The Grand Cake Tasting

“Try this one.”

The twins, Bea and Teenie, had insisted that Oliver come with them to the cake tasting.

“He’s a cake expert,” Bea told their fathers. “He’ll be a big help.”

“Yeah, he really, really loves cake,” said Teenie.

So far, Oliver hadn’t been even a tiny help. He loved each cake equally. Each flavor got the highest possible score.

The twins’ fathers were beside themselves. Of all the wedding planning they’d had to do, the cake tasting was supposed to be the easy part. “Why, oh why did we bring the children into this?” Simon asked (just as he’d asked when they debated the dinner menu and the flowers and the music).

Miguel tried to make the best of the situation.

“Now, Oliver,” he said. “Isn’t there one cake that you prefer?”

“Nope,” Oliver said with his mouth full. “They’re all perfect. Thanks for taking me here, Mr. Dad and Mr. Papa.”

Oliver never knew what names to call adults. He just went with what Bea and Teenie called them. Plus Mr. to be polite.

“Simon and Miguel is fine,” Simon told Oliver, not for the first time.

“Okay, Mr. Simon and Mr. Miguel.”

“No, I meant just—oh, never mind.”

The girls weren’t helping much either. Having given up on choosing the cake’s flavor, they had decided to focus on design. They were leafing through a binder full of more and more extravagant cakes.

Teenie held up a photo of a pirate ship. It had licorice cannons, a candy-cane mast, a marzipan sail, and a giant gummy squid attacking the deck.

“That one floats,” the baker chimed in.

Jacques Fondant had been a baker to the stars for twenty years now. He’d designed cakes for YouTubers, presidents, and reality-show hosts. But he never let it go to his head. He still made cakes for anyone and everyone. No cake too small or too big.

The twins wanted a big cake.

“Can this one have more floors?” Bea had started sketching their dream dessert, which looked something like a Japanese pagoda crossed with the Empire State Building. She taped two sheets together for height.

“You mean more stories?” asked Teenie as Bea climbed onto Teenie’s shoulders to properly display her creation.

“The word is tiers, but forget about that,” said Miguel. “We want something simple.”

“Vanilla buttercream,” Simon added. “Two tiers.”

“UGH! THEN WHAT’S THE POINT?” Bea theatrically fell from her sister’s shoulders.

“Girls,” Miguel said, “we’re glad you want to help, but this is our wedding.”

“WAIT!” Oliver nearly spat out one of three bites of cake he was currently chewing.

Oliver had known Simon and Miguel his whole life. Of course they were married. They had children. They shared a house and a car.

“I know,” said Bea. “Can you believe it? In the olden days, two dads couldn’t get married.”

“It’s kind of like how they didn’t use to have cell phones,” Teenie explained. “Now they can marry and we’re finally making it official.”

“We are,” Miguel specified. “The fathers.”

“And we’d like you to be the ring bearer!” said Teenie.

Oliver had never been to a wedding and his only knowledge of ring bearers came from The Lord of the Rings. It seemed like too much responsibility. “I couldn’t, honestly. I can’t bear anything.”

“Nonsense,” said Simon. “You’ll do great. And the girls will be there to help.”

“That’s right!” said Bea. “We’re going to be flower girls. Or flower scientists, really.”

“Well, she’s a flower scientist,” said Teenie. “I’m a flower assassin.”

Oliver was confused. “So you kill flowers?”

“Right. I pick them off one by one. And we’re both . . .”

The girls attempted a drumroll on their empty plates. (It ended up being more of a crumb roll.)

“Magician’s assistants,” announced Teenie.

“Magician’s executive assistants,” amended Bea.

“But there’s no magician. W-wait . . .” Oliver stammered, realizing the terrifying implications of this. “You want me . . . at your dads’ . . . ?”

They nodded, smiling.

Bea and Teenie considered themselves managers of local magic talent the Unbelievable Oliver. Their friend was in high demand after the rousing success at their classmate Maddox’s ninth birthday party three months before.

“We’re getting dozens of requests, Oliver,” said Bea. “DOZENS!”

“But we thought it was only fair to give our dads your first—well, second—official show!” said Teenie.

Their dads looked at each other.

“It’s not that we don’t want our wedding to be magical,” said Miguel gently. “We do. It’s just—”

“It’s just that it’s our wedding,” Simon finished.

“But it was our idea!” protested Bea. “You were going to go to City Hall.”

“Well, it’s our idea now,” Miguel said. “You gave it to us.”

“Exactly,” Simon agreed. “So no magic tricks. And a simple two-tier—”

Oliver wanted to be polite, but he too wanted a larger cake, so he just grumbled “more cake please” under his breath. The baker, who was similarly at a loss for words, slipped him a piece.

“Fine, three tiers,” Simon said, to stop the girls’ shouting. “Vanilla Velvet—”

“Double Chocolate!”

“Strawberry Bubblegum!”

“Four tiers,” Simon compromised. “Cherry Jubilee, Caramel Sunset, After-Dark Chocolate, and Passionate Passion Fruit. But no more.”

The girls made their saddest puppy dog faces, which they had perfected by practicing in the mirror. Teenie could even cry on command.

But the two dads had practiced as well, challenging each other to resist all sad faces. Miguel, a photographer, had even made flash cards. Simon, who wrote the words for advertisements, had added dialogue:

The brave fathers were immune to further demands and the girls knew four tiers was the most they were going to get.

“Deal,” Bea said, holding out her hand.

To make it official, Teenie spat on her hand before extending it. “AND a magic show.”

“NO! Not at the wedding,” said Miguel.

“But we worked out a whole routine,” said Bea. “It’s incredible. You should see: the Unbelievable Oliver, the Brilliant Beatriz, and the Marvelous Martina.”

This was news to Oliver.

“We’re still working on the names,” Teenie said. She didn’t like being called Martina, even a marvelous one.

“No, absolutely not,” said Simon.

“Please . . . please . . . please . . . please . . . please . . . We’re going to keep saying it . . . please . . . please . . .”

“Well, maybe at the rehearsal brunch,” Miguel said.

Bea raised a fist in victory. “Yes!”

“And at least five tiers!” added Teenie, fist-bumping her sister.

“Do you have an extra piece of carrot cake for my friend?” Oliver asked the baker as the others made their way out.

If he was going to do another magic show, he was going to need help.

Help from somebody who loved carrots almost as much as Oliver loved cake.