Cakewalk

When my mother and I were invited to the Brown Deer Middle School Cake Walk, we didn’t know what to expect.  In my eight-year-old head, I was absolutely certain that sheets of creamy, large cakes would cover the gymnasium, corner to corner and that my mother and I were going to walk across the spongy floor.  I was also certain this would be deliciously treacherous.  We might fall between a rich layer of hazelnut, mocha mousse.  We might trip on a giant marzipan flower.  We’d have to be careful, and as a precaution I held tight to my mother’s hand as we walked through the blue double doors.  All week I’d imagined us leapfrogging from an angel food cake to a racecar birthday cake.  We’d kick sprinkles like stones and we’d jump inside the soft holes of pineapple rings and pretend they were life preservers.   We’d be careful not to lose our shoes in strawberry glaze. 

We arrived and I noticed that there was no flour to dust our shoes.  Odd, I thought, they wanted us to get stuck.  A row of four lunch tables was manned by four ruddy-cheeked women with mushroom haircuts.  I was sorely disappointed.  It was just a sad, stupid, empty gym with three streamers and a cardboard sign reminding me I was in this less-than-magical place.  There were a few trays of brownies and lemon bars and chocolate chip cookies, and a bundt cake covered in drippy vanilla glaze.  Mom handed over our two red tickets and we quickly walked past the tables and back to the car, with a blonde brownie saran wrapped to a small paper plate.  I wasn’t sure what Mom had expected.  Maybe better desserts.  I looked down at my clean shoes and was sad that they weren’t covered in whipped cream or drippy chocolate.  She must have sensed my disappointment.  She waved her hand and said, Show me Cake Walk.  I put the brownie on the car floor and nudged it with my sneaker, hoping I’d feel a squish or two. Oh well.  So it goes.  The disappointment of reality.