The cake was easy. Hiding it from everyone wasn't. It seemed the day I baked the cake was the day the kitchen turned into a cold, white Grand Central Station, because everyone was passing in and out. At one point, I said I was making tiramisu, and then I had to make tiramisu because I said I was making it.

The funfetti cake was out of date by a month, but I hardly noticed. The pantry, with it's 5 shelves towering over all mortals, and despite everything being closed, seemed so well stocked it stoked an irrational rage in me. It made me think of the Reynolds' kitchen – small and comfortable and so deliriously warm – that it hurt to picture.

Finn hid the vanilla/peppermint frosting in the garage refrigerator (which, why do you need another refrigerator when the refrigerator in your kitchen is 4 regular refrigerators wide?), and the cake, when it came out, was hidden alongside it. The browned bits were scraped off a couple days later, and the cake assembled.

“I want it naked,” Finn says.

“That's indecent,” I say, “but also because I don't know what that is.”

“I'll do it,” Finn says, taking the assembled cake from me, his eyes darting back and forth from it to the living room just beyond. “I should be in the dining room doing this. No one ever goes in there.”

I lean forward on the counter. “What's stopping you?”

“2 people in there's conspicuous.” Finn wedges his tongue between his teeth as he smooths a thin layer of frosting around the outside.

“What number is this cake?”

“14.”

“I'm 6 years older than you?”

“You're shitting me. 6 years?”

I nod.

“Act your age, Pansy. I've met other 14 years old who act like 30-year-olds.”

I laugh. “Sounds like I dodged a bullet.”

Finn purses his lips and grumbles. The corners of his mouth nearly turn up.

I stand and start pacing. “Excited for college?”

“Fuck yeah I am. I hate this house.”

“It's still 4 years away. Do you know what you're studying?”

“Don't know, but I'm going to get as far away from here as possible, and not come back. That's the plan.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

Finn shakes his head. “No. Just...away.” He stops putting on the frosting for a second, and he has this vacant look in his eyes, like his father and brother. He shakes his head, the stare vanishing, and goes back to coating it. “How'd you do it? Being alone for so long?”

My smile fell and I turned away. Assembling any kind of response was poisonous.

“Oh? Are we celebrating something?”

My eyes shoot up.

Mrs. Hopkins rounds the corner from the living room, coffee mug in hand.

“No, Amy. We're using up the cake batter because it fucking expired.”

“Language, Phineas.”

Finn mocks her words under his breath. He goes back to frosting the cake.

“Oh, Phineas, you didn't.” She crosses the kitchen and leans over the counter. “Peppermint?”

“Eat a dick, Amy. I like peppermint.”

“Language, Phineas.”

“Language, Phineas.”

Mrs. Hopkins groans and goes to the coffee maker. “So, Micah. What's the occasion?”

I clench my jaw and side-eye Finn, who's already shaking his head with a look that says, “You'd better fucking not”, and I did not spend the last couple days making tiramisu and a cake to get on Finn's bad side. “J-just to use it,” I said, feeling the pang of guilt in my gut. “It expired.”

Mrs. Hopkins hums as she pours herself another cup. “I have an idea!”

Finn groans.

“Shush, rotten child. Why don't, since you guys might not be around, we celebrate Finn and Simon's dad's birthday? All at once?”

“I'd rather get scalped by a shovel.”

“Phineas, be nice. I didn't raise you to be this selfish.” She put down her coffee cup. “Let me get your brother and father. We'll do it right now.”

“No.”

It didn't matter because she was already gone.

Finn glances down at the cake, barely finished, before looking at me. “We have to hide it. Destroy it. I don't know.” He leans forward on the counter, running his hands over his face. “Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck. I want to eat it.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You didn't do fucking anything.”

I frown and take a step back. I don't feel as though there's anything I can really do to rectify the situation, either. Saying “This could be good,” could provoke him more, and I don't have the energy to try and soothe Finn over anymore. I manage to force out a measly, “Sorry.”

“Whatever,” Finn sighs. He stands up. “I'm going to cut the cake.”

“You will not,” calls Mrs Hopkins. She swings into the kitchen, dragging Simon by the wrist with her husband following after, his steps slow and retracing hers. “I have everyone. Such a shame we couldn't invite all the cousins.”

“Don't fucking lie, Amy. We haven't invited people over here since the goddamned wake for Aunt Missy.”

She lightly whacks him against the side of the head.

I cringe.

“Hush, you rotten child. I'm trying to make this a nice moment.”

Simon sinks into an empty chair.

“Nobody better sing or I swear to fucking God,” Finn snaps.

“It's tradition,” Mrs. Hopkins says.

“No it isn't.”

She starts singing, and Mr. Hopkins joins in, mumbling everything.

Finn fumes under the melody.

“No, no, Colin. Simon, Micah, and I sing to you and Finn.”

Simon watches, through he looks not here, or like he's watching from eons away. He has this pathetic look on his handsome freckled face, and it makes me want to shake him.

“I don't want you to sing.”

“We always sing.”

“No, we fucking don't.”

“Language, Phineas.”

“Bite me, Amy.”

“You know what?” I ask loudly, waving my hands through the air. The tension wiggles like an angry snake in my stomach, and it's absolutely going to kill me if I don't do something. “Lets skip the singing. Singing's a little old fashioned, anyways, and I don't think everyone's really into it. Shall I cut the cake?” I scoop it up from the other side of the table. “I'm going to cut it.”

“No, Micah,” Finn snaps. He stands. “It's over.”

I scoff. I smile. I feel freaking awful. “N-not even a small piece?”

“Fuck you.”

“Let me cut it,” Mrs. Hopkins says, reaching out. “I'll just scrape off the frosting. If my children are being ungrateful – ”

“No, I-I'll cut it,” I say, pulling it back more. “You sit down.”

“And? What did you do for this? He made the cake, it's his birthday. What did you do?” asks Mr. Hopkins, nodding down at a shoulder-slumped Simon.

“Colin.”

“He didn't do anything,” Finn says. “He wasn't invited, technically.”

“T-to his credit,” I butt in, “we didn't say we were making the cake at all.” Though it's clear no one hears me.

“If you took that cooking class I signed you up for seriously, you could've done this easily.”

“That's ancient history, Colin,” Mrs. Hopkins says.

“Is it?” he asks.

“Guys?” I say.

“Because you keep bringing it up like it was yesterday,” Mrs. Hopkins says.

“Amy, lets not fight in front of the kids.”

“Why? Hasn't stopped you before,” Finn hisses.

“Where has this insolence come from?” asks Mr. Hopkins.

“I don't know, where are you most of the goddamned year?”

“Guys.”

“Let it go, Colin. Simon did what he had to.” She looks at him for a second. “Even if it hurt everyone.”

Something in Simon's eyes flashes red.

Something in my stomach twists in anger. That spark in the back of my throat shoots into the roof of my mouth. It burns. “Hey, everyone? L-lets calm down and – ”

“Let me cut the cake,” Finn says. “I'll make sure Colin and Amy don't get any.”

“Finn, sit.”

“You fucking ruined today.”

“We didn't do anything.”

“How the fuck do you ruin something you weren't even involved in?”

“Guys.”

“Don't talk to your mother that way.”

“Fuck you.”

“If it weren't for Simon – ”

“If Simon hadn't left – ”

“I-it's not my fault,” Simon says, but my voice overtakes his in volume and sheer anger.

“Why is it all Simon's fault?”

“Micah, sweetheart, you don't – ”

“Stay out of this, Pansy.”

“This is a family matter, Mr. Cohen.” He reaches for the cake.

My fingers go numb. Mr. Hopkins knocks the plate out of my hands, and it fumbles, landing on its side, slumping onto the floor. It starts separating, splitting like a crumbling sand castle. The plate shatters. Some of the candles stay lit, flickering against the white skirting board and licking the curtains.

Mr. Hopkins leans forward. “It's dry. You didn't use enough eggs.”

I don't look down at it. I feel so paralyzed, but still somehow find myself smiling. “Oh...I-I – ”

“Micah, honestly, you should've just let me cut the cake.”

“If Simon took that cooking class – ”

“Enough with that cooking class, Colin.”

“Fuck. All of you.”

I smile.

I smiled.

I gasp.

I start freaking sobbing. It's so overwhelming I can't stop myself. My head spins. I cover my eyes. The cold sweeps across every inch of my skin and it hurts. That spark is behind my teeth, pushing like a dog needing to be let out. A hand touches me and it scalds, so I shy away from it.

“Jesus Christ.”

My crying fills the kitchen like water in a tub. It's suffocating and pretty much drowns out every other sound I can hear besides my own heartbeat until I'm standing alone, encapsulated by cold, beige, empty space. I can't fix this, and the thought is so cold in my arms it hurts to hold. Hands reach out for me, but every single one doesn't feel right, like human touch is now an affront to me. I stumble, move somewhere, and then press myself against something cold to steady myself. Smoke fills my nostrils, and I glance up to see the curtains of the breakfast room glittering through my tears in orange and yellow light.

Finn has the fire extinguisher. He puts it out with 3 puffs of white.

Simon's on his feet, a hand pressed into his stomach. He watches me, his blue eyes fixed on me so exactingly it's like we're the only people there.

I'm angry.

I don't know if I'm truly angry. There's this swirl of hurt and anger and disappointment and so much in my chest.

My voice comes in a wave, engulfing all of them – “Why is it Simon's fault?”

They turn to me.

My eyes scan them all. “A-all of you. All of you. How...fuck you.”

“Holy shit,” Finn whispers.

“Do you know what it's like? To watch everyone have their own people and never have your own? You – you're no family. You're no family.” I throw my head back and wail. “Family is there for each other, support each other. They don't remember petty, awful things to slap each other with, where their love isn't transactional on the sole excuse that 'we're family'. That doesn't excuse shitty, shitty behavior.” I inhale, and it's a wheeze. I wipe my eyes. “All you've done since I got here is belittle each other, talk about each other behind their back, and be nasty, awful people to each other.”

“Micah, sweetheart – ”

“Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I sobbed, and this wave of fiery hurt washed through every part of me, bubbling into more stifled cries and more tears. The air wobbles. My chest aches. “You all fucking suck. You want to call yourself a family? Fuck you.”

“Mr. Cohen – !”

“You know how badly I would've killed to be a part of a family? You know how badly I wish Mom wasn't dead, or that my Dad didn't abandon me? To be a part of something that was mine, to feel like I belonged somewhere?” I gasp, and wipe my eyes.

Everything is suddenly very quiet, and it screams.

“I-I hope you all feel the pain of losing someone close to you, losing everyone you loved in one foul swoop, and being left alone in the world! But you'll never understand. Never. Never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never – !”

“Micah.”

I breathe, and look at my trembling hands. They're streaks of gloss and sadness from my face, and my fingertips are bright red, nails and skin absentmindedly picked and scatted at my feet. I glance back to the breakfast room, and my eyes land on the crumbled remains of Finn's birthday cake. The gently charred ends of the curtains brushed by white.

God.

God, no.

“Out,” I say. “All of you. Out.”

“Micah, sweetheart – ”

“N-no. Out.”

“Inside voices, sweetheart.”

“This is my kitchen,” Mr. Hopkins says.

“Out.” My voice is low and reverberates off every smooth and glossy space in the entire kitchen. Any argument after that is dead in the water. I want to apologize for shouting, but the words escape me. Screaming fills my head.

They leave, one by one.

Not Simon. He lingers where he stands, and starts to go before I grab his shirt.

I glance at him and wipe my eyes. “I hate you.”

He draws in a breath.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” I tip my head against his chest.

Simon's blue eyes are on me, gently tinted red and a pained look on his face. “Micah – ”

“I c – I don't want to do this on my own, Simon.” I don't want to think that I can't do this.

“Micah, I'm sorry.”

“I want to talk to you,” I say, teeth clenched. “Do you realize what you've done?”

“Micah...I – ”

“No. I-I don't want to hear you apologize again. I'm sick of it. I'm so freaking sick of it, Simon.” I glance back at the mess. “I jus – I just wanted to thank Finn. H-how, how did it...” My hands drop from his shirt, and I step back. “I-I'll clean it. I need some air. I don't – I'm so sorry. For all that. Before. I need to go...step. Outside. God.” I wipe my face with my hands and trot to the front door.

“W-wait, Micah – ”

I grab my shoes and call up the stairs. “Just stepping out for a bit. I'm really sorry about before – I don't know what happened there. Something just came over me. I'll be back later. Call if you need me.” I don't even bother putting on my shoes. I shove my feet into them.

Simon's rounding the corner from the kitchen. “Micah, hold on – !”

I'm already out the door and feeling the awful, awful pang of dread as I leave the house behind me.