Devil's Food Cake

“You know you wanna …”

“Shut up, Horace,” I mutter, out of the side of my mouth.

The typical red, horned little monster shifts on my shoulder, cooking up a new tactic.

Typical? Like, how many people have an Imp of the Perverse riding around with them, Kayla? I think.

“It’s every priest’s dream to receive an Ordination Cake as perfect as this one,” the imp states.

Wicked grin from Horace.

I look wearily around the small Southern bakery, wipe my sweaty brow with my gloved, free hand, and proceed to get icing all over my straight, brown hair. Which should be in a bun. Crud. One more mark against me on my first day as Official Cake Decorator.

“You know, as my Imp of the Perverse, maybe your “perverse” could be pushin’ good things when people suggest bad? Just sayin’.”

“Oh, but I’m a Bad Boy, Kayla. You know that,” Horace winks.

I lean on the counter behind the glass barrier that’s supposed to keep me from getting COVID. Like I believe that superbug won’t just hop the glass. Duh.

“Fine, fine. We’ll do it your way. We always do.” I roll my hazel eyes and cave to the inevitable.

‘I DON’T GIVE A SHIT, JUST GIVE ME OREOS AND SPRINKLES,’ forms in purple lettering, my shaky hand dutifully repeating the Church Lady’s words.

“There, you see? All better.” Horace brightens. “They can thank you later.”

A tall, thin man with a crazy amount of ear hair marches through the door from the back of the shop.

“Well, Kayla, how’s your first day? Decorating like a pro, I see,” declares Derrick, my odious boss.

Pause.

I wait. Sure enough …

“Wha --? Kayla, what is this?”

The hairy ears turn red. Derrick ain’t pleased.

“Uh, um, it’s exactly what Sally the Church Secretary said when asked what to write,” I cast about for a convenient excuse. “Plus, I was too star-struck by your amazing tour of Lickety-Split Bakery this morning to think clearly.”

A little brown-nosin’ don’t hurt.

The hairy ears return to a normal tan shade.

“That’s understandable, Kayla. Other employees have told me how my explanations are fascinating. Riveting, they say.” Derrick preens. “You better fix it though. After all, Father Jeremiah is 84. We don’t want him to have a heart attack and drop dead at his gala.”

“Yeah. Major bummer,” Horace snickers. Derrick, of course, is oblivious. My Imp is only seen by yours truly, something I realized when I was about four.

Molly Ann Mumford waddles into the store, holding her back and letting her beach ball belly on her preggers self overflow her definitely-not-maternity-wear tank top.

“Kayla, honey, you workin’ here now? I gotta Gender Reveal cake a-settin’ in the back that I’m just dying to take home. Can’t wait to cut into it in front of all my coworkers at the par-tay. I’m hopin’ pink!” She squeals.

Dutifully I go fetch her baby-bottle-shaped confection, with Horace mimicking Molly’s excited, high-pitched noises, as he sits on my shoulder, dangling his hooves. Meanwhile, Hairy Ears chats up Beach Ball.

“Here ya go,” I nervously open the lid to display my work, on the counter’s exposed section.

Horace holds his breath, anticipating.

‘GURL OR BRO … WHO CARES? CONGRATS ON A ONE-NIGHT STAND.’

There is a moment of silence.

Hmm … maybe a positive spin, Kayla?

“Humor is the way to go at a gender reveal, Molly Ann,” I brightly lie. “Haven’t you heard? It’s all the rage.”

I can see Beach Ball’s face go from mad-as-a-skinned-cat to thoughtful.

Thoughtful is good. Maybe I’ll survive today without cake thrown at my head.

“Yer right, Kayla. The girls from my nail salon job will just die from laughter.”

Horace elbows my cheek.

“Better die from laughter than a heart attack like Father Jeremiah,” the imp chortles.

I sigh, annoyed at being bullied by Horace yet again. Hard to take orders from a half-foot red dude.

Derrick brightens. “Oh, Molly Ann,” he sucks up majorly, “so glad you like our little gag.”

I feel like gagging myself, honestly. A fly lands on the baby bottle’s green icing bow, and I absent-mindedly brush it off.

Unfortunately, it takes off the bow’s top layer.

Molly Ann freezes, jaw dropping. A blue chunk of cake peeks through.

“Ohhh, man,” she wails.

I force a smile.

“Um, congratulations?”

Derrick glares at me, ushering the devastated Beach Ball out of the shop and carrying the Fiasco Baby Bottle to her car.

I turn my head and glare at my imp, who hops on the counter in front of me.

“For Contestant Number One, we have a consolation prize,” he bugles.

Horace cheerfully materializes a black, tarnished medal with the inscription “#2.”

I furiously flick some green icing at Horace’s head, but it just sails through the nagging bastard.

He smugly smiles.

“I’ve had it, ya little turd. No more writin’ bad stuff. I’m goin’ to fix the priest’s cake now and I don’t want to hear a peep from your devil mouth.”

Virtuously, I open the Ordination Cake box and start scraping off the offending words.

Derrick trudges through the front door, giving me a nasty look.

“I just spent several minutes calming a very pregnant, very upset customer. Kayla, give me a reason to keep you here.”

I cast about for an excuse. Well, flattery worked before.

“I can’t help it. I get all a-thumbs when yer around, boss. You are just so handsome, my heart flutters and my mind stutters. I’ll try and focus better, boss, I swear.”

Derrick straightens, and his tan, hairy ears turn a rosy pink.

“Well … I guess I can give you one more chance, Kayla. But you are hanging by a thread, young lady.”

I hope that “thread” is more of a rope.

“Understood,” I gush. “See, I’m fixin’ the priest’s cake now, sir.”

He looks pleased at the added honorific.

“Carry on, then, Kayla. I will just go—”

The door bangs open, and a teen that looks like she had a run-in with a rabid piercing-gun artist, strides to the glass guard.

“Here for a cake, lady. It’s for Dr. Isabella Perez. My mom, if you care.”

She rolls her eyes, as I turn and fumble through the boxed treats.

Horace hops back on my shoulder and grins.

“I like her style. Suitably in-your-face. She would be a lot more fun as a ride-along.”

I scowl, facing away from the customer and Derrick, who is desperately casting about for a topic of conversation. He attempts the weather. It does not go over well.

“You are welcome to hop on *her* shoulder, you little beast,” I mutter.

Silence, yet again.

Oops. I think they heard me.

I pivot and bring the box over to the counter, coming to the part with no glass guard.

“Just clearin’ my throat.” I fake a cheerful manner.

Pierced Girl looks down her nose at me. Which is impressive, given that she’s barely five feet.

“Okay, Crazy Karen,” she insults me. “Open it up, let’s take a look-see.”

I gulp. “Maybe, uh, you want to be surprised at Dr. Perez’s party tonight.”

Derrick gives me a suspicious look.

Horace materializes popcorn and proceeds to sit on my shoulder and toss kernels in his gleeful, red mouth.

“This is going to be good, Kayla. My horns are tingling in anticipation.” He smacks his devil lips.

Pierced Girl gives me a second suspicious look.

“O-pen the box,” she speaks slowly and threateningly.

A second gulp.

I shakily lift back the lid.

“HAPPY BARFDAY, DOC!”

What’s with these silences?

“Well, um, she’s a GI doctor,” I offer in a small voice.

SPLAT.

Horace jumps, delighted.

The entire orange carrot cake plasters my face and head. I could’ve used that glass guard. I stand, dripping cream cheese icing, and want to ask if she pitches in softball, but my anger just builds and builds till I explode.

“Ya wanna know why I write these things, Hairy Ear Dude? Pierced Girl? I’ve got an Imp of the Perverse on my shoulder who is a relentless jerk, that’s why!”

The Ears turn puce.

“Quite an imagination there,” he heartily fakes good-natured yet again.

Pierced Girl sneers. “Hope you enjoy the carrot cake, bitch.” And she strides out, without a second look.

Derrick stares at my—literally—caked face.

I try for hopeful. “Um, we good? Wonderful, handsome boss?”

“Good?” He sputters. “No, Kayla, you’re fired!”

“Well, hell.” I wipe orange crud off my face and flick it at Horace and Derrick.

The Imp of the Perverse laughs. Bastard.

And what do I announce, storming out?

“Let them eat cake.”

Ba-da bing.