The Cake House by Latifah Salom

Author:Latifah Salom [Salom, Latifah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-345-80652-9
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2015-03-02T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

The party glittered at the butt end of a cul-de-sac, on a street called Calypso Court. The house was perched on the side of a hill and lit up like a beacon for wayward teenagers dressed as cowboys or punk rockers. Floodlights illuminated the ghouls and goblins greeting Alex with high fives. Witches and fairies clustered around Tina, cooing with delight over her Wonder Woman bustier. Costumed strangers mingled near a damp barbecue or formed a crooked line for the keg. Lawn chairs were scattered around the yard like rocks in a lake. Alex disappeared, buoyed into the house as if carried by a strong current. I wished for a mask to hide behind. Perhaps a harlequin clown or a Zorro mask and bandanna.

Inside, the house was a honeycomb of rooms. Like Ariadne in the labyrinth, I picked up a string made of music and walked from room to room, encountering monsters and princesses around every corner, bodies flailing and laughing. Looking for Alex’s blond head became futile among the rubber faces, witches’ hats, and Halloween streamers dangling from the ceiling. I met ghosts in every room, but these were ordinary ghosts, solid and familiar, with holes cut out of bedsheets or greasy white pancake makeup smeared over bright faces. These ghosts lacked gaping bullet holes along the sides of their heads. They didn’t carry baseball bats.

In the kitchen an alien with bouncing antennae handed me a plastic cup of thin, urine-colored beer. It was bitter down my throat, but I drank most of it like water before refilling. I wandered around, looking at pictures that belonged to the family who lived there. The shiny, happy faces reminded me of Mrs. Wilson’s handbag with its countless pictures. A young man in a cap and gown, fat babies and rosy-cheeked toddlers perched on laps and told to look at the camera. Look at the camera! Say cheese! The walls were mint colored with chocolate chip accents, and the carpets plush and spotless. It was a house for rich people—clean and pristine.

A twang of a guitar followed by a smattering of drums caught my attention, and shouts of Alex’s name. “Come on, Alex, just one song.”

People crowded the living room. Squashed into a corner, a band had set up their equipment. Alex resisted, but a man with a bandanna tied around his forehead thrust a guitar into his hands.

I found a spot where I could watch away from the crowd. I’d seen him play so many times it should have been familiar, but there was something different in watching Alex on a stage with an audience of more than one. He’d taken his jacket off and his Superman T-shirt hung loose on his slender frame. He tuned the guitar, the pick held between his lips.

At his feet Tina sat with her girlfriends crowding around her, whispering and giggling. The girl I recognized as Tina’s friend who drove the VW Bug hooted and hollered, her hair teased big and buoyant. She was dressed as a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, her breasts spilling over the lip of her top.

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