Page 17 of All's Well that Friends Well

“Neither did I,” she says. She and I both look at Aurora, who shrugs, looking unrepentant. The three of us fell asleep crammed on Aurora’s bed last night, right in the middle of ourVeronica Marsrewatch. I was hanging off one side when I woke up this morning, India hanging off the other. Only Aurora was sleeping peacefully in the middle. They definitely had more room once I got up.

When India and Aurora begin laying out their plans for the day, I turn my attention back to my cupcakes, because I don’t have any plans. I’m baking and getting ready for my first day of work tomorrow. So I neatly and methodically fill each cupcake liner with batter, trying to find the peace that usually comes with baked goods—inhalingthe sweet smell, appreciating the thrill that comes with pure creation, making something delicious out of all the ingredients.

I wasn’t always a baker. There was a time when food made me anxious—a time wheneatingmade me anxious. As my academic life spun more and more out of my control, as dance became more clearly my greatest strength, I started clinging to the things I had power over. Food was one of those. Regardless of what grade I got on a test, I could control what went in and out of my body, and I was praised for it. I was praised for my beauty; I was praised for my dance skills.

It was easy to slip into that mindset, the need to maintain a perfect athletic figure. The need to maintain my beauty. I ended up losing too much weight, and my parents pulled me from the community college I was attending in order to get healthy again.

I fought them at first, but not for too long. I was miserable. Spiraling and frightened and miserable. I was scared of my mind. I was scared of food. I was scared of my body.

All that aside, I was still one of the lucky ones. I was able to recover; lots of people don’t. It’s a thought pattern I’ll have to fight for the rest of my life, but I’m doing my best. And baking?

Baking is the hobby I took up once I was ready—a middle finger to the brain that was telling me lies about myself.

Cyrus is the only one who knew what I went through. India and Aurora were away at college themselves, and I could never bring myself to tell them. Their love would have been stifling when I needed space to get my head on straight. But Cyrus was around, already graduated, and he saw.

More than that, though, he let me be. He didn’t ask me how I was feeling ten times a day; he didn’t look at me withpoorly concealed pity or anxiety or concern. He just gave me a rare hug and then went about his business.

It was perfect, and I love him for it. I might even take him some cupcakes later.

“Are there any chocolate this time?” India asks from the table, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“In the oven,” I say as I finish spooning batter into the cupcake liners. The timer for the chocolate ones will go off soon, and then I’ll put this muffin tin in.

“Excellent,” India says. “Can I eat one for breakfast?”

I smile a little, because as much as my baking is for me, I love feeding my sisters, too. “Of course,” I say. “But if you eat it too soon after it comes out, I won’t be able to frost it. Do you want to wait?”

“Nah,” India says, waving her hand. “I’m more here for the chocolate anyway.”

“Do you want one?” I ask Aurora, who’s drifted over to look at the counters where I’m working.

“Not right now,” she says vaguely. Then she points to the bowl of batter and the measuring cups and egg shells and everything else. “You’ll clean all this up, right?”

“Of course I will,” I say, rolling my eyes. I might be a little messy sometimes, but I’m not a heathen. “Do you want us to save you a few?”

“You said there are chocolate this time?” she asks, and I nod. “Then yes,” she says. “Save me a chocolate one. Are you frosting them?”

“With sprinkles,” I say happily.

Sprinkles are my favorite. They add the best little crunch, and they’re so cheerful.

India and Aurora filter out of the room after eating—India a plain chocolate cupcake and Aurora a bowl ofoatmeal—and I’m left to myself once more. I line my cupcakes neatly on a wire cooling rack and then frost them, cleaning up in the meantime. There’s a sense of peace in making order out of disorder, just like there’s peace in turning ingredients into baked goods. But I’m having a hard time feeling it today.

This usually works. Baking usually helps me feel better, no matter what’s wrong. But all I can think about is tomorrow morning, when I’ll go to Explore and start working. The tangled mess of emotions inside me writhes some more, and I wipe the countertop more vigorously.

I’m glad to have a job, but I’m sad I’m a janitor. Then I feel guilty that I’m sad when I should just be grateful. What a cycle.

How stupid is it, feeling guilty over completely normal emotions? It’s something I’ve always struggled with.

“You’re going to be great at whatever you do,” I tell myself. One compliment; I hunt for another. “Your friendly personality will help you make friends no matter where you work.”

Two compliments to myself, and I almost believe them.

When all the cupcakes have been frosted and the kitchen has been cleaned, I head upstairs to find my first-day-of-work outfit. The room I share with India only has one closet, but I stand in front of my half for a few minutes, my gaze scanning the contents to little avail.

What does one wear for a janitorial job?

Don’t dress for the job you have; dress for the job you want.I’ve heard that before. Maybe I should try it. I can scrub floors in tweed just as well as in any other fabric. I can use a toilet brush while wearing a suit coat. And this way I’ll look professional.

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