fairy-cakes and goblin-roonies
Clarey chuckles as we share an awkward, wobbly grin. We break our hands apart and walk a bit farther, pausing a few feet from the bakery as the bright neon lights wash over us in a prismatic wave.
The longing in my gut to really see those lights as I remember them, to decipher the colors fluttering over my face, manifests in nauseous pangs that evolve to a growling stomach at the scent of fresh-from-the-oven macarons.
Uncle Thatch dabbled in cooking throughout our childhood. He makes a mean frittata, and no one can rival his stuffed clams, although his specialties were the featherlight cupcakes and sandwich cookies baked up for me and Lark—no special occasion necessary. At the time, his official job as a portrait photographer made just enough to rent us a two-bedroom-one-bath Craftsman home, but six months after we lost Lark, he quit, found a business space to lease, and opened a bakery armed with nothing more than his meager savings and those homespun desserts. The one change he made was substituting organic ingredients in place of the less healthy counterparts.
When I asked him why he wanted to take that kind of chance, he said, “Life’s too short not to live your dreams.” I inferred the unspoken reference to Lark. He went one step further and dedicated the bakery to our family by hanging the quote from my mom’s Goblin Market book on the front door as a greeting to customers:
Morning and evening
You’ll hear the goblins cry:
“Come buy our fruits,
Come buy, come buy.”
Two other signs frame either side of the bakery’s large display window—yellow silhouettes on a background of dark green. One is a flying faerie, and the other a crooked-nosed goblin. To reflect the rainbow hues of his macarons, Uncle Thatch had the shop front painted in oranges, yellows, purples, turquoises, and greens. For the final touch, he installed neon lights in the same colors, so his bakery draws the eye—day or night. It’s all part of the magical theme, meant to lure people in and make sure they return, but he never really needed it; his baking skills and fresh ingredients did that on their own.
Within a few months of our grand opening, Uncle had already raked in enough money to buy our rental home, pay off the café space, and invest in a healthy 529 plan for my collegiate future.
“I’m heading over.” Clarey nods toward the twinkling white lights draped like icicles around a potted wisteria tree on the sidewalk two shops down. His aunt Juniper opened the boutique around the same time Uncle Thatch opened his shop. Since her last name is Wisteria, it seemed only logical she should sell creeping vines and climbing flowers and name it Wisteria Rising.
Another fringe of white lights outlines the French-style glass doors. Flannie sniffs at their base, waiting to be let inside where everything flickers with the same inviting, angelic glow that emanates from the woman who owns the place. Shortly before Clarey’s grandparents ended up in a retirement facility—worn down from caring for their daughter—Clarey got into some trouble in Chicago. He needed a new start, and without hesitation, Juniper welcomed him into her heart and home at the beginning of our freshman year. Her not actually being Clarey’s blood relation (she was his mom’s best friend when they originally lived in Astoria) made the gesture all the sweeter.
“Still plan to come by?” Clarey asks, his body leaning away from the line at the bakery’s entrance; it doesn’t matter that aluminum isn’t magnetic, it’s as if he’s being pulled toward Flannie’s shimmery costume.
I don’t blame him for that anxious spasm in his jaw or the tremble in his voice … for not wanting to venture inside Uncle’s packed bakery.
“Yeah, I’ll be by,” I answer. “I’ve got to shade the letters and tweak that mechanical arm.” I don’t say the rest since we both already know: I have to get the carnival mural done tonight. Once my twenty-four-hour vigil against Halloween begins, I won’t leave my house for anything.
“Cool. Tootles, poodle.” He touches two fingertips to his temple—the Clarey version of a wave—then buries himself in his hood and carves a wide beeline around the crowd. He developed enochlophobia after the incident in Chicago—the details of which he’s never shared, other than that it has to do with the scar on his forehead. He manages going to school with Flannie by his side; but congregated events that aren’t regimented or scheduled can take unpredictable turns and trigger a deep-seated fear of having a panic attack in public.
Though Fridays after school are among the bakery’s busiest times, second only to Saturdays, today is worse than usual because of the rain. We have a waiting area with benches on the patio, but with everything dripping wet, customers choose to cluster at the storefront under their umbrellas—listening for their numbers over the intercom so they can claim a spot inside.
Their eager expressions remind me of the warning Clarey gave the tourists earlier … of people not being able to leave after sampling my uncle’s desserts. In truth, it’s not that they can’t leave; it’s that they don’t want to.
Uncle Thatch bakes the best macarons and minicupcakes this side of the Columbia River. The fact that he uses only organic ingredients—with flavorings such as basil, lavender, citrus, and anise in combination with natural colorings like beets, paprika, saffron, matcha, red cabbage, and coffee—only makes his success all the more mystifying.
He decorates his Fairy-Cakes with lacy spun-sugar wings so realistic it appears tiny flying creatures crash-landed into the all-natural frosting. And his macarons, aka Goblin-Roonies—named in fond tribute for the goonies of our city’s fame and for the goblins I draw—are every color of the rainbow beneath their luminous squid-ink glow. Some customers say he bakes with magic. There may be something to that, considering he receives weekly shipments of exotic fruit for his creations that are so flawless, plump, and juicy they could’ve been grown in an enchanted orchard.
Thereby the name of his shop, Eveningside Enchanted Delights, is the perfect fit.
As I make my way to the door, several regulars smile and clear a path. I pause long enough for small talk, acutely aware of the sympathetic frowns on their faces as unspoken thoughts of Lark swirl around us like phantoms. Relaying my goodbyes, I step over the threshold before anything can be voiced aloud.
The aroma of baked goods—paired with the glow of candle jars centered on each wooden table—greets me with a familiar warmth that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Four years ago, in seventh-grade chemistry class under our teacher’s careful supervision and instruction, we learned to make white flame using Epsom salt fueled by methanol. Today, that’s the only color of fire I see. No oranges or yellows, no reds or bluish tones.
It’s even more of a kick in the teeth here, where our special candles emit rainbow-hued flames. Uncle doesn’t even play background music, so as not to interfere with the ambiance. Instead, the sound of customers talking and laughing provides its own soundtrack.
Resituating the duffel on my shoulder, I wind through a faded kaleidoscope that teeters between sepia and grayscale on my way to the front counter. Our two servers, Stephen and Tori, and Pete the busser are all busy working the tables so I skip any hellos.
“Hey, Nix!” Three of my classmates, seated at a tall, four-top table in the corner, wave me down. They don’t have a candle or plates yet, so they’re still waiting for their order.
Jin’s salt-and-pepper braids shimmer beneath the soft overhead lights. “Do the candle trick!”
Brooke, a cheerleader who volunteered to pose for a “portraits on canvas” unit back in August, then decided she herself wanted to learn to paint and switched over to art, adds, “Yeah, Émile hasn’t ever seen it.”
Émile enrolled in mid-September as a French foreign exchange student. “I don’t believe what they’re telling.” He beams his wide, inviting smile.
I furrow my brow teasingly. “I don’t blame you, it’s pretty unbelievable.” In the past, I would have happily hung the duffel on a chair and joined them for a game of Name That Dessert.
Unfortunately, I’m no longer the same girl. I glance at the digital clock on the wall. I still have plenty of time before the deliveryman comes, but my classmates don’t know that. I’m the only one Uncle trusts to do the recycling, and since he has a strict rule that I’m never to have direct contact with the deliveryman, I have to have the box ready so Uncle can hand it off himself.
“I know you’re here to work, but hang for just a few. Please? I never see you anymore.” Jin’s dark eyes sparkle with supplication before I can offer my excuse. She and I were in art class together from seventh through ninth grade, so she took it personally when I dropped it this year without warning.
Resigned, I scoot into the empty spot between Émile and Brooke with my duffel in my lap. Since there’s nothing sadder than a broken trick pony, I’m not about to make it obvious I need help. That leaves me with only one option.
“Okay,” I say, “but let’s kick things up a notch. Blindfold me with that napkin.”
“Ooooh, I like where this is going,” Jin squeals. Standing behind me, she secures one of Uncle’s tie-dyed cloth napkins across the top half of my face, shutting out all the lights and sights.
I check the knot, then nod. “Okay, Jin. You’re my eyes.”
“You got it, girl.” Her clothes rustle as she returns to her chair. “There’s a two-seater table. Diners have their backs to us, blocking their plates. A pink flame burns on the candle between them.”
I tap my lip ring. “Okay, they both ordered the Avocado-Guava Roonies.”
There’s a scribbling sound as someone jots my answer on paper.
“Another,” I say, rearranging the blindfold so it won’t pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Four-topper with three people, too far across the room to make out what they’re eating. The flame is flickering between green and blue.”
I smirk. “Hibiscus Fairy-Cakes and Berry-Berry Roonies.”
“I tried those hibiscus ones once,” Brooke inserts. “Didn’t like them. They made me feel too sad.”
“Shhh,” Jin shushes.
Brooke makes a huffing sound.
“Sorry, boo,” Jin says, followed by the sound of a noisy peck. “You’re going to break our girl’s concentration.”
“Last one,” I say, itching to pull off the blindfold and look at the clock as my concern for the recycling becomes genuine.
“Okay, a six-top in the middle … a business meeting.”
“How do you know?” Brooke interrupts again.
“Why else would they have a flow diagram propped on an easel, huh?” Jin scolds. “I can see everyone’s plates, but they’ve all finished eating so there’s just crumbs. One candle, the flame goes from red to blue, then turquoise to orange.”
“Is the cycle repeating?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I chew on my lip hoop. “Hmmm … they had the Poesy Sampler: Strawberry Mead Fairy-Cakes, Lavender-Blue-Dilly Roonies, Nectarine-Cardamom Cakes, and Peach-Curd and Maple Roonies.”
As I take off the blindfold, Brooke finishes jotting my answers. Jin takes the list, gets up, and makes a sweep of the room, pretending to look at the colorful artwork on the wall. What she’s really doing is surreptitiously glancing at everyone’s food, or in the case of the six-top, the itemized check on their table. When she gets back to us, she confirms all my guesses were right.
Émile’s eyes widen, and Brooke busts out giggling. “See? She never misses one.”
“She has a gift,” Jin adds.
“Or a touch of sorcellerie. How’s it done, eh?” Émile asks, leaning in so his beaded paisley neck scarf grazes the tabletop with a soft clack.
I hesitate, thinking that sorcery would be the perfect explanation. Uncle Thatch buys the candles from the same distributor who provides our fruit, and the wicks are rumored to absorb emotions then showcase them through the flames. When we first opened, I asked my uncle how that was even possible. He said, “You know, kind of like a mood ring.” Uncle then made me promise never to talk about the emotion-emitting wicks, or we’d risk losing everything. I’ve always assumed he meant the distinctiveness of our bakery—what sets us apart. So we just let everyone believe the candle flames are simply colorful, with no rhyme or reason.
Over time, I learned to read the fire. I could predict what each person was having because I knew that each dessert inspired a distinctive emotion, having sampled them all and noted how they affected me.
If the glow at the table was pink, someone ordered the Avocado-Guava macarons, and the odd combination of flavors had them feeling indecisive or uncertain. If a flame sparked green, someone chose the Hibiscus Fairy-Cakes, which make people wallow in sorrow—maybe over a recent heartbreak or a bittersweet memory of a lost loved one—since the sugar-glass wings glisten with a pink Himalayan salt and sugar mixture that tastes like candied tears. Blue came through when someone felt bold or ambitious, brought about by a boost of antioxidants in the Berry-Berry macarons. Turquoise was happy, red was angry … and deep orange energized.
There is an entire palette of emotive colors, each triggered by the herbal and fruity combinations Uncle Thatch bakes into his wares, and I hope to one day see them again.
For tonight, I plaster on a fake smile and give Émile the only answer I can: “A magician never reveals their secrets.”