This Cake is for the Party Read Online Free Page A

moth in a cocoon.
    Lise and I hear sirens all the time in Peterborough. But we interpret them differently. I like to think of myself as a rational guy, but when I hear a siren, I freak out slightly. I prepare for an emergency. My pulse beats like a strobe light in my throat. A siren sounds like a mechanical scream, which is even worse than a human one. But Lise says that she likes to hear the sirens, especially late at night when she’s cozy in bed. She says it’s like hearing a train in the distance. It calms her down. Reminds her that someone is out there, taking care of things, so she can sleep.
    It’s a Saturday, and I have the day off. The humidex reads ninety; the UV index is high. Peterborough doesn’t have the toxic smog of a big city, but it’s still hazy outside, so everyone calls it smog anyway. The humidity is so thick, it emits a low droning noise. Occasionally someone locks or unlocks a car door and a sharp bleating sound punctures our quiet subdivision. In the front yard of our rented bungalow, on a pink hibiscus-print beach towel thrown across a patch of brown grass, Lise paints her toenails half-and-half. The first side is silver. She uses a strip of masking tape to keep the lines clean between the colours on each nail.
    I haven’t seen Lise do the trick with the masking tape since last summer. She looks peaceful and studious. Krystal is supposed to drop her kid off here today again. Lise babysits for free because Krystal is an old friend. It’s not a secret that I can’t stand Krystal. She’s a liar, is why.
    â€œWhy don’t you tell Krystal you have a life?” I ask Lise.
    â€œBecause,” she says, setting the word down carefully like a Scrabble tile. “I don’t mind taking Atlas this afternoon.”
    She’s talking to her toes. She’s not even looking at me when she says it.
    â€œI like being with Atlas,” Lise reminds me. “And Krystal has a job interview.”
    â€œYou mean she says she has a job interview.”
    â€œShe sounded fine on the phone. She hasn’t been drinking.”
    â€œMaybe not then. Maybe she wasn’t drinking yet .”
    Lise doesn’t respond to that. We’ve said all of this before. Perversely, I feel the need to clarify my argument. “You know you’re just making it worse,” I say. “You know that, right?”
    Lise starts to bang the bottle of nail polish on her thigh so it clicks, the two silver balls stirring the lacquer.
    â€œIt’s not like you’ve ever done anything to help,” she mutters.
    â€œShe’s your friend, not mine.”
    The balls go click-click-click.
    â€œYou know that’s not the point.”
    â€œWhat is the point, Lise? Tell me.”
    Lise stares at her toes with the flags of white tape sticking to them and says, “The point is, you can be a real asshole sometimes.”
    â€œOh,” I say. “Oh, that’s classic.”
    â€œI said you can be an asshole, not that you are an asshole.”
    As if to punctuate her statement, a siren screams down the hill from our house. We both pause as the scream descends, until it’s completely out of range. I think: Someone is dying . Lise is probably thinking: Oh good, they’ll be safe now .
    â€œYou should make that call,” I tell her.
    â€œWhat call? Call who? Call the police?”
    â€œWell, that would be a start. That wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
    â€œShe’d freaking die. She’d hate me forever.”
    â€œI thought you said that wasn’t the point.”
    Lise pulls the masking tape off her big toe. Her face is pink from the heat, and her forehead is shining with sweat. She has bits of grass stuck in her hair. She combs through her bangs with her fingers. Her shoulder blades move underneath the pink tank top and I notice that she’s not wearing a bra, that it’s just her skin underneath the top, her little breasts