Delectable Cakes

by A. K. Sykora

 “You took my iPod,” Mikey whined, and Stevie -- who was munching snacks in bed -- threw a pretzel, which bounced off Mikey’s chest. Slobber, their goofy St. Bernard, licked it up. “You always steal my stuff.”

“I borrowed it to take to Central Park,” mumbled the older boy.

“You didn’t ask. Now give it back.”

“The dog ate it. Sorry, bro’.” Stevie pulled the iPod from under his pillow and handed it over -- cracked, its ear buds missing.

“You left it out for him to chew. You did it on purpose.”

“Aw don’t be a crybaby. Mommy’ll buy you a new one -- if you lose 10 pounds.”

Mikey ran into his room, banging the door. “Crybaby,” Stevie taunted, while Slobber barked and scratched at the door. Mikey hid in the back of his closet.

“Nobody loves me,” he moaned. And a thin voice answered from the wall:

“Nobody loves us either, but we love Delectable Cakes.”

“Who’re you?” Mikey rubbed away his tears. Mommy, who worked for Delectable Cakes, kept stacks in the kitchen freezer and cake crumbs gritted the closet floor.

“Rule over us, Mikey. We will obey you in all things.” 

“You’ll do what I say?”

“If you feed us Delectable Cakes.”

# # #

A chance to test this came the next morning. Mikey hated Mrs. Tookie, his fourth grade teacher, a lean-legged witch with crooked eyes. He called her Cruella behind her back; she called him Gobbles in front of everybody. He was just sucking on his second Mars Bar, trying not to move his jaws, when catching the smell she swooped:

“Gobbles, are you eating in class?”

He swallowed. “Not anymore.”

“Go stand in the corner.”

He’d show her. While his classmates tittered, he screwed up his eyes and cried in his mind for his new friends.

“Ee-ooh!” Susan Pepstein shrilled, pointing at the brown chain pushing from a hole above the blackboard. Mrs. Tookie gaped and froze.

“Roaches!” yelled Brian Culhane. Shiny columns of marching bugs emerged from every crevice. Crawling down the overhead lights they dropped in clusters around Guinivere Tookie. Kids scrambled screaming for the hall, overturning desks and chairs. 
Mikey just sat, watching the bugs parade up her legs. Her scrunched face vanished in the shivering mass; they were marching right into her mouth. Howling, she leaped away, leaving her shoes filled with bugs. Still he sat, watching his armies of roaches marching around the room.

 Later the doctors would say he was in shock, but he knew better. The Belvedere School would close for a week. The story would make the New York Times.

# # #

That night Stevie was feeding Slobber pretzels when Mikey came creeping into his room.

“What do you want, Butterball?”

“Can I sleep in here?” asked Mikey humbly. “I’ll lie on the rug.”

“What’s wrong with your bed? Mom said she‘d be back by 12.”

“I’m in trouble.”

“This is news?”

“I’m scared. Solemn word of honor.”

Stevie sat up in bed and patted the place beside him. Mikey plopped down and told about the roaches ....

“And tonight they want me to open the freezer door to pay for swarming Mrs. Tookie.” 

“You’re making this up to get attention. Another crazy story.”

“No, they’ll come for me if I don’t feed them. They’ll come at 10.” 

Stevie glanced at his red alarm clock: 10:02. What was that rustling sound?

“I told you,” Mikey yelped, as a torrent of cockroaches poured through the open door. Jumping up, Stevie slammed it and bravely trampled on them barefoot. But they kept marching underneath, and even came spitting in gobs through the keyhole.

“Save me!” Mikey cowered in the bed with Stevie’s pillow over his head. His brother grabbed his brand new baseball glove and started mashing roaches. Slobber licked some up; but more came climbing through the open windows and pouring down the curtains, and headed straight for huddled Mikey.

Stevie galloped down the hall and returned with the vacuum. After a minute it clogged and died.

“Roaches can’t swim,” he yelled. “Get in the tub!” 

Soon Mikey sat weeping in his Spiderman pajamas in water up to his shoulders. But the roaches marched up the walls and formed a heaving layer on the ceiling. Dropping off in clumps they formed islands, boarded soon by other roaches.

Slobber -- who’d been lapping them off the walls -- lay on his side burping. “He’s full,” cried Stevie, who’d grabbed a broom to sweep clumps of bugs into the hall.

“It’s no use,” Mikey wailed. “Run away; save yourself.”

“I know: we’ll feed them the cakes. Mom just got a delivery.” Stevie stumbled back down the hall while the tide of roaches rose. “Lookee, little buggies,” he sang out, staggering back with a stack of frozen cakes. “Watch -- I’m throwing these into the alley. Don’t let them get away!”

He hurled a Fudge Brownie Bombe, smashing through his window. Instantly the roaches followed it, pouring down the side of the apartment building. Standing together in Stevie’s room, with retching Slobber, the brothers heard a faint chorus of the TV jingle, “We all love Delectable Cakes.”

“Hooligans.” Their mother filled the doorway, staring in turn at the spattered curtains, heaving dog and greasy puddles of mashed bugs.

“We were just horsing around,” said Stevie.

“It was my fault,” Mikey declared. “Stevie saved my life.”

She didn’t believe their crazy tale. No more allowances till Thanksgiving. No more Delectable Cakes either; she’d lock the freezer door. (They didn’t mind.)

Later, Mikey whispered to Stevie in the dark, “You’re the best brother in New York City.” Slobber snored in the corner. “Solemn word of honor.”

“Go to sleep, Mikey. No, promise you’ll never talk to roaches again. You see one, you squish him -- understand?” 

“That’s a deal.” They sat up and slapped high fives.