6. Fake Cookies

ELLIE

I've never tried to bake anything in my entire life.

Not even those idiot-proof brownie mixes where you just add water and toss it in the oven. Every time I've stepped foot into a kitchen, it's been for cereal, toast, or to judge Aunt Carol's weird obsession with sugar-free everything. So naturally, now that I had decided to bake cookies (like some love-struck 1950s housewife), I should've known it was going to end in absolute, flaming failure.

The plan was simple: bake cookies, put them in a cute container, and casually walk over to Beck Ryder's house like I just happened to have some extra lying around. When he asked about them (because he definitely would), I'd smile and say, "Oh, my aunt made them." That way, I didn't look desperate, and I got brownie points (or rather cookie points) for being neighborly.

Except, apparently, baking was not one of my latent talents.

The first batch came out looking like burnt pancakes. The second batch never really turned into anything solid. They were just a warm puddle of sadness. By the time I opened the oven to check the third attempt and saw smoke curling out like I'd opened the gates of hell, I screamed and grabbed the nearest towel, and swatted at the fire alarm right before Aunt Carol came running in thinking I'd spontaneously combusted.

"Jesus, Ellie! Are you trying to kill us?" she yelled, wafting the smoke with a magazine.

"No," I coughed. "I was just trying to bake."

"Oh, sweetie," she said with so much pity I almost cried. "I’m afraid it’s a little too late for that."

“You don’t know that,” I said, coughing as my eyes started to water. “I could be the next Gordon Ramsey.”

“I’m pretty sure Gordon Ramsey didn’t almost burn down his home the first time he tried to bake,” she said, chuckling as she stared at the sorry lumps of charcoal I’d just pulled out of the oven. “Any particular reason why you decided to bake today?”

“No reason,” I replied a little too quickly. “I just wanted to try something new.”

She raised a suspicious eyebrow, but she didn’t press the matter any further. Instead, she turned around and said, “Maybe you should just go down to the store and grab some if you’re really that desperate.”

Why didn’t I think of that sooner? Get your shit together, Ellie.

After tidying up the mess I’d made, I grabbed the car keys and marched out, then I drove to the nearest store like a woman on a mission and picked the first box of chocolate chip cookies I could find. I even grabbed a second pack, just in case I got hungry on the way back. Thankfully they didn’t look store-bought, so I could get away with this.

Ten minutes later, I was at home again and carefully placing the cookies in a glass container like I'd been slaving away over them all morning. I even microwaved them for a few seconds so they'd smell warm and fresh and guilt-free. And by the time I finished, you could have sworn I owned my own bakery.

By the time I was done, the music had already started pounding next door. It was some loud, bass-heavy beat that made the windows rattle and the floor vibrate beneath my socks. People were already arriving in droves, dressed like they were going to Coachella or trying to impress a clothing sponsor from I*******m. I stood in front of the mirror, trying to make myself look casually hot. Not like I was trying too hard, but not like I just rolled out of bed either. I threw on a plain cropped sweater and jeans, fluffed my hair, pinched my cheeks for that desperate glow, and stared at the mirror like I was about to walk into the coliseum to wrestle a lion with my bare hands.

"Relax. You're just dropping off cookies," I told myself. "You’re not really walking into a gladiator pit."

Except it was a gladiator pit. I just didn't know it yet.

I walked next door slowly, carefully holding the container of fake cookies while I tried not to trip over my own feet. The music got louder with each step, the kind of chest-thumping sound that made you feel like your heart was about to explode. I tried to act cool, like I did this kind of thing all the time. But then I reached the door... and I froze when I saw her.

Salma Gonzalez was wrapped around Beck Ryder like she'd been sewn onto him. Her outfit (if you could even call it that) was basically three pieces of fabric and some strings. Her boobs were fighting gravity, her skirt was so high up I swear I could see her coochie, and she was laughing in that high-pitched, breathy way that made me want to punch her through a wall.

And there he was, standing next to her, looking like he'd been chiseled by horny Greek gods. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, and he was wearing a few chains around his neck which glinted under the party lights, with a red solo cup in one hand and that lazy smile on his face like he already knew he owned the room.

I should have turned around and fled. I wanted to turn around. But my body betrayed me, and my feet just kept walking.

Beck saw me first. His eyes lit up for a second, and he straightened a little bit. Later than night when I was fantasizing about him, I would swear that he adjusted his hair a little bit, and his smile deepened when he saw me. Because how could he not be ecstatic to see me?

"Hey, Buzzkill," he called out, pushing off the doorframe. "You came."

Salma turned as well, her arm still looped possessively through his. When she saw me holding the container, she raised an eyebrow and said, "Aww, did you really bake cookies for him? How sweet. It’s almost like we’re back in middle school."

My soul exited my body as her friends snickered, and a few people around paused to listen to our conversation.

"No," I said quickly. "My aunt made them, actually. She just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood."

"Right," she laughed softly, the kind of fake laugh that was made for humiliating people in public. "Still, that’s so cute."

To his credit, Beck took the cookies with a grin and said, "Thanks. That's actually really cool of you. Tell your aunt I said thanks."

He didn't look like he was mocking me. If anything, he looked pleased (or was he just hungry?). Which made the humiliation worse somehow. Like he was graciously accepting the cookies out of pity, and now I'd secured my spot as the dorky neighbor who bakes for her crush like a Disney Channel side character.

I was about to make a lame excuse and flee the scene when he surprised me and said, "You wanna come in?"

My brain stuttered as I said, "Like... inside?"

"Yeah, inside,” he said with a chuckle. “It's a party, Buzzkill. You don't have to stand on the porch."

I hesitated, the weight of my bad decisions pressing down on me like a truck. I was painfully aware of the dozens of ways I could screw this up for myself. But eventually, I nodded and stepped inside.

The house was absolutely chaotic. Strobe lights were flashing everywhere, people were dancing with their bodies pressed up against walls like we were in some kind of music video, and it was just like a typical college frat party. I stuck close to Beck for exactly three seconds before he disappeared into the crowd, pulled away by Tyler and another guy holding a beer bong.

I stood there like a dumbass, with the cookie container still in my hands, wondering how I ended up in his world surrounded by people who looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine while I was just the weirdo from next door who warmed up grocery store cookies and prayed they'd taste normal.

This was bad. This was so fucking bad.

I was just about to spin around and flee from the house when I suddenly heard his voice from upstairs.

“Yo, Buzzkill!”

I looked up, and there he was on the landing, waving me up towards him. My heart leapt to my throat, and for a split second I wondered if he was calling me up because he had something dirty in mind. Normally I would be disgusted by that behaviour, but I was just trying to get laid and be done with this shit.

So I pushed past the crowd and headed upstairs with him.

Because what could possibly go wrong, right?