Purity by Jackson Pearce Page A

it, and I have to keep ducking under balloon displays. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice our struggle, however, and we finally reach the back of the shop. Windows overlook the parking lot, and three tiny café tables are set up and piled high with thick photo albums.
    “Just have a seat here,” Wanda says, pulling out one of the café chairs, a white cast-iron contraption with a tiny seat and ornately curved back. I lower myself into it; Dad sinks into the other. While Wanda sorts through the photo albums, mumbling to herself, Dad and I desperately try to arrange ourselves so we aren’t sitting quite so close to each other. The kitchen table at home is vast, especially since the space thatused to hold three now holds only two; this tiny little table is meant for two tiny people, not two average-sized people and a rather plump woman.
    “Now, I have twelve different varieties of cake and icing combinations for you to sample, and then we’ll select the style of cake,” Wanda informs us. She drops most of the photo albums on the floor with a resounding
crack
; Dad and I jump. Undeterred, Wanda slides the remaining album toward us. “Just start skimming through those. These are all our larger cakes, because this has to feed… how many is it, again?”
    “We’re anticipating about two hundred,” Dad says. Wanda’s eyes fill with joy, and I think she’s clenching her teeth to keep from shouting.
    “It’s wonderful to see young ladies excited about a dance with their fathers!” Wanda says. Dad and I share forced smiles. “Anyhow, look through those while I go grab the first few samples.”
    And then she leaves, deftly maneuvering through the cakes before vanishing.
    Dad taps his fingers for a moment, then slides his thumb under the photo album’s cover. The cellophane covering the photos crackles. I lean over, trying to look interested.
    He turns a page. The air-conditioning kicks on, and the silk flowers on the nearest cake begin to tremble.
    “This one is very… yellow,” Dad says, pointing to a cake that’s a highlighter shade. Its tiers are oddly shaped and it’s covered in violet flowers, so it looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.
    “Yeah,” I agree, and when I can’t think of anything else to say, I force a small laugh. This seems to ease Dad a little bit; he chuckles when we turn to a massive cake that’s covered in
Star Wars
figures drawn in icing.
    “That’s actually kind of cool,” I say, turning the book so it faces me.
    “I know. What would the rest of the committee do if we showed up at the ball with this?” Dad asks.
    “May the force be with them,” I say, relieved when Dad laughs at my terrible joke. I continue, “What if we got that highlighter cake, but then had them put
Star Wars
drawings on it?”
    Dad laughs and turns the page, then another. “And… maybe the topper from this cake?” he suggests, pointing to a cake topper of a couple dressed up as clowns.
    “We could even have Darth Vader and Leia on top of the cake. You know, father and daughter?” I add.
    Dad cracks up, his laughter brighter and louder than it’s been in years. He winds down from the fit and shakes his head, trying to regain control. “That’d be perfect—I didn’t know you’d watched the original
Star Wars
.”
    “It’s impossible not to. They’re on TV every weekend,” I say with a shrug.
    “We should watch them sometime,” Dad says quickly, and when the words leave his mouth, it’s like he remembers the suggestion should be more awkward. “I mean, if you want.”
    “Sure,” I answer, and flip the page of the cake bookagain. Wanda soon comes bustling back in, pushing a black cast-iron tea cart. It’s loaded with white plates that have miniature cakes, all immaculately iced and identical in size and shape. The poor man’s version of the dolled-up monstrosities outside.
    “Hmm… where to begin…” Wanda says, waving a hand over her display of cakes. “Ah, yes!” She grins at