It was beautiful. Egg-white-washed lattice crust and perfect scalloped edges, glossy dark cherries plumply underneath. Cherry pies are the apex of a baker’s repertoire. They take hours. Mainly because the cherries have to be de-pitted. You can get a cherry de-pitter, but only the most serious bakers buy them. She was a special-occasion baker, the kind who “accidentally made too many cookies.” She hand-sliced hundreds of cherries, reduced them down with sugar and folded them into her signature pastry crust (the secret was the filtered ice water).

I motioned for her to sit it next to the Tostitos chips and salsa.

Yesterday, we had all been at the pool drinking, I had been too drunk to make anything. We had all been. She wasn’t there. I couldn’t remember if we had invited her. She must have been at home, presumably spending hours in her kitchen on this single perfect pie. It was a notoriously hot summer, and baking anything would send heatwaves floating across the apartment. I imagined her slaving away, wearing an apron even though she was alone, while we dozed cooly by the water.

Dammit, what was her name? I had to remember, I had met her too many times to ask again. Or had I? Fake blonde hair. Fake tan. Absurdly white teeth, almost the color of mint gum. I had no idea what she would actually look like. I excused myself to go look in the bathroom mirror, my skin was a bit too pale, my teeth too yellow. I made a mental note to get some whitening strips. Looking like them took hours. More hours than nonchalantly baking complicated pastries in imaginary aprons.

Helen sidled up to me and murmered, ‘Who is that? I can’t remember her name.” She leaned in to dip a chip. “I don’t know? Kelly with an -ie or something,” I said.

“Ohmigod really?” Helen’s eyes widened.

“No, I think I just made that up don’t call her that.”

Kellie skipped over. Maybe she was one of our boyfriends’ friends’ girlfriends. That had to be it. I clutched her hands emphatically to avoid hugging in case I had the name wrong, “Hi sweetie! How are you? I was just admiring your pie… Kellie right?” I emphasized the -ie. Her eyes lit up. “Yes! Sara? Thank you so much, it’s just a little hobby of mine. Pies are so much more special than, like, cookies.”

Helen collapsed in silent laughter behind her before walking away. We chatted frozen yogurt, which I don’t eat but would never say it. “I know that there are a lot of, like local places? But I just adore Pinkberrry, it’s the best. A classic, you know?” “I nodded. “Totally.” Helen passed me a glass of wine, but otherwise refused to contribute. I tuned back in—we were talking about nail salons. “She grabbed my hand. “So gorgeous, I love the natural look, but my nails are too weak, so I keep getting gels.”

“Really?” I said, “I’ve never gotten them.”

“Ohmigod, you have to go to my place, they’re the best. And they know my nails are really weak so they soak the polish off for an hour to protect them. They get me there.” She winked. “They know. Plus they have free champagne.”

“We’ll have to go get mani/pedis some time.”

“We should, maybe for the first football weekend? It will be here before you know it!”

“I know, I can’t believe it’s that time of year again!”

“What sorority were you in? Not that it matters, I am just curious.” “Beta Pi” “Oh I should have known, they were always the pretty blonde ones.”

“You?”

“Kappa Mu, so obnoxiously southern I know, but my mom was one and my sister… You know.”

“Of course, you were a legacy, and they are a good sorority, great girls.” “Excuse me just a sec, I am going to grab my brother to make sure we have enough food…” She leaned in, “Put in a good word for me? I really like him…” I winked. “Of course.”

She was his fault.

 I finally located him sneaking a large slice of the pie. I smacked him on the arm. “What the fuck, ow!” he said.

“That’s Kellie? You invited her, you don’t even want to talk to her, and I’ve been stuck with her all night. All fucking night.” He shrugged. I hit him again. Double swat.

“Ow, okay stop hitting me!”

“She made you A PIE, do you know what that means? Do you know how long that takes? And it’s so hot outside.”

He shrugged. “What? She makes good cherry pie… and I like pie.”

I stalked around the bedroom, low lights on so I wouldn’t fully wake up. I had welted bites up and down my arms and face. I knew I would have trouble falling asleep without finding it. I scanned the walls—nothing. Grudgingly, I went back to bed and pulled the sheets over me.

**

In South America the bugs were so bad that I discarded my organic values for the highest level of deet I could find; it melted the edges of my watchband.

Every night in the hostel I went through my ritual. I rubbed my herbal “Bugz B Gone” lotion on every inch of skin. Then, I would spray on a layer of deet. I would put on my pajamas. Then, coat them in a layer of deet. Lastly, I would grab my sheets and deet them too.

My roommates watched, fascinated. A Swedish girl sat on her bunk sweating sadly. She had resorted to wearing thick impenetrable rain gear in the 100 degree, 100 percent humidity weather. She was the only one who understood.

In my deet cocoon, I slept. Inevitably waking in the morning with bites from some suicidal insect. Most usually, on my exposed lips (deet in one’s mouth seemed extreme). The injustice was great. Scabby and red, I loathed everyone’s smooth unbitten skin. Shark bait, or chum, became their term of endearment for me. It was like a game, How many lethal chemicals could I slather on and still get bit? Everyone else gently misted in citronella and lime juice frolicked about. I stormed around in my deet cloud, a siren’s call for all mosquitoes across the Amazon.

**

As a child, mosquitoes were one of the first things to come between God and me.

Bees made honey, spiders ate bugs, and snakes were in Eden (In the beginning God made Adam, Eve, and that one snake.) Mosquitoes were absolutely useless. My parents attempted to placate me by explaining ecosystems—mosquitoes were special and necessary so that they could be eaten by frogs. Didn’t frogs also eat flies? And if that’s the case, why didn’t God make frog food that didn’t inconveniently prey on humans? My skin is more blessed than frogs.

**

An hour later when I woke to the mosquito repeatedly hurling its insectly body against my face in excitement, I lost it. Turning the lights on full blast, I wheeled around and spotted it resting on the wall. I grabbed a magazine and swatted the mosquito beyond the point of death. Blood, my blood, exploded out of its body.

I stared as it dripped slowly down the white walls.