Fifteen Dollar Ice Cream Cake

WARNING: The following story contains themes of eating disorders & disordered eating habits. Reader discretion is advised.

It’s a relief no one’s spotted me. The chances of me being caught are slim, but I don’t like these odds. My swollen eyes are as wide as they can be, darting in every direction as I pass by each empty aisle. I know the parking lot was a ghost town when I got here, but maybe someone else arrived after I entered the store. Someone who would recognize me, capture pictures of me without my knowledge at my most vulnerable, and expose me to the world. Reputation destruction is the last thing I need.

I’m making a beeline towards the freezers. My phone is buzzing in my coat pocket, just as it had been since I slammed his apartment door behind me. Blowing up, all while I ripped my G-Wagon out of the parking garage, when I was trying to blast Ariana Grande over my racing thoughts, as I jogged from the parking lot to the sliding doors of the Walmart, and now, as I’m staring at the limited ice cream cake selections. I can see exactly how disheveled I am now, through the faint reflection of the glass door in front of me. If the tabloids got a hold of this moment, I wouldn’t catch a break for at least a month. If my mother had any idea, she would ensure I’d never be free from the humiliation. My hair, normally flat-ironed and gold, is now as wild as unbaled hay, as I’d driven here with my windows down. My porcelain-like makeup is streaked with dried-up tears. My attire would cause my mother’s soul to exit her body. I’m wearing what were supposed to be indoor Ugg slippers, ten-year-old frayed and stained sweatpants, and an equally tattered T-shirt from my high school gym class uniform, all under my bulky Saks Fifth Avenue coat, from last season. Seeing myself this worn down causes my face to scrunch up, and my eyes to well. Imagine Dragons’ latest single that’s been playing at a low volume is interrupted by an ear-piercing screech, then a booming voice over the intercom.

“Good evening Walmart shoppers,” just me. “Walmart will be closing in ten minutes. Please make your way to the checkout with your selected items. Thanks again for shopping at Walmart.” After some static, Imagine Dragons resumes. I dig out my phone to check the time. Fifty-seven notifications. The time reads ten fifty-one p.m. A ping of a fifty-eighth notification is muffled as I shove the phone back into my pocket. I swing open the door so I’m no longer faced with my reflection. My shoulders shudder at the blast of cold air. I’m met with two options. A Reese’s Ice Cream Cake, which has already narrowed down my options to one, as going into anaphylactic shock isn’t a reliable cure to heartbreak. So, I’m left with the classic, part vanilla, part chocolate ice cream cake. The one with whipped cream icing and crunchy bits in the middle. My childhood. Well, my childhood before I was six and Mom started counting my calories and putting me into acting classes.

As I reach for the cake, though, my arm freezes, and my fingers tense up. I shouldn’t be doing this. I was mid-juice cleanse for my next booking. What would my manager think if I gained fat rather than lost it? Would I still be able to play in my next role? I scoff to myself, grabbing the cake. Fuck the role. Fuck diets. Fuck acting. Fuck fame. Fuck my cheating sleazeball of a boyfriend. Fuck Mom. Fuck everything. My nails dig into the box, making a slight crease. How is any of this fair? Why should I have to starve myself and tiptoe whenever I leave my house to prevent scrutiny when he gets to slovenly eat garbage, chug beer after beer, and cheat on me with skanks who only crawled into his bed to make themselves feel more valuable than the ‘famous,’ ‘gorgeous,’ ‘one-and-only,’ me.

“Fuck this shit.” I whisper to the innocent ice cream cake. Well, is it so innocent? I stare at the flamboyant red box, the clear film which displays the cake is crowded with colorful balloons. The cake inside is hard to see, the condensation fogs the film. However, I can tell it’s bland and blank, as it’s a cake you’d have to get customized for an occasion. If only I’d discovered the scumbag with his tramp earlier, perhaps I would’ve had time to ask the bakery to write me a custom message in bright icing letters: “Eat me, Nicole, you fat, ugly, worthless, pig. You deserve it.” They’d most likely have refused anyway, not knowing the cake was only for me rather than someone else. The cake stares at me, unwavering, tenacious. Knowing so long as I don’t begin scanning the nutrition label, I’ll purchase it, and devour it from the sanctity of my car, in the privacy of the abandoned parking lot. 

My overgrown acrylic nails thrum against the box as I contemplate, until they halt to a conclusion. No. I’m not letting the stupid, pompous cake win. I let everyone win. I let others usurp opportunities, I let whores sleep with my boyfriend, I let my boyfriend discount me and my worth, I let my mom minimize anything I’ve ever accomplished. I won’t let this cake take my beauty along with everything else. My hands flip the box in every-which direction as my eyes scour for the calories per serving. One hundred and ninety calories, it reads, and fifteen servings per cake. Almost three thousand calories. My throat bubbles with a dry chuckle. That’s more calories than my diet warrants per week let alone in one night. That’s enough for me to put the cake back, and exit the store. As I reach back into the freezer to put it back, though, I notice the yellow sticker. The cake’s on sale. Formerly twenty dollars and ninety-eight cents, now only fifteen dollars. That’s over twenty-five percent off. My hand hovers over the shelf, clenching the box. Is it this cheap because it’s been here for a while? That’s most likely the case. But even so, it’s ice cream. Ice cream doesn’t spoil as easily as perishables would. That would make the mark-down a pretty decent bargain. 

My arm inches the cake back towards my chest. I’m not letting anyone else win this deal. Besides, I lose whether I get the cake or not. I’m always losing regardless of my decisions. Diet? Ideal figure, but a hollow stomach. Fame? Showers of praise, but endless envy. Money? Spending without worry, but unable to decipher the intentions of those around me. ‘You can’t have your cake and eat it too.’ That’s what Mom always said to me, hilarious now, isn’t it? 

“Excuse me, ma’am?” I startle, shoving my jacket hood over my head for some concealment before facing whoever stands behind me. When I turn around, I’m met with a bored Walmart employee sporting a knock-off North Face jacket, dangling keys from his fingers. “Were you planning on purchasing that? It’s now seven past eleven.” I reach for my phone. He’s right, and my phone now reads seventy-nine notifications.

“Yes, sorry. I’ll head to the register now.” He says nothing as I shuffle behind him to the register, neither of us uttering a word while I pay him cash. He shoves the cake into a gray plastic bag, and I snatch the bag and scurry out the automatic doors. The cool night breeze brushes the hood out of my face as I unlock my car. I grip the door handle and let myself in. I sit in my car for a while, bagged ice cream cake chilling my lap, keys heavy in my palm, unable to start the engine. My head is void of all the thoughts that were clashing while standing at that freezer. If I sit here longer, maybe I’ll be blessed enough to forget my worries altogether. If I sit here longer than that, perhaps I’ll become so oblivious that I’ll forget who I am, and be able to start my life from scratch. I look down at the poorly bagged cake box, my bottom lip begins to quiver. I long to forget every last piece of everything. 

A mangled shriek rips through my throat, my nails now tearing through the plastic bag. My fingers tear the lid of the box to shreds, revealing the apple to my Adam. My hands take hold of the entire cake, just as one would handle a Big Mac. As I shove the entire cake into my face, my fingers dig into the ice cream to prevent slipping in the frosting. At the introduction of pure sugar, my eyes roll into the back of my skull. Dessert, a food group absent from my diet for at least ten years. Every meal should be this satiating. My neck keeps pushing my head further and further into the cake. Part of it breaks off, plopping back into the box, splattering sugary goodness throughout the car. Icing is everywhere. White and blue whipped cream frosting is smeared across my entire face, from my chin to my eyebrows. It’s colored through strands of my hair, spotted over my dashboard and windows, globbed on my steering wheel, sinking into the fabric of my designer jacket and Goodwill-quality sweats. It shoots up my nose in my attempt to come up for air, leading me to cough cold, creamy, saliva all over myself. My fingertips, which were at one point freezing, now burn. My teeth chatter for a moment before I wipe my face with the sleeve of my jacket. I’ll take it to the dry cleaners tomorrow. As soon as my face is partially clean, I clench two fist-fulls of this freezing dessert and streak my cheeks with more melting ice cream. 

I ravage the cake, as a starving creature would if given a glistening turkey after scouring for scraps for weeks on end. Something new has been born within me. No. Something old, neglected, and repressed has shattered its iron bars. Something dangerous. Something freeing. Something I’m welcoming.