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message inside memorized, but I read it anyway.
    I’m sorry I’m not there for your birthday. I miss you so much and will send you something from Scotland. Would you like a kilt? I’ll see you soon, I promise Cupcake. Love you, Mommy.
    I close the card, put it back into the box, crawl into bed.
    I flip onto my side, stare out the window, and imagine her love. I can feel it, just as real as the blanket on top of me. I’m fifteen years old, but right now it’s like no time has passed.
    I’m still eight, waiting for my kilt to show up in the mail, waiting for her to come home.
    I know she hasn’t been an ideal mother. I’m not stupid.
    But I also know that she loves me. She’ll come back. Maybe so much time has passed, she’s feeling awkward and just needs to be asked. And Dad will stay in St. Mary when I explain how I feel. I mean, they are my parents; they’ll want what’s best for me, right?
    I try to concentrate on the snow outside my window, falling harder now. The wet flakes sparkle in the glow of 43

    the front porch light, which Dad will turn off when he gets home. I watch and wait, but finally my eyelids give in and close like shades pulled tight.
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Chapter 4
let them eat cake
    I wake up with the perfect plan to find Mom. I’ll e-mail the hotel in Mackinac and tell them that I absolutely love the monarch butterfly cake and must have the number of Maggie Taylor. Then I’ll call Maggie Taylor, tell her I want her to make my wedding cake, and ask when I can come in for a consult.
    We’ll make small talk, and I’ll ask her some questions.
    Like, does she have any kids? And she’ll say, “Yes, I have one daughter,” and then she’ll start crying. And I’ll tell her to stop, and that she doesn’t need to cry; I’m here, waiting.
    My cell phone buzzes on the nightstand. I pick it up and see a text from Jack.
    Don’t e-mail the hotel yet.

    I throw back the covers. It’s disturbing to have a mind reader for a best friend.
    There’s another text, from Dad, sent at two a.m.
    Got caught up here.
    No “sorry for missing dinner” or “we need to talk” or
    “I’m not gonna do that show after all.” Nothing.
    I don’t text him back.
    My thoughts turn to school and how badly I don’t want to go, especially with the week I’ve got coming up. On Sunday, Sheridan and Irving’s will host their annual Easter brunch, and I am expected to help. Plus, the Bailey wedding cake is due on Saturday morning.
    I walk past Dad’s room on the way to the shower and see that his bed is still made. Did he even come home? Was it the giggly waitress? Yuck.
    I hop in the shower, tromp downstairs, shove spoonfuls of instant oatmeal in my mouth, and work my way through the rest of the Algebra II homework. We don’t see eye to eye on many things, Dad and I, but we have one very clear understanding: if I screw up in school, drink, or do drugs, I am off cake duty. Oh, and also I am not supposed to get knocked up. As if that was even a possibility.
    Dad and I used to have dinner in his office every Monday night, so he could check up on me and recite the rules, just so I didn’t forget them. But we haven’t even done in a long time, not since he’s been so focused on getting this show.
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    I throw an apple and a bag of chips into my bag and notice my dog-eared art class sketch pad—still waiting for me to start my last big assignment of the year. So far, I’ve got nothing. I asked Mrs. Ely if I could sketch cakes. She looked at me funny, pulled me aside, and told me she wanted to see what else I could do.
    Whatever, Mrs. Ely.
    I shove on my boots, put on my coat, and sling my bag over my shoulder. When I open the back door, I see that the alley and the parking lot are covered with a thick layer of pure white snow. It’s pretty, but positively arctic. I hurry across to the bakery, where Lori waits by the back door.
    “Morning,” she says, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “So
    . . . any naughty dreams about