Princess Betty by Jade Vickery

            For weeks I dreaded the sight of her. Throughout my training as a bakery clerk, my learning was constantly being interrupted by phrases like “No, it’s like this, don’t do it like that, or you should be taught properly.” It didn’t matter that I was new; if I was doing something wrong I was going to be corrected. It seemed like every day she was coming up to me, accusing me of something: working in her space, walking in front of her, or taking cake orders the wrong way. To her, it would’ve been perfectly fine if World War 3 broke out, but if the wrong Dora the Explorer image was put on a cake all hell would break loose.

            And if Betty was mad you’d know. Betty was a professional. She had mastered the art of anger charades. She scoffed and snorted. She threw her hands up in frustration. Bags of icing were slammed down on the counter. Cake containers were thrown. Betty made it so that she couldn’t be ignored, but God help you if you asked her what was wrong. She complained that the icing was too soft, that the icing was too hard, when someone looked at her wrong, when someone looked at her too right, when things fell, when things got up, or if someone yawned, blinked, or breathed in her general direction.