Chapter 4

Perry carried my birthday cake into the dining room while everyone sang. Purple roses crowded the border, and my name stretched across the center in white icing.

She lowered it onto the table and fastened the cake carrier beneath her arm. Whit moved the candles closer to me. Junie raised her phone, waiting for me to smile.

"Perry stayed up half the night," Whit said. "Didn't you?"

"It took a while."

"She wanted it right for you."

I looked at the smooth sides and the careful shells around the base. For every birthday in this house, I had baked before sunrise. I had cooled layers on the porch in January and hidden bowls of icing whenever Junie came looking.

"Make a wish, Mom."

I blew out the candles. Smoke curled between Perry and me while Whit began handing out twelve small plates.

"Go on," he said. "Cut it."

The knife entered beneath the first letter of my name. Purple icing gathered along my thumb, and the metal edge caught against the bottom board.

I cut a narrow piece and laid it on Perry's plate. She retightened the clasps on the empty carrier, then watched a guest close her eyes over the first bite. Perry's shoulders lifted, and her back went straight.

"Well?" Whit asked me.

I tasted the corner from my own slice. The crumb was dry near the edge and softer toward the middle.

"It's good."

Perry reached for the knife, but I kept my palm on the handle.

"I'll finish."

"Let her sit down," Whit said. "It's her birthday."

"I'm fine."

"You heard her. More coffee?"

"Please."

I cut again. The second slice took the first two letters. The third broke the curve of the next one, and Whit carried it away before the crumbs stopped falling.

"Smaller pieces," Junie said. "Everyone wants some."

"This size?"

"A little smaller."

"That's plenty," Whit said.

"No, she needs twelve."

"Then thin ones."

I pressed the blade down and drew it through the middle of my name. Once the cut crossed the white letters, no hand could put them back together on the cake.

"Who hasn't got one?"

"Mrs. Dolan."

"I have mine."

"Junie?"

"Right here. Mom, yours is too small."

"It's enough."

"Take mine."

"No. Eat it."

Whit held up the last clean plate. "One more."

"For whom?"

"Me. Perry took the first one."

"I thought that was yours."

"We shared it," Perry said.

"Cut him the rose," Junie told me. "He likes icing."

"I know."

The final piece lifted badly. Half the rose remained on the board, and the last stroke of my name dragged beneath the knife. Whit accepted the plate without looking down.

"Good cake, Perry."

"Thank you."

"You should do Junie's next."

"Dad, that's months away."

"Nothing wrong with planning."

I scraped the blade against the board and set it beside twelve plates. Only purple smears remained where my name had been.

Coats came down from the hall pegs. Whit carried cups to the kitchen while Perry snapped the empty carrier shut.

Mrs. Dolan caught my wrist beside the front door. "The memorial is next Thursday. Could you make one for me?"