He Never Liked Cake

Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read online He Never Liked Cake file PDF Book only if you are registered here. And also you can download or read online all Book PDF file that related with He Never Liked Cake book. Happy reading He Never Liked Cake Bookeveryone. Download file Free Book PDF He Never Liked Cake at Complete PDF Library. This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats. Here is The CompletePDF Book Library. It's free to register here to get Book file PDF He Never Liked Cake Pocket Guide.

We turned back onto Delaware Trail. This is the worst thing that could happen today. The clock blinked to p. Pat parked the truck under the basketball hoop, and I slid out the passenger side, defeated. The rain had let up, and the sun came out as the clouds rolled off the blue sky. I trudged through the mucky grass back to my house, fixating on the loud squish of my saturated sneakers. Damn dog. There she was, sopping wet, reeking of lake water, lying on the top step, hanging her muddy paws over the edge with a big, panting grin.

I grabbed her by the collar — red, printed with white bones — that hung limp around her wet, matted neck. I had bought it for her for Christmas with my babysitting money. She held her head low as I shoved her into the darkness and slammed the door. I stomped into the house and let the screen door smack behind me.

Advertisement

My mother would be home in an hour. I had done nothing on the list under the paperweight. Why is the dog in the garage? Meagan trotted in with her, carrying the stench of wet lake dog. My mother dropped her purse on the hall chair and went upstairs. She never wanted to do anything until she could change out of her work clothes and wash her face—not even have a conversation. I was a loquacious kid, like my father. I followed her to edge of the steps and watched her go upstairs. I said nothing and sat on the bottom step. Our log cabin, commercially crafted in by Log Cabin Homes, as advertised on the magnet on the side of our fridge, had only one room on the third floor.

But they had a special window, a square cut in the wall, covered by a slab of wood that when precariously propped up with a large dowel rod afforded an aerial view of our living room. This neat little window was a favorite part of our house at the lake. My mom yelled down from the window for me to turn on NPR. I went to the dry sink, the giant antique cabinet in our hallway, and opened the wide doors to its lower level where I fussed with the tuner and volume on a complicated arrangement of radios, tape decks, and the new CD player that my dad had stacked and wired to speakers throughout our house.

My first attempt blared Jimmy Buffett in every downstairs room. I went to my room and wriggled into my white bathing suit. I put in my own mixtape, which just sounded muted and scratchy compared to All Things Considered booming through the house. I was irritated and impatient for my dad to get home. NPR reminded me of school mornings. NPR and the smell of coffee brewing was enough to make me want to sleep through breakfast. I turned up my boombox, sat on my bed with the cat, and opened my pink diary to write—complain—about my stupid day and my stupid dog. I finished the entry, thankful for the blue sky that was here in time for Dad to get home.

He would have my friends with him, and he would be taking us skiing soon. I held the phone to my chest and raced up the stairs. Knowing the reception was scratchy in the loft, I bit the top of the long silver antenna and pulled it out with my teeth. Multitasking with teeth was something my father did. Perched at the top step, I yelled over the sound of running water in the bathroom.

I heard the water turn off and the floor creak as she walked toward the stairs. I listened for her to answer and sat down on the steps, out of sight. I stayed there, smoothing out a patch of very faintly discolored carpet where I had spilled a cup of coffee when I was eight. I had lied about it. Rather than cleaning it, I reasoned that if I rubbed the brown coffee into the carpet, it would look no different from the silver, gold, and tan tufts. It worked, I think. She laughed. She never would have laughed on the day I spilled it. I sat, quietly listening. I heard her gasp and drop the phone.

I heard a loud thud. Afraid she would catch me eavesdropping, I scooted down the rest of the stairs and turned the quick corner to my bedroom. Straining to listen, I stood beside my bed. I heard her yell — not a word, just a loud sound. I heard her come halfway down the steps. The big white body of the Chrysler Sebring rode the highway like a hovercraft.

Its tires spun freely above the pavement, gliding through the water, never connecting with the surface of the road. Somewhere outside of Pittsburgh, Herman Stillman had set the cruise control. The speedometer read 62 mph. It was an easy ride. The two car salesmen talked of makes and models and families and hobbies over the drone of the pelting raindrops. They were a few miles from the exit to the dealership where Herman would drop off John with the Sebring and return to Pittsburgh in a Honda.

It was the second leg of the trade. Herman cruised along in the left lane, hands cradling the wheel, glancing over as John told stories of the beautiful women in his life — his wife and daughter. He noticed an accident blocking the right lane ahead. He thought to slow down so he could pass it safely. He tapped the brake pedal. Nothing happened. He pounded it to the floor — still nothing. No slowing down, no brakes. The car started to slide left toward the cement barrier that divided the highway.

Herman spun the wheel to the right to avoid the collision ahead. All the way clockwise. No steering.

He Never Liked Cake by Janna Leyde | Kirkus Reviews

No braking. The tail end of the Sebring slammed into the cement barrier, leaving red and orange shards of taillight scattered over the wet pavement. The car careened into the right lane. The passenger-side door smashed into the bumper of a green Taurus with a blow that folded the three-thousand-pound Sebring in two. The windshield cracked into a thousand glass veins and burst. Both men were unconscious as the Sebring snapped back and forth, trapped between cement and aluminum for the next tenth of a mile.

The car crashed back into the cement barrier, which crunched the hood, and then ricocheted across the highway, where the botched passenger side took a second beating from the green Taurus. Then the tires found traction, allowing the safety mechanisms to kick in. Both airbags deployed, and the seat belts locked tight. The mangled car screeched to a halt sixty seconds after Herman first tapped the brakes. At p.


  1. {dialog-heading}.
  2. La Rinascita (Poesia) (Italian Edition)!
  3. Dirty Doe(Getn It!).
  4. Questions??
  5. The Missing Link II (The January Morrison Files, Psychic Series Book 1)?
  6. Os Irmãos das Almas (Literatura Língua Portuguesa) (Portuguese Edition).

The Sebring was at rest, crushed between the green Taurus and a black Chevy Beretta. Passengers and drivers crawled out of the tangle of metal. Witnesses rushed over from their safely parked cars to investigate. It loosened them.

French Revolutionary peasants ‘never liked’ cake in the first place

Two summers ago, Pat helped me start my own herb garden. I was having problems with the sage taking over the dill that particular July. Today, I'd lost the dog, which was a bigger problem. Will you relax, kiddo? We haven't even started. I rolled down the window and stuck my face into the rain, screaming her name over and over again through tears and thunder. The truck rolled over the lonely speed bump on Delaware Trail, our own tar-and-chip road.

Pat tuned the radio to an oldies station. We headed down one block to Lake Latonka Drive, the paved road that ran the three-mile circumference of the lake. Meagan loved the lake. She was a happy dog who made friends with every lakefront resident within half a mile of our house, always after easy access to water, geese, and anyone willing to throw a floatable object off a dock repeatedly.

Her love of water was her biggest fault. Recently, my mother had decided the dog was no longer going to come on the boat with us, because every time we anchored, she jumped overboard. Minus the wet dog smell, it wouldn't have been a problem, except she never wanted to get back in the boat, and my dad would have to lean over and sweet talk her to the stern, where he'd drag all seventy wet, squirming pounds of her onboard.

It was an ordeal. A few weeks ago, we had gone out on the lake, just the three of us, and left Meagan at home on her chain, happily digging a hole where she was allowed to dig a hole. We had barely been on the water an hour. Just as I was about to jump in with my ski, a security boat putt ed over to us. Looks 'ike she missed yinz 'n gone for a swim. I thought about that day, how we made a scene getting her from one boat to the other, how my mother had not been happy. We turned back onto Delaware Trail.

This is the worst thing that could happen today. I sat in the passenger seat, messing with the air vents and imagining my death, certain that my mother was going to kill me, because this was at least the fortieth time this summer that I'd have to tell her I lost the dog. The clock blinked to p. I had been sure we'd find Meagan after driving around for more than an hour. Pat parked the truck under the basketball hoop, and I slid out the passenger side, defeated.


  • Latest on Ravishly?
  • Reviews – Cake Delight.
  • Applied Multivariate Statistics in Geohydrology and Related Sciences.
  • Symphony No. 9, Movement 3 - Full Score.
  • The rain had let up, and the sun came out as the clouds rolled off the blue sky. I trudged through the mucky grass back to my house, fixating on the loud squish of my saturated sneakers. Damn dog. There she was, sopping wet, reeking of lake water, lying on top step, hanging her muddy paws over the edge with a big, panting grin.

    Pretty For Real

    I grabbed her by the collar—red, printed with white bones—that hung limp around her wet, matted neck. I had bought it for her for Christmas with my babysitting money. She held her head low as I shoved her into the darkness and slammed the door. I stomped into the house and let the screen door smack behind me. My mother would be home in an hour. I had done nothing on the list under the paperweight. Meagan trotted in with her, carrying the stench of wet lake dog. My mother dropped her purse on the hall chair and went upstairs.

    She never wanted to do anything until she could change out of her work clothes and wash her face—not even have a conversation. I was a loquacious kid, like my father. I followed her to edge of the steps and watched her go upstairs. I said nothing and sat on the bottom step. Our log cabin, commercially crafted in by Log Cabin Homes, as advertised on the magnet on the side of our fridge, had only one room on the third floor.

    This was my parents' bedroom, and next to the kitchen, it was the best room in the house—a space that spread from one side of the house to other, narrowed by the angles of the roof. The closets were crawl spaces, and my mom's bathroom was a hazard to anyone who couldn't remember to duck. But they had a special window, a square cut in the wall, covered by a slab of wood that when precariously propped up with a large dowel rod afforded an aerial view of our living room.

    Mom's Rhubarb Upside Down Cake

    This neat little window was a favorite part of our house at the lake. My mom yelled down from the window for me to turn on NPR. I went to the dry sink, the giant antique cabinet in our hallway, and opened the wide doors to its lower level where I fussed with the tuner and volume on a complicated arrangement of radios, tape decks, and the new CD player that my dad had stacked and wired to speakers throughout our house. My first attempt blared Jimmy Buffett in every downstairs room.

    I made a couple more failed attempts, and then Bob Edwards was recounting the day's events, which were centered on a potential war in a desert somewhere.


    1. Your Horoscope for the Week of June 24.
    2. Search form.
    3. Chocolate-Covered OREO Cookie Cake?
    4. Michigan by the Numbers - Important and Curious numbers about Michigan and her cities (States by the Numbers Book 22).
    5. Janna's Favorite Links.

    I didn't listen. I went to my room and wriggled into my white bathing suit. Stretch marks? He could not care less, truly?

    He's too busy grabbing at you with a flattering erection to notice. His love for you translates into thinking you're a goddess in the bedroom, so go ahead and believe him. He remembers things big and small. He'll make you cry tears of happiness because he plans a huge birthday surprise, of course, but he'll also remember your favorite wine in case of emergencies like when you've had a tough day at work or your entire family is driving you mad. He stares at you.

    A lot. You know that googly-eyed look guys get when they watch you do something simple, like lace up your sneakers for a run or explain why The Walking Dead has the best zombie effects known to man? It's basically the inspiration for the heart-eyed emoji. Guys definitely get it when you're all dressed up for a fancy date night, but when he's seriously in love with you, he'll be overcome with wonder at you doing smaller things too. He fills his family in on the details of your life. They'll know that you just landed the corner office or went on a BFF trip to Belize before you have the chance to tell them.

    This translates to him being proud of you, which is pretty adorable. He'll tell you as much.

admin