Georgia Boys

18. in which we break and mend

SILAS

School starts up again in two weeks. 

We've already received our schedules, our little conglomerate comparing and contrasting the new school year's agendas. 

Our final year's agenda.

It's Quincy who doesn't bother bringing his schedule over to compare, shrugging off everyone's protests. "If I'm not worried about it, y'all shouldn't be either." Like that's answer enough. But Quincy's always done things his own way, so I don't bother making a fuss.

It's one of the things I've always admired about him, that always drew me to him, wherever we were--- whether that be in a lake or the De Leon's yard or either of the bakeries.

We still haven't talked about the next year, what that means. Not really. Vague assurances have gotten us far, but will likely only take us so far. 

When I'd run over to Denton's bakery the other day to make whatever dramatic declaration I'd had in mind, they'd told me Quentin wasn't working. Instead, he was "out and about", "probably on that board of his," Ms. Denton had added. 

So, I never got to see him. 

Put like that, it sounds all dramatic. But it's been two days. And I've seen him in the larger group when he decided on gatekeeping his schedule, and a few other group hangout sessions until the school year officially starts, but that's all. 

I'd be lying if I said that didn't rub me off the wrong way, like all those increasingly rare sightings of Quincy were enough. 

I wonder if he's mad at me, and I worry, because I'm great at that, and I bake, because I'm even better at that. And it distracts me enough. 

At least, until this point. 

This point being the beginning of this year's Best Baked Good Comp. All the families in the neighborhood are gathered once again, family friends and friends of friends' all packed together in the empty yard where we'd hosted the annual barbecue not a month ago.

The Dentons stand several feet away from us, their veiled creation sat on a plastic white table akin to ours. Like every year.

I stand in the middle of my parents who thankfully, haven't brought up anything Quincy related since I'd ran off in hopes of seeing him, and Quincy similarly stands between his own parents. 

His eyes don't meet mine like they've done in previous years. He just looks about, eyes sort of glazed over. He's here, but he doesn't give a shit about this. Even when the Denton's impressive five-layer white and milk chocolate cake is revealed, fondant the work of Quincy's hands no doubt and recipe his own painstaking research. 

There's an audible gasp once their cake is completely unveiled, a take on the chocolate cobbler that us Barnes are renown for. I would take it as shade if it wasn't so brilliant. Every detail is precise, dollops of chocolate icing swirling and swooping. It's incredible. 

My parents don't even blink as our creation is unveiled; a three layer black chocolate cake with a berry infusion, strawberry artistry and green fondant to fashion the effect of greens. Quincy likely doesn't know his role in this. How the stupid hikes he led me on reminded me of green and nature and life, or the berries he'd pick along our way. There's honey dripping down the cake, honey that should remind him of beekeeping and his uncanny talent for it.

It should remind him of me.

I dare him to look up, but he doesn't. 

The panel of judges consist of some mutual family friends, including Mrs. De Leon, Dr. Bailey and Mr. Hill. The rest of the neighborhood watches in anticipation as our families cut a slice for each judge.