Marisa had just made it to the bulk candy aisle when the sounds of “The Imperial March” echoed off the concrete floor. Her heart rate lifted out of her chest in time to every dun dun dun that projected in all its older-model-smartphone tinny glory from her right butt cheek.
She and Eden shared a look of grim determination before they launched into a synchronized routine as practiced as their senior year of high school’s winning lip sync number.
Marisa’s ear buds were in her hands a second later, with Eden and Marisa each taking one. As soon as they had them in their ears, Eden gave the thumbs-up. Marisa, huddled between the supportive constraints of her best friend and the stacks of sugar that represented all her adult dreams, accepted the call.
“Hey, Ma. How’s it going?”
“I ordered the cake! Marisa Rose Silver, I ordered the cake! Oh, you’re going to love it this year. I got Bernie at the kosher bakery to make—get this—a cupcake cake. They’re all going to be pull-apart chocolate and vanilla cupcakes arranged in the shape of a menorah connected by frosting. I thought about having things shaped like the number thirty instead, but I figured a menorah shape could serve more people. And you know your father will put away at least three cupcakes on his own before any of the guests arrive. I’ll have to watch him like a hawk. I can’t have Sheila and Harry showing up to the celebration with the shamash already eaten.”
“Love you, too, Ma. Hey, how about we back up a few chapters, though? What cake?”
“Your birthday cake! Seriously, Marisa, didn’t you hear a word I said?”
Oh, she heard them. All of them. Which was why Marisa needed things repeated. Slowly. Preferably with enough time in between sentences for a spit take and a bathroom break, because there was absolutely no way her mother could be referring to?—
“My birthday cake? Why would I want a menorah for my birthday cake?”
“Cupcake cake,” her mother corrected.
“Fine. We’ll go with that one if it helps the comprehension.”
“Your birthday is December seventeenth.”
“Yes . . .”
“And do you know when Hanukkah is?”
The air in Marisa’s lungs grew thinner, having decided to vacate the space for better circulation in the heating vent overhead. Her pulse pounded a rabbit-kick rhythm against her chest, which only got ten times worse when Eden’s eyes widened and her friend made a slashing motion across her neck while also pointing down at the phone.
“Uh, Ma. Can you hang on a sec? I’m getting another call.”
Marisa punched the mute button as Eden brought up the calendar on her phone. Marisa looked over her best friend’s shoulder and grabbed on for dear life. “No no no. This can’t be what I think it’s going to be.”
“How the hell do you not know when Hanukkah is?” Eden asked, her voice taking on an unsettling shrill of panic that mirrored Marisa’s.
“Because it’s a moving target and I look it up like everyone else! It’s not like there’s a committee that sends out monthly emails with coupons or something. Though, not going to lie, that would be kind of killer.”
Before the argument could devolve into something even the fondant would judge her for, Marisa stared at the little calendar date, along with its incredibly unhelpful list of daily items it was calling attention to.
Eden squinted. “Yup. December seventeenth is the first night of Hanukkah.”
“Which means the last night of Hanukkah is”—Marisa counted eight days off on her fingers because, despite her almost being thirty, math was still her mortal enemy—“Christmas Eve.”
The night of the Crystal Christmas Ball.
“Shit,” Marisa breathed out.
“Double shit,” Eden agreed. “What are you going to do?”
Numb from the news and incapable of any rational decision-making, Marisa shook her head in disbelief. “Tell her, I guess?”
“About the Ball? Really?”
“I don’t know.” But as the seconds ticked by with Marisa’s mother on hold, she knew ignoring the problem would only make it worse. Besides, she hadn’t exactly narrowed in on a specific problem yet. There were just so many to choose from, weren’t there?
Telling her mother about her failing business, how she had a last-ditch shot to get on The List before she’d have to face some rather unsavory life truths. Oh, and what shade of red the Plant Nanny turned when she got hosed with hors d’oeuvres before deciding to reap her retaliation in the form of destroying her competitors.
Then there was the ever-present fact that she’d accidentally acquired a fake boyfriend.
