the believable that he had a stroke or something. And why everyone would care if he did. The first thing is he’s old. Really old. Sixty-six “years young,” as he likes to say (and I hate that stupid expression more than you can ever know). He is my mom’s second husband.
Mom married hubby numero uno right out of college, and they got divorced when she was twenty-eight. They lived in San Francisco and didn’t have kids. They drank a lot of coffee at little artsy cafés and took ballroom dancing lessons. They were like that. I met “Stan the Ex” one time when we went to Disney World in Florida. He lives in Florida now. We met up with him at a dingy IHOP and my mom and he quizzed each other about old friends and acted quite friendly over a stack of buttermilk pancakes, while Ryan and I shredded napkins and kicked each other under the table in boredom.
Stan seemed nice actually. Apparently, and these are my mother’s words, they “were more like pals with mutual friends and shared activities, but not much else, so we decided to move on and stay friendly.” I always thought the idea of a nice divorce was odd. I mean, you’re purposefully killing this really serious relationship, and that can be friendly? M and I have talked about this a lot because her parents also had a friendly divorce. But that’s different.
I remember watching Stan closely, imagining him as my father. Obviously, if he was I wouldn’t be me, I mean the genes and all, but I wondered what it would be like if Mom had decided to have kids with him. I guess I wouldn’t be here at all, but in a purely imaginative way, I could see having a dad like Stan . . . so young and cute and normal. It made me ashamed thinking like that, like I was betraying my own father, which I guess I was. My dad is old, no way around that. It has embarrassed me a lot over the years. Strangers sometimes think he’s my grandfather.
My mom divorced Stan and thought she’d be a single gal forever, but then my dad came along. Mom was working at McPherson and Kidd, this huge law firm in San Francisco, and Dad came in one day to sign some stuff. He was a client, there for his business (more on that later), and Mom brought him Earl Grey tea and papers to sign. Dad complimented Mom’s silver bracelet. Mom noticed Dad’s thick white hair and thought it was distinguished (me and Ryan always groan at this part of the story). Dad was in his late forties, and Mom was like thirty.
My parents will launch into this “how we met” story at the slightest mention of the subject. It is creepy but cute at the same time. They got married six months after their first encounter. My brother Ryan was born eleven months after that, and I was born a couple of years after Ryan. By then my dad was fifty-three.
Everyone knows him too. My dad has lived in Alameda his whole life. His family has run a candy and confection store called Island Sweets since 1922. My dad took it over from Grandpa when he was still in his twenties, and has personally made it the loud, popular, crowded place it is today. Every kid in Alameda has eaten a Chocolate Lava Lover’s Birthday Cakelet (you get one for free on your birthday). Dad also does these zany ads on local cable where he acts like different characters from movies and does little spoofy skits that somehow involve stuff the store sells. All of them are quite embarrassing. He has tried to get Ryan and me to be in a couple, but there is a less than zero chance I would ever do it. The ads are seriously dorky.
All this is to say that my dad is old and well-known here in Alameda. His name on a police scanner is something people would notice and want to gossip about. It is a freakish coincidence that my mom came to school and this rumor about Dad happened at the same time. I need to call home and ask my mom about this crazy story, and then figure out how to handle the other kids.
Dang though, it is really cool having everyone pay so much attention to me (and not because of my bra size or my hair color) and be so nice. I wish, in a weird way, it were true about Dad. I mean, true that something dramatic happened to him, but that he is okay and all, of course. Then I could keep the sympathy wagon rolling. I think I might be a bad person for just admitting that.
Nicki and M can help me get sorted, so I turn to them and begin to talk.
Chocolate Lava Lover’s Happy Birthday Cakelet
For the “lava” center
1 large bar dark chocolate
½ C. evaporated milk (NOT sweetened condensed milk,
that kind is totally different)
For the cakelets
8 oz. semisweet chocolate chips
2 sticks unsalted butter
4 eggs
1 C. white sugar
2 t. vanilla
⅔ C. flour (sifted if it’s lumpy)
cooking spray
Melt the chocolate bar in a bowl in the microwave for about one minute, or until it is melted enough to stir smooth. Mix in the evaporated milk with a fork until it’s totally mixed into the chocolate. Put the bowl in the refrigerator. Preheat oven to 375°. Use either 6 giant-size muffin tins or 12 regularsize muffin tins, and coat them with cooking spray. Melt chocolate chips in a bowl in the oven as it preheats, or in the microwave until totally melted (about 1 minute). Melt the butter and mix it into the melted chocolate chips. Set aside. Mix eggs, sugar, and vanilla with an electric mixer for about 5 minutes, or until the mixture is very smooth and creamy looking. Add the chocolate/butter mixture and mix it in well. Add the flour and mix it only long enough for the flour to disappear, no longer, or the cake will be tough. Divide the cake batter into equal portions in the muffin tins. Get the chocolate “lava” bowl from the refrigerator. Using your hands, roll the mixture into the same number of chocolate balls as muffin tins filled with batter. Put a chocolate ball in the middle of the batter in each one. Bake about 20 minutes, or until the cake springs back when lightly poked. Cool in the tins for 10 minutes, then run a knife around edges and carefully remove them by turning the tins upside down on a counter or cutting board. Serve warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
It’s a Mafia Thing
Nicki has a cell phone, but she is only allowed to use it for emergencies. Over the summer, on at least two occasions, M and I have seen Nicki pretend to be doing something, like going to the bathroom, when she is actually using the “emergency” phone. I asked her straight-out once who she was calling, and she snapped and said she was checking on her brother. But why would she sneak away to call her parents about her brother? I’d started to push her on it, but the look in her eyes stopped me. Nicki seems shy and gentle, but she can get crazy angry. It flashes in her eyes and you just know not to cross her. It only happens once in awhile, but lately it usually involves her phone.
This is why I am cautious about asking her to use it now. I form prayer hands and ask Nicki, “Can I use your phone to call my mom really quick? I need to figure out this mess, and you know M and I don’t have cell phones.”
Nicki shakes her head. “Sorry, Air, but this isn’t really an emergency . . .”
M interrupts her, “God, Nicki, it might be. We don’t know if maybe something did happen to Mr. Solomon.”
Nicki shrugs, looking a little apologetic, and says, “Obviously it is just a weird misunderstanding. I would let you call, Ariel, but my parents monitor the minutes. You know how strict they are, they would take it away if they thought I was letting my friends use it.”
I drop my hands and sigh. That phone will only see action
