"Am I supposed to act all flustered and nervous and all that?"

"No," Jack replied. "No offense, but I don't think you're that good an actor. But not to worry, we've already given them the story... And they've been told that you're kind of a ditz."

---

 
3. Kicking It Old School
 

I was so angry I could spit. Here I was far from home, dressed like a girl, hobbling around on three-inch wedges, bare legs in the cold. Ronson had really gone too far this time! Practical jokes are not "jokes" at all. They aren't funny. I've told him countless times, but he never listens, and the fact that people (people like me!) get angry and offended only seems to encourage him.

Still steaming, I called Jack. His assistant told me that Jack was on another call, so I asked her to have Jack call me as soon as he could. While I waited for him to call, I paced back and forth in front of the blacked-out storefront, looking at my reflection, muttering to myself, full of indignation, rehearsing all the outrage I wanted to pour out on Jack, Ronson, and everyone else involved in this travesty.

A few people walked by. They all gave me a wide berth and tried to avoid making eye contact. I must have looked quite insane.

Then, a young mother and her little girl came walking toward me. Everyone else had hurried past me, but the little girl was moving slowly, distracted by... well, distracted by everything. She kept stopping to touch things or talk about things, and kept saying, "Mommy, look at this!" Her mother kept prompting her to come along, and the girl would — for a few steps. Then she'd stop again, fascinated by something else. The girl was adorable, dressed in pink and white cable knits. She was only two feet high, and as she walked she shook her head to make the pom pom on her hat dance around. She looked up at me, smiled, and said, "Oh, look, Mommy! Look at the pretty lady!"

The mother replied with something non-commital and pushed the little girl past. She had seen the fierce look on my face, even if her child had missed it.

But that did it. That cute little girl made me smile. And as I smiled, my bad mood melted, and in the few moments before my cell phone rang, my wrath completely evaporated.

In spite of myself, I was happy now. It was a little irritating; I wanted to be angry, but couldn't. I smiled as talked with Jack, and now that I was calm, I wasn't quite as sure that Ronson was behind the whole Cakeboxer business.

Jack listened to me for a bit, then said, "I have no idea what you're talking about. Not a clue. I don't know any Ronson except the cigarette lighter, and I haven't seen one of those for ages. Believe me, I wouldn't waste my time on a prank. In fact, if it helps to convince you, I've got your first paycheck in my hand. Do you want it? Or do you think that's a prank, too?"

"Oh, no, I want it," I replied. "Please."

"Okay," he said, "I'm going to swing by now and leave it with Jane or Marcus. But first, you have to do something for me."

"What's that?"

"Say I believe."

"Oh, Jack, I'm sorry. I just lost my head for a minute."

"Say it."

I sighed. "Okay. I believe."

"Who is my Cakeboxing girl?"

"I am," I replied in a low tone, as if I was afraid someone would hear.

"What's that? I can't hear you. You must not want this check."

"I am," I repeated more loudly.

"You are what?"

I glanced around me. No one was there. "I am your Cakeboxing girl."

"That's good enough for now," he said, "but I'll tell Marcus you need to work on your acting."
 

---

 

The rest of the week was bootcamp. Marcus and Jane hardly gave me a moment to myself, and when they did, they either had me reading Brides magazine, or Brides Guide, or Martha Stewart Weddings (which I grudgingly found myself liking best), or watching recordings of bridal-themed reality shows.

"I don't want to rush you," Jane told me at one point, "but you need to pick out a dress."

"A dress for what?" I asked. "For kicking the cakes? I thought I was going to wear that kilt and black shirt."

"Top," Jane corrected. "Girls wear tops. I'm talking about your wedding dress, silly. That's the dress."

"Why? I'm not getting married."

Jane bit her tongue and looked at me. After a moment she said, "You need to make people believe that you're getting married. You have to play the part of a bride. And what do brides talk about? What do people ask them about?"

"Uh... the dress?"

"Oh, good guess!" she said, laughing. "And what else?"

I thought. "The honeymoon?"

"Maybe. So where are you going for your honeymoon?"

"Hawaii?"

"Okay. You don't sound very certain. You need to have in your head, very clearly, a few things." As she spoke, she counted with her fingers. "What does your dress look like? How much did it cost? What is your fiance like? Where did you meet? Where will you get married? How many people in the wedding party? Where is the reception? How many people are coming? What do your bridesmaids' dresses look like?"

"Oh my God!" I cried, "That's too much! I'll never keep all that straight!"

"Yes, you will," she replied. "You just need to believe it. And you need to be concrete. For instance, who is your fiance?"

I shrugged.

"Come on," she coaxed. "This isn't real. You're just building a character. I'm going to ask you again, and I want you to tell me the name of the first male friend who comes to mind. Who is your fiance?"

I started to open my mouth and say it, but stopped. Jane gave me a look.

"I'm sorry," I said. "The only name that comes to mind is Ronson."

"The practical joker?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's perfect!"

"No, he's not. He drives me crazy!"

"Is he good looking?"

"I guess... but he's a big pain in the butt."

"And yet, he's your friend." I nodded. "Where did you meet him?"

"In high school. Friend of a friend."

"Awww, high school sweethearts!" Jane cooed, laughing. I turned red. "Perfect!" she repeated. "Look, when people ask about your fiance, you describe Ronson... exactly the way he is."

Then Jane coached me through describing the church I attended as a kid. She asked me about my parents and Ronson's parents, and whether they got along. "Our parents are pretty wary of each other," I told Jane, who replied, "Perfect!"

She ended by telling me that she'd set up some appointments to look at dresses, but although we probably couldn't do it this week.
 

---

 

I had the dream again, with variations, almost every night. Sometimes the location was different: once I was running through the church, but mostly I found myself on streets of towns I'd never seen before. What I was wearing was always different, but always bridal: once I wore a huge gauzy veil and nothing underneath but a brilliantly white lace body suit, full of frills, thin white ribbons, and tiny white bows. Sometimes my hair was elborately put up. Other times cascades of curls spilled over my shoulders. What was the same every time was that angry people were chasing me, and that my legs and feet were speckled and smeared with bits of wedding cake. Just before I'd wake up, I'd fall, or run into a dead end, and cats or dogs — or one time, ferrets — would lick at the cake on my legs.

That's where I'd wake up with my heart pounding. After I'd catch my breath and my pulse stopped racing, I'd wonder what the dream meant. Was my subconscious trying to tell me something? Did it mean I was doing something bad? Was I doing something wrong?
 

---

 

Jane and Marcus also had me practice cakeboxing. Not with cakes, though... just with boxes.

We didn't do it much, but we did it every day. I think it was the one part of my training that bored Marcus and Jane, and if Jack didn't insist, I'm pretty sure they would have skipped it altogether. Marcus and Jane would hold a plywood board between them, and I'd stack boxes on it to approximate a wedding cake. Then, I'd choose one of my flying kicks, and knock the boxes all over the backyard. If Jane and Marcus were impressed, they never showed it. They simply stood there while I gathered the boxes, stacked them, and kicked them down, over and over again. Once Marcus commented that, rather than aim for the lowest tier of the cake (as I had been doing), that striking the center of the cake was more likely to have the desired explosive effect.

But that was the extent of their involvement in the kicking part of things. They were much more interested in the development of my character: they worked on my gestures, the way I spoke, the things I'd say, and my facial expressions. They often quizzed me on my back story. It took me a long time to realized that they were more interested in how I responded than in what I said.

"You must believe!" Marcus shouted in frustration. "You have to care! If you're going to be an actor, you have to make it real! You need to feel it!"

I didn't see how I could cook up that sort of emotion on demand, and yet, on Friday, I had a breakthrough.

Jane and I were washing dishes, and she kept asking me about the reception — in fact, right there she interrupted and said, "You say *the* reception. It's not *the* reception, it's YOUR reception. You need to feel that it's yours." — But anyway, she was asking me who wouldn't sit with whom and how many tables and on and on. I was bored and tired, but I honestly tried to come up with good answers. Then she moved to the table settings, and finally she got onto the wedding dress. She wanted to know if I was attracted to one style over the others.

"Do you see yourself as a princess? Would you want a ball gown? A big skirt? A long train? Or would you go for a sexy, form-fitting mermaid, to bring out all your curves?"

I had an answer ready there, and was just about to tell her that I was going to go for a A-line, when I suddenly recalled a dress I'd seen in one of the magazines.

"Jane," I said, "I know this is crazy, and I could never really wear it, but I saw a picture of a dress..." I stopped washing and turned to face her. "It was a pale, pale blue, like a sky blue so light it almost looks white. And it's got a sweetheart neckline and the top is super-form-fitting—" here I blushed and swallowed hard "—and I know it's impossible..."

Jane waved my objections away and motioned for me to go on.

"So... it's got this..." I waved vaguely at my torso "... ruching? am I saying that right? where it's all gathered and wrapped and... and just so cool. Then the skirt is chiffon flounces, all the way to the ground. It looks like water... like a waterfall or... I don't know what. But it's beautiful."

Jane nodded, then a smile appeared on her face. I couldn't help but smile back.

"See?" she said. "You're excited. You're feeling the part. With that emotion, you could wear a pair of dirty overalls and people would still know you're about to be a bride."
 

---

 

On Monday, we started shooting the pilot. Our first target was Cake Mafia, which features an Italian-American bakery that — at least on TV — is a highly volatile environment, full of yelling, misunderstandings, drama, and hot tempers.

The wardrobe mistress put me in a dangerously short beige pleated skirt, a tight black top with puffy shoulders, and a pair of black leather boots criss-crossed with straps. To top it off, she gave me a white beret. The hair person set my hair in tiny curls, and I have to say: I looked pretty damn good.

I did have reservations about the boots at first. Even though the heels were only two inches, they didn't feel that stable. "I'm not sure I can do my kicks in these," I said. "I'm going to have to practice."

The wardrobe mistress shook her head. "You won't do any kicking until Sunday, when they deliver the cake. I've got a pair of sneakers for that." She held up a pair of cute pink sneakers. "Better? Will that work?"

I smiled and nodded.

When I emerged from hair, makeup, and wardrobe, my energy was high. I'd never had so many people fussing over me, trying to make me look good. I felt like a star, radiating light and happiness.

The first person I ran into, was Jack. It was no surprise; he had obviously been waiting for me. Before he opened his mouth, I started peppering him with questions.

"Hey, Jack! I was wondering... aren't the bakers going to wonder why I'm ordering my cake a week before the wedding? Don't most brides order their cake weeks or months ahead?"

"Uh, yeah...," he replied. "The story is, a friend of yours was going to make the cake, and then she flaked out."

"Oh! So am I supposed to act all flustered and nervous and all that?"

"No," Jack replied. "No offense, but I don't think you're that good an actor. But not to worry, we've already given them the story. And they've been told that you're kind of a ditz."

I frowned. "What do you mean, they've been told? I thought we were going to prank them."

"We are, but don't you think they'd wonder about the cameras following you? ... and the retakes and all?"

"Oh, yeah," I said. "I was going to ask you about that, too."

"We've told them that you're in a new reality show about brides who are not... um... not very... well, not very organized, let's say."

"Hmmph," I said, feeling a little offended. "Does this supposed show have a name?"

"Yes. We told them it's Weddings That Almost Weren't."

I told him it wasn't a very catchy title, but he just shrugged.

I frowned, digesting this news. I could see how it let me off the hook for almost anything, but still I felt a little offended. Then I remembered another question I had. "Hey, will our camera guys go into the bakery? Will we see them working on the cake?"

"No," Jack said. "They won't let us. There isn't room. We will have a lot of cameras in the alley when you kick the cake, but for all the stuff inside the bakery, we have a deal where they'll give us their dailies. The ones about you and your cake, anyway. You know, if they talk about you or work on your cake."

The two of us fell silent, and for the first time I realized that something was bothering Jack. In fact, he'd been looking uncomfortable the whole time. As I watched, he wrung his hands, and it struck me that he'd done the same thing several times during our conversation.

"Is everything okay, Jack?" I asked.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Everything's great. I always get nervous before we start shooting. Once things get going, the butterflies will pass."

"Okay," I said, and the two of us returned to our awkward silence, until Jack cleared his throat.

"So, uh, are you comfortable?" he asked me.

"Yes," I replied, smiling. "The boots took a little getting used to. I mean, the heels, you know. But I've been practicing the kicks all week, so I think I'm good."

Jack laughed nervously. "That's, uh, great, but it wasn't what I meant. I was talking about the skirt, the tits, the whole... you know, the whole girl thing."

"Oh, that! Maybe last Monday I had a moment... but Jane and Marcus had me so focused on making it work... I dunno, I kind of forgot. I forget. And I found it's actually easier to do the kicks if you're not wearing pants."

Jack's eyes widened. "You forget? You forget that you're all dolled up? and that you've got those two mamambas hanging off your chest?"

I shrugged. "I don't feel very girly."

"Well, you look pretty girly. Don't be surprised if the guys on the crew start hitting on you."

"Seriously?"

Jack looked down, and the uncomfortable look returned to his face. Was I making him nervous? But then he reached into his pocket and took out a little box.

"Listen," he said in a small, quiet voice. "There's one more... thing you need, before you go order the cake." As he opened the tiny box, I saw that it held a ring, and when the sunlight caught the stone, I realized it was an engagement ring.

"This is real," he croaked, "so don't lose it." His face reddened as he slipped it over my knuckle. I could barely hear him as he said, "This is the ring I was going to give my girlfriend. The one who was the original Cakeboxer."

"It's beautiful!" I said. I didn't mean to say it. It just came out. But it really was incredible. Unreal. I'd never seen a diamond before. At least, not this close. Looking into that perfect crystalline surface was like looking into another world. I had no idea diamonds could be that extraordinary.

"Yeah," Jack said, and he nearly deflated as he said it. He gripped my hand hard and shook it tight. "Don't lose it!" he repeated, and head down, like a beaten dog, he turned and walked away.

As he disappeared, a girl with a headset and a clipboard approached me. "Oh, good, you got the ring!" she observed. "Look, when you get in that bakery, you've got to remember what you want to do in there. What is it?"

"Order the cake," I replied.

"NO!" she shouted. "You want to show off the ring! Whatever you do, wherever you go, you want people to see THE RING. You point at something, you use your left hand like this—" and she pointed her left hand, tilting it so the ring finger was up. "When you're at the counter, you rest your LEFT hand on the counter... but, like, unconsciously, see?" And she mimed resting her left hand on something. "You hand somebody something, you use your left hand and you turn your hand this way, see?"

She ran through a few more notice-my-ring scenarios. "You have to remember, you want EVERYONE to see the ring, so you're OBVIOUS, okay? Really in-your-face. You're like this—" and she made a vacant expression while she held her hand to her face. "Remember, hon, this is one thing that's impossible to overdo. In fact, it's all about overdoing it."

"Okay," I replied. I practiced a few arm poses and vacant looks until she laughed and said, "You've got it."
 

---

 

At the bakery, there were three young women behind the counter. I was quite sure they'd heard the ditz story, because all three had a barely-hidden smirk.

In spite of that, they were very nice. Without any prompting, they oohed over my ring, told me what a pretty bride I'd be, and wanted to hear the story about my friend who was supposed to make my cake, but didn't. I didn't tell it very well, and we did five takes before the director was satisfied. (Yes, they do retakes on reality shows!)

No one seemed to mind, though. Everyone took the retakes as a matter of course.

But what really stopped me dead was when they asked what sort of cake I wanted.

"Uh... tiers," was all I could say. In all my preparation, no one had coached me about what sort of cake I wanted, and all I could think was make it high so it's easy to kick. So I said, "Make it high."

The women smirked at that. They asked how much I wanted to spend, and I didn't know that, either. I had to fumble through the wad of money Jack had given me. He had cautioned me that some of it wasn't real (it was stage money), so in my fumbling I had to separate the real from the fake. After what seemed like five minutes I gave them an answer that seemed to please them, and they pulled out a binder filled with pictures of cakes.

They kept asking me questions, trying to draw out some sort of fanciful theme or dream. In the end, I picked a five-tier white cake decorated with white ropes and flowers and a big white bow. They assured me it was all edible. I asked them to not put the little couple on top. I don't know why I did, but they shrugged and agreed.

The rest of the week was pretty quiet. We shot some scenes in the neighborhood around the bakery. Wednesday we drove to a dojo in a nearby city where I put on my pink gi and practiced my kicks for the camera.

Thursday I went back to the bakery to ask if I could taste the cake they were making for me. It all seemed spontaneous, but it was arranged by the two producers. The bakers made a tiny cake for me and decorated it. I sat at a little table and ate it, surrounded by chubby bakers. I could feel their eyes on my legs and breasts. I never *really* understood the term sexual tension before that experience.
 

---

 

At long last, Saturday came: the day I'd kick the cake. I couldn't wait. The wardrobe mistress dressed me in a shiny, short red skirt that moved with the slightest bit of air. I was glad I wouldn't be wearing it long, because it covered so little and moved so easily, it was almost worse than no skirt at all.

I also wore a drapey, white long-sleeved top and the pink sneakers I mentioned earlier. My hair was tied with two long red ribbons. I felt like a girl in a sexy Japanese comic.

It was pretty damn uncomfortable. I'd never dressed in such an overtly sexual way before, and it was embarrassing, exhilerating, and frightening. It was worse than being naked: although all my private parts were covered, I felt completely exposed and more intensely vulnerable than I ever felt in my life.

Jack seemed to sense what I was feeling, so he said, "I want to show you something that might take your mind off what you're wearing."

"Or not wearing," I added.

He led me to a white SUV, and the two of us sat in back. It was a very luxurious vehicle. The seats were as comfortable as arm chairs, and there were small TV screens in the seat backs. Everything was new and clean and slick. "This is nice, Jack," I began to say, "but I don't think—" Jack shook his head. "It's not the car. It's this," and he tapped on the little screen in front of me. "Run it," he said. "I don't know how to run it," I replied, confused. "I wasn't talking to you," he explained, and the screen suddenly came to life. I recognized the Cake Mafia bakery, and the three women behind the counter. "I know them," I said, and then a young woman entered the bakery. She was wearing a white beret... it took a moment for me to recognize myself. Do I really look that good? I thought. And then Do I really look that bad? and then something happened to make me forget both questions.

I was watching the scene when I ordered the cake. At the time I thought those girls were so nice. I was nervous, and they were very encouraging. They made me smile and feel good. I remembered how happy I felt when I walked out.

But that's not what really happened. Those three, who I thought were so nice — well, they were laughing at me the entire time! Whenever I turned my head, the one I couldn't see would shake her head, roll her eyes, make rude gestures, or laugh silently. As I fumbled with my money, they made faces at each other and mouthed, "Do you believe this one?"

When I didn't know what kind of cake I wanted, one of them put her hands on her head and dropped her jaw. Another one mimed knocking on the back of my head, as if to show it was hollow.

"I didn't see any of this when it happened," I commented.

"Oh, no, of course not," Jack said. "They were careful to do it all behind your back."

"They make me look like a complete, empty-headed jackass!" I exclaimed. "They act like I'm stupid!"

Jack raised his eyebrows and nodded. "It gets worse," and he pointed me back to the little screen.

After I left the store, one ran to the window, and the moment I was safely out of sight, the three of them started hooting and laughing and exclaiming over everything I'd done.

"Did you believe that girl?" one shouted, wiping her eyes.

"When she pulled out that wad of money, I nearly fell over," another said. "It looked like she'd never seen money before. How can you NOT KNOW how much money you've got?"

"What I can't believe is that she had NO IDEA what kind of cake she wanted. NO IDEA! What kind of cake was her friend going to make for her? I can't imagine."

"A pile of Twinkies on a plate." They all laughed. One wiped tears from her eyes.

"I've never seen anything like that!"

They dissected every single detail they thought they knew about me: the way I walk, the way I talk, my lack of planning...

"No way that girl's ready to get married," one commented. "She needs to go back to nursery school."

"God bless the poor schmuck that's marrying her!"

"Some guy's gonna have his hands full with that one. She doesn't know whether she's coming or going!"

"And what is this show she's on? How I Effed Up My Wedding?"

They howled and screamed with laughter. Jack gestured with his head, and the screen went dead.

"Oh!" I growled. "I am so MAD! They were so MEAN and FAKE! Didn't they know they were on camera? What jerks! What a-holes! And I thought they were so nice! Ha!" I shouted, "Oh, those effing bees!" My blood was hot. I was boiling mad. I shouted, I fumed, I balled my hands into fists and clenched my teeth.

"Yeah, they're not very nice," Jack agreed as the car came to a halt. "But hey, look: here's where you kick their cake apart." He pointed across the street to an alley, where a Cake Mafia van was parked, its rear doors open wide. "I'd suggest you get down there, in front of the van, and wait for them to come out that door with the cake. As soon as you see them, zip around, line up with the cake, and do your magic. Okay? You ready?"

"Yeah!" I replied fiercely, "I'm ready. I'll going to kick the hell out of that cake."

Jack stopped me as I reached for the door handle, and said, "After, we'll be around the corner that way, okay? After you kick the cake, take off. Turn right out of the alley and right at that corner, and that's where we'll be. Right, right. Okay?"

I nodded, and jumped out. I was mad. I was really mad. Any reservations I had about kicking the bakers' hard work apart were gone. The way I felt, they could line up every cake they had in the whole damn place, and I'd gladly kick them all to pieces.

I took my place in front of the bakers' van and waited. I watched Jack's white SUV, my getaway car, roll out of sight and away. Glancing around, I saw cameras mounted here and there, and then I tried to ignore them. I wanted to focus on the cake, on the kick, on the moment of truth.

It didn't take long to arrive. The door burst open with a bang, and two fat bakers came lumbering out, moving slowly, talking the entire time, telling each other in scolding tones to be careful. I ran around the van, and suddenly my heart started pounding like a rapid-fire hammer in my chest. Behind the bakers, still inside, was a cameraman. There was another down the alley. I'd have to pass him to get out.

I stood alongside the bakers, and seeing me, they stopped too. I lined myself up with the cake. It was taller than I expected, and prettier.

"Hey," one said slowly. "I know you. This is your cake. What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be getting married? Like right now?"

I didn't say a word. I just wound up, threw myself in the air, and did a flying back kick. I could feel it: I'd judged the distance perfectly, and my foot sank halfway into the cake.

"What the frikkin' fah—" one of the bakers shouted. "Quit that!"

The kick was flawless, but the cake was still standing. The only difference was a foot-shaped depression in one side. It wasn't what I expected. I thought the cake would be more solid. I figured the tiers would fly apart, like the boxes I practiced on, and the whole thing would just... explode! Instead, I only mushed it. Sure, I ruined the cake, but the idea was to send cake flying.

The bakers weren't moving yet, and the cameramen just kept filming. While the bakers were still frozen in surprise, I figured I had time to fire off another kick. As quickly as I could, I lept into a spinning hook kick, and this time I lifted pretty far off the ground. It was an excellent kick. My butt was as high as the bakers' heads, and my heel plowed right through the cake.

Again, this time the cake didn't come apart. It didn't explode into pieces or fall off the board. It just collapsed, and it collapsed toward me, falling on my leg as it cut through the cake. When I put my foot back on the ground, my left foot, the one I'd done the kicks with, it slid. My sneaker was covered in white cream frosting, and my leg, all the way up to my knee, was smeared with frosting, bits of cake, and fragments of decorations.

While I was looking down at myself, puzzled and surprised, the two bakers, as one, let go of the board. It landed flat on the ground, with the cake on top, and it made a loud, menacing crash. Some more cake bits and frosting splattered on me. "Get her!" one of the bakers growled, "Get her!"

I took off running.

It was hard going, what with one frosted foot. I couldn't get much traction on my left side. The cake kept my foot slipping back. So I took to hopping and skipping and jumping on one leg. Sometimes I'd put my left foot down, trying to wipe the frosting off. Unbelievably, I got to the end of the alley before the bakers got their fat fingers on me. Turn right; turn right, Jack had said. So I turned right.

The two bakers were pretty out of shape, but they were closing in. I took off toward the corner, going as quickly as I could, trying every few steps to smear some cake off my shoe. In spite of running on one leg and trying to clean my shoe, I managed to reach the corner a few yards ahead of the bakers. They were huffing and puffing and coming up slow, but they kept on coming. For them, running was not much faster than walking, and neither of them could walk very quickly. But they were determined, I could see it in their faces. But now I was safe. The white SUV would be here... right here...

... but it wasn't. There was no sign of Jack or anyone from Cakeboxer. I swore, I hesitated, but only for a moment. I couldn't let the angry bakers catch me, so I took off hobbling, hopping, skipping as fast as I could, and midway in the block I spotted an alley, so I took it. I figured it would meet up with the bakers' alley, and I could circle the half-block again. But just as I turned into the alley, one of the bakers rounded the corner. He'd seen me take the alley!

Still, even if he hadn't seen me, I was leaving a pretty easy-to-follow trail of frosting and fondant behind me. They weren't exactly footprints, but every time I put my foot down, I'd make a creamy white mark.

And then, guess what: the alley turned out to be a dead end. There was a fence at the end, and the fence had no opening.

I looked behind me. The bakers hadn't reached the alley yet. I still had hope. I could scale the fence... or...

I spotted a door in a building, and that door was ajar. Normally I wouldn't dare, but I didn't want to find out what the bakers had in mind. Sure, they weren't butchers — they didn't have knives — but they were bigger than me, and they had plenty of friends. They wouldn't have any trouble rolling me in flour and stuffing me into one of their ovens, if they felt like it.

I hopped over to the door, pushed my way inside, and shut the door behind me. There wasn't any way to secure it, to keep it shut, so I leaned against it while I waited for my eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness.

A short flight of metal stairs led down to a dirty, industrial-looking space. Beggars can't be choosers, I told myself, and hopped down the stairs as quietly as I could. When I reached the bottom, a man stepped out of a doorway and asked, "Who are you? And what's your business here?"

"Some men are chasing me," I said, panting a little, and I'm sure I looked and sounded scared. He looked at the door, then down at my leg. "What happened there?" he asked.

"I guess I stepped into a cake," I quipped, laughing weakly.

"Must have been one deep cake," he replied, and said, "Well, come on, we can hide you and get that leg cleaned up." And with that, he literally swept me off my feet and carried me down a dark, dirty hallway. He kicked open a door and brought me into a room.

"This is the break room," he said as he set me in a chair. I looked around me.

The room was clean, if windowless. There was a small, outdated television set, a card table and some folding chairs, a small fridge, and a sink. The only decoration was a plastic fern that sat atop a small, unpopulated bookcase. It had that dry, musty, basement smell.

The man pulled one of the folding chairs near me, but not too close. He pointed down at my left foot. "Is there a shoe under all that frosting?"

I laughed and said yes.

He laid a piece of newspaper on the ground under my foot. "Well, let's wash that shoe off and then see about the rest of it," he said, and without so much as a by-your-leave he gently but firmly took hold of my leg and pulled my sneaker off. He dropped it on the paper, then pulled my sock off and dropped it next to the sneaker.

He smiled at me, and I smiled back. Honestly I was scared as hell, but so far he hadn't hurt me or given any indication that he would. In fact, he seemed pretty friendly and helpful.

The man glanced at the frosting on his fingers, and looking me in the eye, he gave his hand a big lick. And I mean a big lick. He ran his tongue all the way from the tip of his thumb down and then up his index finger, all the way to the tip. I laughed nervously, because that was creepy. Then he did the same on his other hand.

"Have you tasted it yet?" he asked me in a soft voice.

"Uh, no," I said. "I, uh, haven't had a chance."

"Here's your chance," he said, gesturing at my leg. "It's pretty good."

"Uh... I think I'll pass," I said.

He shrugged and smiled. "Suit yourself. I think we've got some towels here, clean ones. If not, there's plenty of paper towels." He rummaged in a cabinet, and came back holding a roll of paper towels. I was just thinking how it would be easier to run, now that I was rid of the slippery sneaker, and what a good idea it would be to start running right about now — when he knelt down in front of me, on one knee.

"What pretty feet you have," he said, as he took my heel in his hand.

"Please don't," I said. "I think I'd better go."

"Don't worry," he said, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I just want to clean you up."

"I can clean myself up—" I began to say, but I'd hardly gotten the words out of my mouth when he bent down and ran his tongue slowly up my leg, starting at my ankle, licking up the frosting and kissing up the bits of cake, all the while sending an electric alarm through the core of me.

"HEY!" I shouted, "DOWN, BOY!" and I pulled back my arm, cocking it for good hard blow to his head.

"Whoa!" a familiar voice shouted. "No, Lois! Stop!"

It was the girl from Cakeboxer, the one with the headphones and the clipboard. She seemed to pop out of nowhere, and the man at my feet didn't seem surprised at all to see her. "Whoa! Whoa!" the girl called to me. "Don't hit him! He's just an actor."

The man himself looked up at me, startled — and seemingly hurt (!) — by the blow I was ready to strike. "Hey, now, I just did what they told me to... it was supposed to be funny!"

I swore quite graphically, and suddenly Jack and a handful of others were there as well, all from Cakeboxer.
 

---

 

It was a setup, Jack explained, to spice up the pilot. "We figured if we moved the SUV, you'd end up in the alley."

"What if I didn't?" I countered. "What if the butchers — I mean the bakers — got their hands on me?"

"But they didn't!" Jack crowed. "I knew you'd come through. There was a challenge, and you rose to it!"

"Hmmph!"

"We were ready," the girl with the clipboard told me. "We wouldn't have let them hurt you."

Jack patted me on the back. "You handled it like a champ!" he exclaimed. "It was great! Just great! Putting the reality in reality TV! That's what I'm talking about!"

One of the crew pointed out to me where the cameras were hidden, but I couldn't see them.

"I think we can call it a wrap, folks," Jack announced, rubbing his hands happily. "The second team is getting reactions from the bakery people, and with that, we're done. AND we'll end with a freeze of you, Lois, getting ready to smack Tom in the head..." He lifted his arm back in imitation of me, he started laughing.

"Great," I said. "Is every episode going to be like this?"

"Oh, no," Jack said. "Every episode will be different. We're not going to repeat some gimmick. We'll have new surprises every week. It will be GREAT!"

"Mmm," I said. "We'll see. But in the meantime..." I looked down at Tom, who was looking, without any trace of shame or guilt, right up my skirt. "Yes?" he asked in a musical voice.

"You can let go of my foot now."

"Are you sure?" he replied, his eyes twinkling.

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way