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Description
Jack is back, but he doesn't say anything, which is no surprise really, and so very Jack of him. I pretend I'm frosting something, even though this cake already has more peach-colored roses on it than I have flower nails. I sure hope the Patels like sugar comas.

He hauls a bag of onion bagels up to the register, and Maggie rings them up, but he stares at me the entire time with those die-for blue eyes, limbal rings black like an inverse corona. God, he's beautiful.

But a prick. Totally. Always was. I remember when I wrote a sonnet for him at fifteen, and he set fire to it on my front lawn and walked away, smearing mud and ash across the sidewalk with his red and black Doc Martens. I wanted to strangle him, but I couldn't, because I knew we'd be back together in a couple of days, laughing while we spray-painted André the Giant onto shop-sides and pretended someone cool like Shepard Fairey would actually visit our God-forsaken little backwater.

He leaves the bakery without saying hi, without once giving me a proper acknowledgment, just that stupid stare. Well, screw him, I think. Good riddance. Maybe it's best he went off to that university and left me behind, even after he said we'd go to the city together and rent a loft, set up an artist's studio, punk it up to hell and back.

I don't do pop art much anymore, just cake designs. They're pretty amazing, still. If you want your Little Mermaid á la Warhol, I can do it. Your toddler will have the confection of her dreams, so perfect she didn't even know she wanted it. But just you wait, she'll develop such good taste by the time she's a teenager because of me.

*       *       *

My first memory of him was when we were little. He was a year older than me, already in school, but I'd see him at the park all the time, and finally one day I had the courage to approach him with the full force of my four-year-old audacity. We played patty-cake, and I admitted that my name was Patty, too, though I hated it (and at least the nickname Patty was better than the full Patricia, so austere), and he told me his name was Jack, upon which we recited "Jack Be Nimble" about a hundred times. And that was the last I saw of him for years. But I was smitten already.

I wrote him poems on construction paper hearts, which I crumpled and tossed and then pulled out of the wastepaper basket again, saving them in a little heap under my bed. I was less brave then.

He reentered my life when I was thirteen, so much darker and wilder than I had imagined he would grow to be. He changed so much that year, from just another boy at school that only I loved quietly to a fierce thing that wore high boots and a black oilskin, his hair mussed in a million directions, eyes cold and dazzling. I grew courage that year, too, first emulating him with my own new outfits, my lavender hair. And finally, one fall semester, I approached him, just as I had when I was four.

And that was it. Simple as falling off a cliff. He grabbed my hand and took me in. Though I wish I could say we were inseparable after that, subsisting in a sort of fairy tale fantasy, but that wouldn't be very realistic, now would it?

*       *       *

The boss is digging her voice into my ears, so I wipe my hands on a very sugary towel and follow her to the back room.

"Patty," says the boss-lady. "How're the cakes coming for the ballet?"

"Slowly," I admit. "Do you have any notion how ridiculous fondant swans are? And they want a marzipan Odette, too, you know. Does it have to be colored, because that's going to be a b—"

"Seriously, Patty, love. Just because I'm your mum doesn't mean your position is guaranteed."

A begrudging sorry, muttered so low I doubt she can tell I'm just reciting the lyrics to "All Apologies."

"The director picked us for dessert catering, you know. It's remarkable. He never chooses anyone but Philippe's."

"Totally spiffy, mum."

"Just get a move on, you know?"

So I go back to making my roses. The fondant swan stares at me, and I give her the finger.

*       *       *

Jack was strange, distant. Some days he'd be the wild creature I loved, proposing some escapade involving aerosol and tidal caves, and other days he'd be a shy thing, taking no notice of me at all. I'd pop up by his locker in a Sid Vicious tank top, lavender hair all gelled up to stick out something wicked, and he'd act like he'd never even heard of the Sex Pistols, or me for that matter. And he'd be wearing a polo shirt, of all things. Hair parted neatly at the side. He'd give me a nervous look and sidle off to class, and that would be it.

He left for university in khakis and a tie last August, and I wanted to graffiti my name onto the side pockets, just to have him remember. But I didn't. I never even said a word.

*       *       *

The ballet director swings by in the morning to talk about the cakes, and the marzipan Odette. He says he wants two marzipan Odettes now, one for the White Swan and one for the Black, intertwined. Maybe I should add a little cyanide, too. No one would notice with all the almonds.

It's not just because I'm sick of this project, and this job, and this life, you know. No, the director brought his son along with him, and his son is Jack.

"Hey," I say, waiting for a flash of recognition, a glare, anything.

But he just stares like yesterday, and goes, "Er. Hi."

Curses go off in my head like fireworks, but I keep my cool until the director goes off to chat with my mom, and Jack and I are left alone. This time I will talk.

"Jack, seriously, what the hell went wrong?"

"Jack?" he says, looking both frightened and confused. "How do you…?" His voice cracks and he clears his throat. "I'm Alex."

He seems genuinely horrified.

"Then who the hell is Jack?"

"Jack was my imaginary friend."

And right then, Jack's mouth smirks past Alex's scared eyes.

I die a little.

Description
Jack is back, but he doesn't say anything, which is no surprise really, and so very Jack of him. I pretend I'm frosting something, even though this cake already has more peach-colored roses on it than I have flower nails. I sure hope the Patels like sugar comas.

He hauls a bag of onion bagels up to the register, and Maggie rings them up, but he stares at me the entire time with those die-for blue eyes, limbal rings black like an inverse corona. God, he's beautiful.

But a prick. Totally. Always was. I remember when I wrote a sonnet for him at fifteen, and he set fire to it on my front lawn and walked away, smearing mud and ash across the sidewalk with his red and black Doc Martens. I wanted to strangle him, but I couldn't, because I knew we'd be back together in a couple of days, laughing while we spray-painted André the Giant onto shop-sides and pretended someone cool like Shepard Fairey would actually visit our God-forsaken little backwater.

He leaves the bakery without saying hi, without once giving me a proper acknowledgment, just that stupid stare. Well, screw him, I think. Good riddance. Maybe it's best he went off to that university and left me behind, even after he said we'd go to the city together and rent a loft, set up an artist's studio, punk it up to hell and back.

I don't do pop art much anymore, just cake designs. They're pretty amazing, still. If you want your Little Mermaid á la Warhol, I can do it. Your toddler will have the confection of her dreams, so perfect she didn't even know she wanted it. But just you wait, she'll develop such good taste by the time she's a teenager because of me.

*       *       *

My first memory of him was when we were little. He was a year older than me, already in school, but I'd see him at the park all the time, and finally one day I had the courage to approach him with the full force of my four-year-old audacity. We played patty-cake, and I admitted that my name was Patty, too, though I hated it (and at least the nickname Patty was better than the full Patricia, so austere), and he told me his name was Jack, upon which we recited "Jack Be Nimble" about a hundred times. And that was the last I saw of him for years. But I was smitten already.

I wrote him poems on construction paper hearts, which I crumpled and tossed and then pulled out of the wastepaper basket again, saving them in a little heap under my bed. I was less brave then.

He reentered my life when I was thirteen, so much darker and wilder than I had imagined he would grow to be. He changed so much that year, from just another boy at school that only I loved quietly to a fierce thing that wore high boots and a black oilskin, his hair mussed in a million directions, eyes cold and dazzling. I grew courage that year, too, first emulating him with my own new outfits, my lavender hair. And finally, one fall semester, I approached him, just as I had when I was four.

And that was it. Simple as falling off a cliff. He grabbed my hand and took me in. Though I wish I could say we were inseparable after that, subsisting in a sort of fairy tale fantasy, but that wouldn't be very realistic, now would it?

*       *       *

The boss is digging her voice into my ears, so I wipe my hands on a very sugary towel and follow her to the back room.

"Patty," says the boss-lady. "How're the cakes coming for the ballet?"

"Slowly," I admit. "Do you have any notion how ridiculous fondant swans are? And they want a marzipan Odette, too, you know. Does it have to be colored, because that's going to be a b—"

"Seriously, Patty, love. Just because I'm your mum doesn't mean your position is guaranteed."

A begrudging sorry, muttered so low I doubt she can tell I'm just reciting the lyrics to "All Apologies."

"The director picked us for dessert catering, you know. It's remarkable. He never chooses anyone but Philippe's."

"Totally spiffy, mum."

"Just get a move on, you know?"

So I go back to making my roses. The fondant swan stares at me, and I give her the finger.

*       *       *

Jack was strange, distant. Some days he'd be the wild creature I loved, proposing some escapade involving aerosol and tidal caves, and other days he'd be a shy thing, taking no notice of me at all. I'd pop up by his locker in a Sid Vicious tank top, lavender hair all gelled up to stick out something wicked, and he'd act like he'd never even heard of the Sex Pistols, or me for that matter. And he'd be wearing a polo shirt, of all things. Hair parted neatly at the side. He'd give me a nervous look and sidle off to class, and that would be it.

He left for university in khakis and a tie last August, and I wanted to graffiti my name onto the side pockets, just to have him remember. But I didn't. I never even said a word.

*       *       *

The ballet director swings by in the morning to talk about the cakes, and the marzipan Odette. He says he wants two marzipan Odettes now, one for the White Swan and one for the Black, intertwined. Maybe I should add a little cyanide, too. No one would notice with all the almonds.

It's not just because I'm sick of this project, and this job, and this life, you know. No, the director brought his son along with him, and his son is Jack.

"Hey," I say, waiting for a flash of recognition, a glare, anything.

But he just stares like yesterday, and goes, "Er. Hi."

Curses go off in my head like fireworks, but I keep my cool until the director goes off to chat with my mom, and Jack and I are left alone. This time I will talk.

"Jack, seriously, what the hell went wrong?"

"Jack?" he says, looking both frightened and confused. "How do you…?" His voice cracks and he clears his throat. "I'm Alex."

He seems genuinely horrified.

"Then who the hell is Jack?"

"Jack was my imaginary friend."

And right then, Jack's mouth smirks past Alex's scared eyes.

I die a little.