This Cake is for the Party by Sarah Selecky

squeals.
    Oh my God, says Carolyn.
    I’m right over there, Larissa says, pointing to the table sponsored by the Royal Bank. I just saw you and I had to come over right away!
    Bruno, says Carolyn, this is Larissa Levinson. We knew each other in Ottawa.
    We worked together, says Larissa. Carolyn was such a great part of our team. Are you still taking pictures? Her eyelashes work themselves up and down hydraulically.
    Oh, says Carolyn. Not really. I mean, not professionally. Our author didn’t show up! Larissa says. Can you believe it? Who’s going to read his book now?
    Across the table, the author in the ill-fitting tuxedo perks up when he hears this. He pauses in his conversation with the women beside him and turns his head in the direction of Larissa’s table.
    Bummer, says Bruno. I guess you can’t really ask for your money back.
    Larissa rolls her eyes. It is a charity ball, she says. But I knew I was invited for a reason. It was so I could find you! Carolyn, you look great. Now, I want to know everything about everything. How are you?
    When an opossum feels threatened, it will go limp, rotate its eyes back in its head, and look as close to decomposed as it possibly can in order to avoid attack. Carolyn has seen this only once. Coming home on a summer evening, she saw what she thought was a white cat lying in a sewer grate in front of their house. When she bent down to look at it, she saw the opossum’s bald, dead-looking face.
    I’m living in New York, Larissa continues. I’m just here for a couple of weeks. I didn’t know you were living here! This is crazy, finding you!
    Carolyn’s upper lip starts to tingle again. Well, it’s for a good cause, she says.
    What do you do in New York? asks Bruno.
    Larissa holds her wineglass with both hands. When she drinks, she looks like a child with a sippy cup. I’m involved in marketing, she says.
    I’m in marketing myself, says Bruno. What company do you work for?
    Oh, I’m freelance, she says. She smiles at Carolyn.
    Carolyn flushes, jungle-hot. I’m a teacher, Carolyn says.
    Larissa goes back to her table once the speeches and presentations begin. Her blue dress has a short train that puckers on the carpet as she walks. Bruno and Carolyn are the only two people at their table who ordered the fish. The author has a vegetarian meal. All of Bruno’s work colleagues (and their spouses) ordered the filet mignon. Carolyn watches the author through the orchid vase. He goes to his plate hungrily, slicing his vegetable tower into quarters and eating the entire thing in four bites. He reaches for his glass, but there is no more wine. He tries to catch a server’s attention by putting up his hand, like he has a question.
    Why are we here? Carolyn asks Bruno quietly. How much did we pay for this?
    Bruno slides his fork under a wedge of roasted potato and attempts to bring it to his mouth. What’s the story with Larissa? he asks.
    His potato falls off his fork and back onto his plate. Carolyn resists the urge to take his fork in her own hand. Stab it, she thinks. Stab the potato.
    There is no story with Larissa, she says. Was it over a hundred dollars each?
    Bruno slices the potato in half with the side of his fork and then slides the tines under it. Guess again, he says. So where did you work in Ottawa?
    We didn’t work together, Carolyn tells him. I haven’t seen her in ten years. God, fifteen years.
    So what was she talking about? Bruno slips the potato piece into his mouth and looks at her, chewing.
    Carolyn moves her food around her plate. The salmon looks unhealthy. There’s no natural spice that colour— the tandoori paste is probably loaded with artificial dyes. She remembers that Bruno’s quiz score—thirty-nine— was uncomfortably close to the red zone.
    Bruno, she asks, why couldn’t you go back to sleep last night?
    You’re changing the subject, Bruno says.
    No, I want to know