How to Bake a Cake on Mars

A dreamer. That was the best way to describe my more than slightly eccentric father. He perpetually reached for the sky. Literally. When the Interplanetary Alliance announced it was again opening its one-year exchange program with Earth, Dad was one of the first in line to apply. As a second-generation baker, he was giddy as a schoolboy, sure he was a shoo-in since bakers, doctors and Sunday School teachers were to be given first consideration.

Yes, he’d miss us, he swore, but we knew it was an empty promise made strictly for our benefit. He was so excited at the possibility of traveling to Mars that if he were chosen, he wasn’t likely to think of us at all while he was gone.

It was obvious from her silence the knowledge bothered my mother. She still adored the oddball visionary she’d married and there was no doubt a year would seem like a lifetime to her. I, on the other hand, didn’t give it much thought. I loved my dad but even when he was there, he usually wasn’t. He might’ve been sitting at the kitchen table but his mind was almost always somewhere else. I found it kind of hard to miss what you never really had.

His lack of familial focus wasn’t the only reason I wouldn’t feel so bad if he were chosen, though. The other reason, maybe even the main reason I wouldn’t mind, was that I secretly understood. You see I, too, longed for more and wanted something different. I yearned to try the untried. In truth, I was a teensy bit jealous I wouldn’t be old enough to apply in time for the application deadline. As luck would have it, my sixteenth birthday fell exactly a week too late.

That was probably for the best. My poor mother was completely the opposite of Dad and me. A constant sort with her feet on the ground and her head on her shoulders instead of somewhere up in the clouds, she would’ve been totally lost if we were both gone. I could only keep my fingers crossed it wouldn’t be another decade before Mars, or one of the other planets, opened another portal between our worlds.

Before we got word about his application status, Dad had an accident. It wasn’t all that bad; he’d slipped on some spilled chocolate cake batter and broken his arm when he had an intimate meeting with the floor. A few weeks in a cast, the doctor told him, and he would be good as new. Dad kept a positive outlook, though, confident his cast would be off by selection time. Otherwise, a broken arm was a game-changer. Other than age and designated occupation, the only requirement was that an exchanger had to be in perfect physical condition.

Unfortunately, the selection process didn’t take that long. Just a few days later, the Martian program leader came calling, fully expectant my father would grab his suitcase and follow. That was the thing with being accepted. You had to have your single bag of belongings packed—only one bag per person was allowed—and ready to go at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t until they showed up at your door that you knew you’d been chosen and once that happened, you were immediately carted off.

Unaware of Dad’s mishap, Zarrek was monumentally displeased. So displeased, in fact, the color of his face became nearly that of a midnight sky. That Martians were little green men was a complete misnomer. They were actually very light-complected, like albino white, with flesh so translucent their dark purple veins cast a lavender shade to their skin. It was honestly rather pretty. They weren’t small, either. Zarrek was the biggest male I’d ever seen, towering over my taller than average dad by close to a foot.

I was initially intimidated when he began bellowing how my dad was an inept idiot who’d jeopardized the whole mission. There was to be an exchange of exactly one-hundred and my father’s clumsiness would throw off the ratio. I personally didn’t see how ninety-nine was that far off a hundred, but it was his treatment of my meek, dreamer of a dad that really got me. My father and I weren’t at all alike when it came to temper. I had one. He didn’t.

No longer cowed by his anger or size, I verbally lit into the Martian dude. “Just who do you think you are, storming into our house on our planet and calling my father names? And how dare you ridicule him for getting hurt in an accident that wasn’t even his fault? It was mine.” The confession was difficult.

It had been my fault and I’d felt horrible about it no matter how many times Dad tried to reassure me it wasn't. I was the one mixing the cake and in my hurry to get it done for a customer’s birthday party, I’d waited to clean the floor until the cake was in the oven. Before I could get to it, Dad had rushed into the kitchen to retrieve an order for another customer and, well…you already know the rest of that story.

“He’d never want to go somewhere with such rude people anyway.” I finished my brief rant, resisting the urge to punctuate it with an obscene hand gesture.

Zarrek, who hadn’t so much as looked my way up to that point, eyed me shrewdly. “Your age, little girl?”

The demand and the classification of “little girl” pissed me off as much as his treatment of my father irked me. “What’s it to you? And for your information, at one week from majority, I’m not a little girl.” I mentally winced when I realized I’d contradicted myself by sounding exactly like a child.

How did something get darker than the middle of the night? His face did, though. It swiftly took on the hue of a ferocious, dark storm cloud at midnight. “What is this majority?” It didn’t have the tone of a question. It was another imperious demand.

“It’s the term humans use when someone turns sixteen years of age. We call it reaching their rights of majority, or having the status, privileges and responsibilities of an adult.” My father’s words were spoken softly, although his quiet demeanor didn’t do much to calm Zarrek.

The Martian’s eyes narrowed. Whoa! Wicked! They, too, were purple…a very deep, intense purple…and there were glowing silver rings around the pupils. How had I missed that? I think I shuddered.

“And the girl-child? She is also a baker?”

Understanding dawned on my parents. My mother threw her hands up to cover her mouth a little too late to smother her reactive gasp. My father hedged. “Alana has helped, yes, but she still has much to learn.” It wasn’t quite true. I’d been taught the ins and outs of baking practically since I was out of diapers, so I knew just about everything my father knew. I kept my mouth shut, though, both intrigued and terrified by what the extraterrestrial was obviously considering.

“She’ll do.” There was no indecision on Zarrek’s part and no giving in to my father’s valiant protests. Even my mother’s teary and trembling, “Please, no,” didn’t faze him. I was shocked. That look and tone of voice always made Dad and me back off, repentant, even when we’d done nothing for which we needed to repent.

The obnoxious bully turned to me. “You have five minutes. Prepare yourself and your belongings.” Maybe he hadn’t trusted me to take him seriously for he reiterated himself. “Five minutes and no longer. We are, as humans say, behind schedule. If you are not ready, you’ll go as you are.” He looked me up and down, smirking as he took note of my attire.

Okay, that wasn’t cool. Having rushed down the stairs in near terror at the insistent thunderous knock (even the reverberation had caused the entire house to shake!) I was still in my baby doll PJ’s. Leave the house in those? So wasn’t happening.

My mother didn’t waste time with another gasp. She practically shoved me upstairs to my room. There was some kind of clause in the application Dad had signed that threatened dire consequences for backing out—no matter the reason—if he were selected. I didn’t know exactly what the penalty was, but it was clear there was no way to fight the inevitable. And, if I had to take Dad’s place, she wanted me to have what I’d need for a year, or as much as possible given the time constraint.

She grabbed our largest empty suitcase from the hall closet and started throwing clothes in it. “Thank goodness I did laundry yesterday. Get your brush and toiletries while I do this, then get dressed.” I grabbed the outfit she’d thrown on my bed and flew into the bathroom.

“Alana!” a voice boomed. “It is time. Present yourself!” That's when I gave in to the urge and flashed the obscene gesture his direction, wishing he could see it.

I struggled with the heavy bag. It was so stuffed, Mom had to sit on it to snap it shut. Nonetheless, I lugged it downstairs without help, regretting not having brushed my teeth. My mouth felt like something had crawled in it and died.

Zarrek reached out as if to grab my arm but I jerked it back. “You’re a moron if you think I’m leaving without saying goodbye.” His eyebrows jerked upward but I didn’t care. I dropped the suitcase and grabbed Mom and Dad for a group hug. They squeezed me back as hard as I clutched onto them, all of us reluctant to let go. “I love you guys. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful and safe and I’ll see you next year.”

One of her tears dropped onto my neck as Mom whispered into my ear, “I love you baby girl. Never forget that.” I didn’t mind that my mother referred to me as a child. She was entitled. Zarrek wasn’t. Dad just dropped a kiss onto my forehead and squeezed me once more before turning me loose. I think he tried to tell me he loved me, too, but emotion garbled his words. However, they weren’t necessary. As absent-minded as he could be in his world of perpetual dreams, I never doubted his love for his family.

I took a deep breath and faced Zarrek. “Well,” I practically sneered, “What are you waiting for? I can’t make a cake standing here can I? By the way, I’m thinking devil’s food. That sounds about right for you.” I wondered, though, how the change in altitude and lack of gravity would impact my baking success. Would it take more eggs and baking powder? Less? I guessed I’d find out before long.

He nodded, apparently missing my churlish intent. “If that is chocolate, then yes. I wish for a large slice of chocolate cake.” I noticed the one-eighty his voice and attitude had taken. Suddenly, he just seemed…wistful. There might’ve even been some salivating happening there. Ew. Gross! I supposed it was true, the way to a guy’s heart really was through his stomach.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Insulting the Martians was going to be fun and probably altogether too easy.

“So, I’m curious,” I said, trying for nonchalance as we left. “Why Sunday School teachers?”

Zarek was equally blasé. “We also wish to try angel food cake.”

And they wanted a Sunday School Teacher for that? Were they truly that naïve? I groaned and refrained from asking why doctors were in the mix. Perhaps they didn’t know Pepto Bismol was a pretty good cure for overindulging. I’d packed the pink stuff. Hmm. I’d also packed Ex-Lax. No one would taste it as an ingredient in chocolate cake. I smiled to myself. It could be a very interesting trip indeed.