self-raising.

She remembers:


It was probably a simple butter pound cake. Something straight out of a two-dollar recipe book. Not the chiffon one, nor the flan that she wished she had the talent for. It was her first foray into baking, and even this recipe seemed a tad ambitious for someone who occasionally made porridge instead of rice.

She spent the whole week preparing for it; memorizing the recipe, secretly gathering the ingredients so as to not to spoil the surprise, and a few practice runs (whereby disaster was simply too inadequate a word). When it was done, it was less than perfect. She attempted to dress it up with Hershey's chocolate sauce (alot of it). The castor sugar which fell like tiny snowflakes as she dusted it over improved it a fair bit. She was even thinking of spelling out his name, but she knew when to stop.

Came the day. She carried it ever so carefully to school, because there was no time to run home to get it. Through out the day her friends were nosily trying to peek at the wrapped box, teasing and asking too many questions. Thankfully, she anticipated this ("It's a gift from my mum to my aunt who has taken ill. No you can't see it. Yes it's none of your business."). Which was also a perfect excuse for her to sneak off early from her last class (no one took Moral Education very seriously, not even her teacher).

She took two buses to reach his office, and when she eventually got there, her heart almost burst with anticipation.


He wasn't in.


He

had promised.

He had promised he would be there waiting for her, waiting for the thing she said she wanted to give him, not revealing what the birthday present would be. He was usually unreliable, but this time he had promised and he had promised and he promised he would be there and the cake the cake that she had baked and put in so much effort to was going to waste and the cake and the promise he made to her and


He wasn't in.



The secretary felt bad for the girl in the school dress. After all, she was waiting by herself for at least two hours before her boss rang her to say he wasn't coming back to the office after all. She was going to inform him about the girl who was waiting for him, but the line had disconnected.

The secretary nervously cleared her throat and told her that her father wasn't going to come in, and if she'd like, she could take a---

Before she had a chance to finish, the girl had stormed off. What a rude pair, she thought as she clucked her tongue and went back to her magazine.


The girl took yet another two buses. But not towards her home. No, not yet.

She looked up the handwritten address from the tattered note. This should be his house. The boronias were a giveaway. She tried to peek through the windows, but the blinds were down. Good, she thought.

She unwrapped the box, discarding the neatly tied purple ribbon. It fluttered towards the potted plants. Next was the box. There were some drawings on it; doodles of colourful balloons and smiley faces on stick figures. That too was chucked aside.

She drew out her cake. The first one that she ever made. It sagged sadly from its extended journey. She held back a single tear that had threatened to escape. No, no more crying, she promised herself. And she would never make anything for anyone ever again.

She took aim, and threw the cake as hard as she could against the screen door. It was flung hard enough and disintegrated into sticky chunks all over the door. Most of it fell into a crumpled heap, but the chocolate sauce made for a good adhesive for some of them. She smiled bitterly at her handiwork.

Nor would she trust anyone ever again, she thought, gathering up her bag and walking back to the bus-stop.


. arigato .