Do You Know the Baking Girl? {Pascal}

As much as she cared about RJ, how RJ thought of her, the time RJ spent with her—everything always seemed to boil down to Freddie. Right when she could focus on RJ or baking—Freddie would come out of nowhere and completely ruin it for her. It wasn’t just that he came and took things from her; he seemed to get actual amusement from upsetting her. When she cornered him about it, he always denied or gave lame, half-assed excuses. In the end, Pickle knew that he was lying as did most people. But it didn’t help that they sniggered with his comments, or even joined in with the teasing behind her back. She was trying to be liked, trying to enjoy her first experience in high school, and so far thanks to one boy—it sucked.

One good thing did come out of Pickle being infuriated at Freddie. It meant that she was on a baking spree yet again. However, this time, she wanted to do things differently. Kenny had shoved a few nicer clothing items into Pickle’s closet, things that Pickle would probably never wear. At least until now. A short, lacey strapless rose colored dress hung on Pickle’s thin body, with a delicate beige belt around her wiast. Beige heels made her long legs seem that much longer, and she swept her light blonde hair into a messy bun at the back of her head with a fringe falling down around her face. She baked in this outfit, of course with an apron over it—but she baked her little heart out. Sourdough cookies with jam in the middle, berry cobbler snack bars, and a vanilla cookie topped with chocolate stripes and shreds of coconut.

Of course, as she did, Pickle baked far too much. Once she had put the shreds of coconut on top of the chocolate, she looked at the various plates of sweet treats that littered the counter of her kitchen. She backed up a few steps, and leaned against the wall and leaned against the fridge with a sigh. She felt better in the way that someone who had just had a decent cry felt. Numb, tired, but relieved. She rubbed at her eyes which had been leaking tears over an hour ago, while she let the relieved high run through her system. Now, here was her problem. Pickle had baked far too much, and didn’t have nearly enough friends. Sure, there was Addison and Andie—even Tyler. However, running all over campus with a tray of sweets could be an issue, and she didn’t want to alert her friends. They knew her well enough that for Pickle to bake like this without a special occasion meant that she was upset. So, next best thing.

Pushing off the fridge, the girl reached above the freezer and pulled out an ornate, silver tray and started to place the plates of goods on the tray. Best to do as she always did, and leave them in the common rooms. Thanks to Freddie, strangers, and people outside of her sweet ring of friends didn’t dare try her baked goods. Freddie managed to make everyone think she was some sort of leper, that transferred diseases just by touching things. It made her sad, especially when those that did buck up and try the things she baked, thought highly of them. Even Freddie himself! She watched him cram sweet treat after sweet treat down his gullet when he thought they were Addison’s, complimenting her on the flavor when in reality it was all Pickle. So, instead, Pickle had taken to leaving the treats anonymously in the common room when no one was around. The next day she’d go back and collect the empty plates and trays. At least some people were enjoying them, even if they didn’t know the strange, wide-eyed girl down the hall was making them.

With a careful maneuver that involved balancing the edge of the tray against the wall and her hip, Pickle managed to swing her dorm door open, and use her foot to hold it open, before quickly swinging out the door with the tray in her hands. Contrary to popular belief, Pickle had grace. Sure, when she was excited she tended to trip, and crash into things, but when she was focused—he long legs carried her in even, smooth, rolling strides. Even if there were heels attached to her feet. And that was exactly the way she walked to the commons. Her lacey dress swinging about her thighs, her neck looking long, yet elegant. Pickle was a girl of strange proportions. She reached 5’6” in flats, but the heels pushed her up to a nice 5’9”. She was wafty, and thin, almost looking as though the wind would easily carry her away. But she was build almost like a cartoon, with large eyes that would make a doe feel inferior, a full, downturned mouth which she had painted red before her baking spree. Her shoulders dipped down just where they met the neck, then flowed upwards at her shoulders; though this gently curve was usually hidden by her shirts or sweaters.

Beneath it all, Pickle was a very pretty girl. Maybe, it being a Saturday afternoon, should anyone see her—they might openly try the sweet baked treats. It was possibly a false hope, but maybe not looking so rag-tag might actually change people’s opinions on her. She used her hip to nudge the door to the commons open, and walked over to the table in the back of the room near the little sink, and rested the tray on it while she started to lay out the plates across the counter. With delicate long fingers, she straightened the stacks of cookies and cobbler bars, making sure they were perfectly on display. After all—presentation was just as important as the taste itself.