointed.
âBut even bigger, we have a gig on Thursday night!â
He explains how the manager at McCloudâs Music andCoffee called this morning to see if the Flaming Dantes (the manager wasnât aware of the name change) would be able to fill in, because both the drummer and the bassist for Sinking Canoe (some local band Iâve never heard of) have mono and had to pull out of the show. âI mean, I know itâs not the Viper Room, but itâs kind of a big deal for us.â
âWhat? Thatâs awesome,â I say.
âWe are so there!â Elle gushes.
âSeriously?â Alex says, but heâs looking at me, not Elle.
The thought of McCloudâs and people like Chris and the Hot Topic girls and maybe Meredith Hoffman makes me itchy. But Alex is looking at me with these big wounded-puppy eyes, and I donât want to hurt his feelings one more time. And who knows, maybe Thursday will be a good day? Maybe all the therapy will work, or maybe Momâs cake tonight will be the magic bullet and Iâll wake up and be back to the old me?
âSure,â I say. I remember Dr. Brooks telling me that I shouldnât waste my time feeling bad about Alex and his issues, but I still feel really crappy about it.
That nervous tic starts, where I twist my fingers all together.
Alex puts a hand on top my finger ball, and I feel this little pulse of electricity, like something from physics class. I look up at his face.
âPromise?â he asks.
âYeah. I promise.â
DAY 20
Tunnel of Fudge Cake
I do actually intend to go to Alexâs gig.
Iâm not on the schedule at FishTopia today, so I spend pretty much the entire day in the model-home family room bonelessly slumped on the couch, watching reruns. Roseanne episodes with both Beckys; Threeâs Company with all three of the hot blond roommates (they were never recasts like Becky, but different characters written in when one actor would leave because of a contract dispute); and finally the Golden Girls block starts. They air this one weirdly sad episode where Dorothyâs brotherâwho happens to be a cross-dresserâdies, and Sophia has a hard time grieving for her son because he wasnât what she thought a son should be.
The antidepressant commercial with the attractive family and their dog comes on again. Ask your doctor about . . .
Maybe I should.
Maybe I will . . . if Iâm motivated enough to go to my next appointment.
An hour before Elle is supposed to pick me up for the show, I go upstairs and shower under the big brass rain showerhead (another upgrade). Everything is going okay-ish until I pull open the double doors of my bedroom closet (yep, an upgrade) and realize I have absolutely nothing to wear.
There are a few dressy-ish sleeveless tops and a couple of long flowy skirts, which I guess would be okay, because Elle is driving, so I donât have to worry about anything getting caught in Old Monteeâs spokes, but when I take them down, they look all wrong, too froufrou, like Iâm trying too hard. Maybe my uniform of shorts and a tank top would be okay since itâs just a coffee shop? But my favorite cutoffs have crossed that line from worn to just dirty. And what if those Hot Topic girls are there all cool and judgey. Or Meredith Hoffman?
Stupid tears sting my sinuses. A part of me knows Iâm being ridiculous, but itâs like this loop in my head that I canât stop. How can I not own anything appropriate?
The panic ratchets up to the point where itâs hard to breathe.
Still wrapped in a towel, water droplets skiing down my hair onto my shoulders, I sink down to the floor of the closet. Hanging clothes tickle the bare skin of my back.
The ring of my cell phone in yesterdayâs shorts pocket startles me. Checking the screen, I see itâs Elle.
Man, she is
Elle looks tremendously disappointed.
âBut even bigger, we have a gig on Thursday night!â
He explains how the manager at McCloudâs Music andCoffee called this morning to see if the Flaming Dantes (the manager wasnât aware of the name change) would be able to fill in, because both the drummer and the bassist for Sinking Canoe (some local band Iâve never heard of) have mono and had to pull out of the show. âI mean, I know itâs not the Viper Room, but itâs kind of a big deal for us.â
âWhat? Thatâs awesome,â I say.
âWe are so there!â Elle gushes.
âSeriously?â Alex says, but heâs looking at me, not Elle.
The thought of McCloudâs and people like Chris and the Hot Topic girls and maybe Meredith Hoffman makes me itchy. But Alex is looking at me with these big wounded-puppy eyes, and I donât want to hurt his feelings one more time. And who knows, maybe Thursday will be a good day? Maybe all the therapy will work, or maybe Momâs cake tonight will be the magic bullet and Iâll wake up and be back to the old me?
âSure,â I say. I remember Dr. Brooks telling me that I shouldnât waste my time feeling bad about Alex and his issues, but I still feel really crappy about it.
That nervous tic starts, where I twist my fingers all together.
Alex puts a hand on top my finger ball, and I feel this little pulse of electricity, like something from physics class. I look up at his face.
âPromise?â he asks.
âYeah. I promise.â
DAY 20
Tunnel of Fudge Cake
I do actually intend to go to Alexâs gig.
Iâm not on the schedule at FishTopia today, so I spend pretty much the entire day in the model-home family room bonelessly slumped on the couch, watching reruns. Roseanne episodes with both Beckys; Threeâs Company with all three of the hot blond roommates (they were never recasts like Becky, but different characters written in when one actor would leave because of a contract dispute); and finally the Golden Girls block starts. They air this one weirdly sad episode where Dorothyâs brotherâwho happens to be a cross-dresserâdies, and Sophia has a hard time grieving for her son because he wasnât what she thought a son should be.
The antidepressant commercial with the attractive family and their dog comes on again. Ask your doctor about . . .
Maybe I should.
Maybe I will . . . if Iâm motivated enough to go to my next appointment.
An hour before Elle is supposed to pick me up for the show, I go upstairs and shower under the big brass rain showerhead (another upgrade). Everything is going okay-ish until I pull open the double doors of my bedroom closet (yep, an upgrade) and realize I have absolutely nothing to wear.
There are a few dressy-ish sleeveless tops and a couple of long flowy skirts, which I guess would be okay, because Elle is driving, so I donât have to worry about anything getting caught in Old Monteeâs spokes, but when I take them down, they look all wrong, too froufrou, like Iâm trying too hard. Maybe my uniform of shorts and a tank top would be okay since itâs just a coffee shop? But my favorite cutoffs have crossed that line from worn to just dirty. And what if those Hot Topic girls are there all cool and judgey. Or Meredith Hoffman?
Stupid tears sting my sinuses. A part of me knows Iâm being ridiculous, but itâs like this loop in my head that I canât stop. How can I not own anything appropriate?
The panic ratchets up to the point where itâs hard to breathe.
Still wrapped in a towel, water droplets skiing down my hair onto my shoulders, I sink down to the floor of the closet. Hanging clothes tickle the bare skin of my back.
The ring of my cell phone in yesterdayâs shorts pocket startles me. Checking the screen, I see itâs Elle.
Man, she is
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