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“Baumkuchen, why do you wear that mask?” Neapolitan Sandwich Cookie did not mean to be rude, even if the young Cookie’s curiosity was always branded as such. They were sat across from one another, a table between them; Neapolitan had assignments spread out in front of her, University-grade work for someone who was only eleven, yet for her it was almost elementary; Baumkuchen had his own folders, work the younger Cookie wasn’t allowed to snoop in, the girl’s question bringing his attention away from them.
He stared at her for a moment, and she hated how she couldn’t tell what he was thinking—even if expression reading was never a strong suit of hers. “It stops me from getting sick,” Baumkuchen said, returning his attention back to his work. “Why do you ask?”
Neapolitan bit her tongue, her eyes staring down at the piece of loose-leaf paper tucked underneath her assignment. She had been procrastinating, doodling like a child, shapes and squiggles at first, before it turned into a self-portrait; an unfinished Baumkuchen was beside her drawn self, which was when she had her realization.
She didn’t know what he looked like.
She had been under his care for this long, yet she really didn’t know him at all. “I was just...” She tapped the end of her pen against the table, sliding the loose-leaf paper underneath the others.
“I don’t know what you look like.” It came out blunter than she meant, it shocked her just as much as it did Baumkuchen. “Why do you keep the mask on even at home?”
His whole body stiffened as her statement settled in the air, lowering his folders onto the table to address this with his full attention. He took a deep breath: “Truth be told, I wear this mask for many reasons—one of them is to stop myself getting sick.” He sighed, folding his hands and resting them atop his folders. “But the other reason...” He stared at Neapolitan’s face, pink eyecings looking at him with the curiosity only a child could hold. “Is that my face is what others would call abnormal.”
“You see, other Cookies like to pass judgement on those who don’t fit the norm—Cookies like us.” Baumkuchen gestured to himself, placing a hand over his heart; who was a better example than him, his body was soft and frail, and had been like that since his youth. “They look at us with pity, as someone to feel bad for and not much else; that is why I keep the mask on, so they don’t have another reason to look upon me in pity.”
Neapolitan’s hand stilled, her grip tightening around her pen. “Oh.”
“Yes, quite troubling, is it not? But that’s why you must play with your own strengths.” Baumkuchen said as he picked up his folders once again. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, so don’t go worrying about things you can’t control.”
They fell back into the silence of before, the only sound coming from the turning of pages and Neapolitan’s pen scratching against her papers. It was a lot to process for the young Cookie, but one question still hung in her mind; as she finished up her writing, she spoke again.
“Can I see your face?” She asked, placing her pen flat against the table. “If I’m to succeed you in the influence of medicine, then I should learn not to treat Cookies differently because of their appearance.” She added, believing if she gave some form of reasoning, he would be more likely to accept.
Baumkuchen didn’t take his attention away from his papers, a moment passing before he sighed heavily. Neapolitan moved to apologize, but Baumkuchen cut her off. “I suppose it’s only natural you want to know what I look like.” He spoke as he looked at her with his full attention. “I am your legal guardian after all.”
He paused—no, hesitated—for a moment, before reaching up to hook a thumb beneath the fabric of his mask. Neapolitan watched the fabric roll up, revealing little by little his visage, before she was able to take in the sight of his whole face.
His dough was pale and looked soft to the touch—a far-cry from the crisp expected of a cookie; the right of his face was covered in small lacerations that went deep in his dough, they seemed to breathe with him in every breath he took. Framing his face was loose strands of golden blonde icing, the rest pulled back into a small bun. But the most striking thing, at least to Neapolitan, was his eyecings; they were round and gentle, baring bags of darkened dough underneath, their hue almost stared right through her.
“How do I look?” He asked, showing her a smile. It was lopsided, and awkward, yet held so much warmth.
Neapolitan stared as she tried to find the words, so many were swirling inside her head to describe him; her silence made his smile slowly fade, his gaze averting away from her—that little motion made one word stand out above all the rest.”
“Kind.” Neapolitan said. “You look kind.”
Baumkuchen froze for a second, before his smile graced his face again. He placed his mask down on the table, besides all his papers. “Kind, huh?” He questioned, to which Neapolitan nodded; that only made his smile widen. “I like that.”
He returned to his work, and Neapolitan followed suit. But every so often she would glance up at his face, committing every detail to memory and copying it down in her drawing—focusing on his smile, and how it persisted as he worked.