Gender Revealed
This story reflects true events based on my memories with names changed for protection. Enjoy!
My first real job—the one I could actually drive myself to—was at a bakery in East Dallas. Every Tuesday and Wednesday during my senior year, I’d drive myself to school and then to work, feeling like a real adult who could handle things on her own. My coworkers were mostly other high school girls or young adult burnouts. This was ironic because it was supposedly one of the premier bakeries in Dallas. My manager, Dylan, was a ridiculously hot 28-year-old with tattoos who played bass in a band. He reminded me of Damon Albarn from The Gorillaz when he was younger. He had graduated from my high school, which I’m pretty sure is the only reason I got hired on the spot. Even though he was a decade older than me, I saw him as a mix of a forbidden crush and a best friend. He didn’t feel like a manager at all.
Then there was Walt, the other manager—a 40-year-old douchebag. I barely ever saw him because he was always “out on deliveries,” which really just meant he left early every day to take out his dogs. Dylan would head out right as I arrived at 4:30, leaving me and my teeny-bopper coworkers to our own devices half the time.
One Wednesday afternoon, my coworker and I were standing around having girl talk since it was slow. She was telling me about her first time going to a rave - a wook was offering her molly when a couple walked in, wanting to order a gender reveal cake.
At 17, attending a performing arts high school, I had zero interest in kids or family life. Most of my friends at art school were gay, trans, or gender-nonconforming, so the whole concept of a gender reveal cake felt cringe. But in the area of Dallas where the bakery was located, they were all the rage. If you don’t know what a gender reveal cake is, basically, you get a cake and put either pink or blue icing inside, so when you cut it open, it announces whether the baby has a penis or a vagina. So fucking weird and unnecessary.
The couple explained their elaborate idea—a Pokémon egg cake with the phrase, “He or she? What could they be?” We get it. People always thought they were being unique, quirky, or clever with these things, but 9 times out of ten, I’d seen the same ideas played out several times. I fake laughed with her about how cute the idea was. I always imagined myself role playing as Patrick from that episode of Spongebob when Squidward transforms The Crusty Crab into a fine dining establishment. The high pitched baby voice saying overly zealously, “MAY I TAKE YOUR HAT SIR?? MAY I TAKE YOUR HAT SIR??” was too spot on. That’s the persona I took on in front of customers.
Then the woman handed me a sealed doctor’s note containing the baby’s gender. I took it to the back, ready to jot down the icing color, but when I opened it, it wasn’t a simple “It’s a girl” or “It’s a boy.”
It was an entire medical record, pages of 10-pt font, filled with medical jargon about the fetus. Oh, shit.
I called my coworker over to help me decipher the mess. She was a little older than me, so maybe she could figure it out. Finally, after scanning through the overwhelming text, we found the word “female.” I scribbled “pink icing” on the order form and moved on. The couple picked up their cake that Saturday, had their party, and I didn’t think about it again.
Then came Tuesday.
I walked into work to find Walt staring at me, arms crossed, foot tapping. My coworker looked at me with wide eyes, silently screaming, "We fucked up."
Walt wasted no time. "Do you know how long I’ve been on the phone fixing your mistake?!" He was tall, slightly buff, with shoulder-length wavy hair—the kind of guy who definitely blasted Nickelback or Creed in his car. He wore bedazzled jeans with embroidered crosses on them and ripped-up graphic tees, convinced he was running the show.
"I’m not exactly sure what I did," I said cautiously.
"You screwed the pooch!" He threw the gender reveal order form onto the counter. "You ruined their special day. Their special surprise. The baby was a boy! Why on earth would you write 'girl' on the order form?!"
"What?!" My coworker and I were baffled.
"The doctor’s note literally said 'female'—how was it a boy?!"
"The MOTHER is a female, you dimwits!" Scot snapped.
Oh. Fuck.
"I’m sorry, Walt. They just handed me this massive document filled with charts and medical terms—I had no clue what I was looking at."
He didn’t care. Instead, he put his hands around my neck and squeezed, "pretending" to strangle me. He rocked his hands back and forth, “pretending” to kill me.
I locked eyes with my coworker, unsure if this was real life. Then I dissociated.
"Next time, little girl, don’t take any cake orders. Apparently, that job’s too grown-up for you."
I thought about telling my parents, but I was scared they’d make me quit. Looking back, I wish they had. Instead, I told Dylan.
"WHAT?!" He was furious. "That is completely unacceptable."
The way he defended me was kind of adorable. I imagined him as my boyfriend instead of my boss.
"I’m texting Rosalyn about this. Fuck that guy. He’s such a fucking asshole." Rosalyn was the owner. I had seen her once but never spoken to her, even though at this point I had worked there for about 6 months. I was worried that if she found out I was causing “problems,” she wouldn’t like me.
The next week, Rosalyn came into the bakery. She half apologized for Walt on his behalf, saying she had "talked to him about his anger problems" and that his behavior "wasn’t acceptable."
"I don’t think he’ll be mean to you anymore!" she giggled.
Yeah, right.
Every shift after that, Walt would smile through gritted teeth whenever he spoke to me.
"He fucking hates me," I thought.
Oh well. Dylan liked me. That’s all that mattered—for now.
