Midsummer's Mayhem

by Rajani LaRocca

  “I’m sorry. I must go.” Mrs. T looked at me regretfully and opened the office door. “But come by tomorrow. We’ll be making an announcement. For now, please join your father and enjoy the best the While Away has to offer.”

  I carefully folded the leaf, put it in my pocket, and went to Dad, who was still gorging himself.

  I chose a linzer cookie off a plate at the edge of the table. Like everything at the While Away, it looked perfect, with dark, glossy raspberry preserves nestled in an almond cookie sandwich with the barest dusting of confectioners’ sugar. I tasted. It was good, but if I had to critique it I’d say that the cookie itself was a bit dense, and it was obvious the preserves were store-bought instead of freshly made. Even using Puffy Fay’s recipes, they weren’t executing them perfectly. They really could use my help. Maybe, if I won the contest, they might take me on as an intern, and I could teach Peaseblossom about flavors? And they could help me learn all about presentation and publicity. But I wasn’t sure whether Mom and Dad would let me do that. They’d already signed me up for summer camp in July. I sighed and decided to tell Peaseblossom to get The Cupcake Codex and Tutti Fruity: All About Fruit in Baking as resources.

  Voices rose in the café around us.

  “Mrs. T, we’ll be back with the whole family. And all our friends. And any strangers we can convince,” said a mom with two young daughters. “What a delightful café!”

  “Another round of cupcakes over here!” came a man’s voice.

  “Do you have any more of those fantastic chocolate chunk cookies?” said a woman.

  “Now, now, dear customers, I told you we were out. But we have lots of other delicious treats, never fear. Call your friends! Call your family! Tell all you know to come to the While Away Café!”

  In the time it had taken me to eat half a cookie, the line at the pastry counter had grown so long that it stretched to the door.

  Dad ate up the last bits of a coconut cupcake, made a note, and picked up my discarded linzer cookie. I had a terrifying thought: What if Dad trashed the While Away in his review? Would they still let me compete? I tried to read what Dad had written in his notebook, but he snapped it closed and moved it to the other side of the table.

  “No peeking. You’ll have to wait for the review like everyone else. I can’t tell you all my secrets, can I?” said Dad.

  I sighed. I wondered what Mrs. T had almost told me in her office. Did the secret have anything to do with Dad?

  “For you, Mr. Mackson, a gift from Mrs. T,” came a familiar voice. Like a malevolent spirit with perfect hair, Kiera Jones set down a chocolate box. “Do you need anything else?”

  Dad shook his head and kept writing as he popped open the box and downed the gold-dusted chocolate.

  “I spend a lot of time here, helping out,” Kiera said in answer to my unasked question. “Hope I’ll see you at the Bake-Off.” Kiera gave me a snarky smile and tossed her shiny curls. “That is, if you’ve managed to earn a Golden Leaf by then.”

  “I’ll be there.” I waved my Golden Leaf at her.

  “How nice,” said Kiera, not looking pleased at all. “Of course, I’ll be spending my time until then baking and perfecting my look.” She fluttered her eyelashes and smirked.

  “It’s a baking contest, not a beauty pageant,” I said, surprising myself.

  Kiera cackled. “You’re right! I’ve been learning so much the past few weeks. In fact, Mrs. T says that I’ll be the one to beat. Well, good luck, I guess. See you soon!” She scrunched her nose like a rat and pranced back to the counter.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE SONG

  Kiera Jones was the least of my worries. At home, each day dangled on the brink of disaster. Jules and Riya filled the house with such silent misery that I wished they would yell at each other like they used to. Jules turned her phone off permanently and started biting her nails again. She stopped going into the yard to practice her footwork after Cole cornered her and professed his love three days in a row.

  Riya spent all her free time at the dance studio. When she was home, she barely talked to anyone, and a cloud of gloom followed her everywhere.

  Fletcher (whose nose had returned to its normal size) showed up every afternoon asking for Jules. After two days of seeing Jules dissolve in tears as she struggled to send Fletcher away, I sat at the window watching for him so I could scurry outside and fend him off. He became harder and harder to turn away, until one day in a fit of desperation I splashed a glass of cranberry juice all over him so he had to go home and change. I kind of felt sorry for him, but I couldn’t let him get to my sisters. It was bad enough to see Jules crying, but I had a feeling Riya would beat him up, or at least kick him in the shins.

  Henry constantly admired his profile in the nearest reflective surface. He spent hours doing voice exercises and making faces in the camera of his cell phone. He wouldn’t eat a bite of any treats I baked, saying he was “watching his boyish figure.”

  Dad, on the other hand, managed to do what I hadn’t thought possible: he stuffed his face even more than before, continuously snacking in a way that made me never want to eat again. Somehow, the hours he spent running in the woods were still managing to prevent him from gaining weight. I avoided looking him in the eyes so I wouldn’t be freaked out by the more and more frequent flashes of purple. I tried to talk about Dad’s disturbing behavior, but my sisters were too miserable to listen, I could barely get a word in edgewise with Henry, and I didn’t want to bother Mom, whose work schedule made her exhausted.

  Judging by the number of tiny chocolate boxes strewn all over the house, Dad visited the While Away frequently. He kept asking me to return with him, but I didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of Mrs. T (and Kiera) again. I did happen to stroll past the outside of the café once, and noticed that the poster for the contest had been updated:

  Attention Bakers Ages 8–13!

  Enter the

  While Away Café

  Midsummer Baking Contest!

  First Round: Bring in your BEST baked goods

  to earn a Golden Leaf!

  Second Round: On Midsummer’s Eve, June 23,

  The Golden Leaf Winners will bring more

  treats to be judged, and

  will be narrowed to THREE,

  who will immediately compete in the

  Third Round: A Live Bake-Off!

  Your Delectable Delights could win you

  Enchanting Prizes!

  Grand Prize: Spend three days in New York City baking

  with Guest of Honor and Judge,

  World-Famous Pastry Chef Puffy Fay!

  I couldn’t breathe. Puffy Fay! The Master of Madeleines, the Sultan of Soufflés, the Cream Puff King from Comity!

  My wildest dream had come true—I would bake for my culinary idol. And I could win a chance to work with him in New York!

  My baking needed to be beyond excellent. It had to be perfect.

  I considered going in to talk to Mrs. T, but the line stretched around the block, and I spied Kiera greeting customers at the door. Although it infuriated me to imagine Kiera worming her way into Mrs. T’s heart, I decided to wait until June 23 to wow Mrs. T and Puffy Fay together.

  I went to the woods every day to meet Vik and escape the mayhem at home. It was almost like having Emma back. I followed Vik’s song and met him at the banyan tree. We strolled around the pond, or swam in it, climbed trees, and explored other parts of the forest that I’d never seen before. Vik read more stories from The Book about the forest and the Woodland Queen. I wondered where The Book had come from. I looked in the library for cookbooks and herb manuals and did an Internet search, but I couldn’t find any record of a book like mine. It was almost as if the forest itself had decided I needed it.

  Vik and I discussed Puffy Fay and the baking contest for hours at a time, and Vik helped me prepare. I made some mistakes: my lemon bars were a little too mouth-puckering, and my lava cakes didn’t ooze. But then I made black pepper almon
d brittle (“astounding,” according to Vik), chocolate mint wafers (“invigorating”), and apple sage cakes (“inspiring”). Vik helped me think of ways to make them all better. We discussed herbs, spices, and flavorings, and I taught Vik about the million miraculous ways to use eggs, including a cool way to make sugar-dusted herbs and flowers with meringue powder. With a little over a week left before the contest, I felt reasonably optimistic about my chances.

  But there was something else, something I’d been wondering about since the day I’d heard the first notes drifting to me in my yard. I rummaged in the back of my closet and pulled out something I hadn’t touched in nearly two years.

  I asked Vik one clear afternoon after we’d snacked on almond-tarragon shortcakes.

  “Could you teach me your song, the one we use as our signal? I brought my old clarinet.” I pulled it out of my backpack.

  Vik looked surprised but pleased. “I can certainly try. It’s called ‘Come with Me.’”

  “Okay, I’m ready—play the first note.”

  Vik played it, and I experimented until I found the same note on my clarinet. Then I wrote it in my notebook on a makeshift staff.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m transcribing the notes so I can play the song later.”

  He touched the page. “You can write music?”

  “Yeah, can’t you?”

  “No, I’ve only learned by listening.”

  “You’re like Henry. If he hears something once, he knows how to play it.”

  “But Mimi, being able to read and write music is so useful. You can learn things so much more easily, and you can share music without having to play it. It’s like giving someone a recipe, instead of just handing out food.”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes notes get in the way. Henry says music is made up of notes, but what it actually does is tell a story. And I do the same, when I bake.”

  Vik nodded. “Henry’s pretty wise.”

  I sighed. He used to be, before he got glued to mirrors.

  We continued picking out the tune on the clarinet, and I transcribed as we went.

  “Now why don’t you try playing it?”

  “Sure, but don’t laugh.”

  Vik put on what he might have thought was serious expression, but instead he looked like he was trying to part his hair with his eyebrows. I giggled.

  I tried playing the tune once—I was rusty, but there was no hint of a goose squeak. “Not bad,” I said.

  “Not bad at all,” said Vik. “The rhythm in the second part should go more like this.” He played the section for me, and I was miraculously able to replicate it.

  “That’s it! Now play it again, and I’ll play something else on top of it, okay?”

  I played, and Vik played a harmony on his pipe, a counterpoint that meandered in and around the main melody like a vine.

  “There are words to the song. Want to hear them?”

  I nodded.

  “You play, and I’ll sing this time.”

  I played, and Vik sang gently:

  “Come with me

  And watch the sun rise

  In our place

  Watch it paint the world in gold and pink

  For you and I once met each other

  Under the banyan tree

  You and I can stay forever

  Won’t you come with me?

  Won’t you come with me?

  Won’t you come with me?

  Won’t you come with me?”

  His voice was sad, and happy. The song was a memory, and an invitation.

  “My mother taught me that song,” said Vik. “It always reminds me of her.”

  I leaned against the tree. “When I was five, we had a concert in our yard one summer night after dinner. Henry, Riya, and Jules had set up a band—Henry played guitar, Jules drummed, and Riya sang. They were brilliant, even when they were younger. They played this beautiful song. I thought it was the most enchanting song in the world, and I never wanted them to stop. I spun around in circles and asked them to play it over and over. Dad told me that some day, I’d be just like them.”

  Vik smiled.

  “It never happened. It’s okay, Vik,” I said when he started to protest. “I’ve never been able to play with them, to be a part of the music they make. But your song—it reminds me of that song. It’s like magic. And now I can play it.”

  He looked out over the pond. “Want to try it again?”

  And we played the song together, over and over, until I felt the music fill my heart like it had always been there.

  I got up and brushed myself off. “Tomorrow’s an important day for my sisters,” I said. “Jules has a soccer game against her team’s biggest rival, and Riya has her dance recital. I want to bake something special for them and their friends.”

  Vik chuckled. “Do you always bake for everyone in your family? Sounds exhausting.”

  “Like I told you, they’ve been having a hard week.” I packed up my clarinet. “And sometimes food is the best way to show someone you love them.”

  “Definitely,” said Vik. He looked at me curiously. “Mimi, I’m going away for the weekend.”

  “You’re going on a trip? With Aunt Tanya?”

  “Yeah. To . . . visit some other relatives. Not very far. I wish I didn’t have to, but—you know.”

  I shrugged.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time for the contest.” He smiled, and I blinked at the sunlight reflected in his eyes.

  I’d gotten used to having a best friend again. When I was with Vik, Emma’s absence faded to a dull ache, and I could forget about the weirdness at home for hours at a time. How would I survive without his company? Without his help? “Thanks for today,” I said. I managed a small smile as I walked away.

  When I got home, I gently laid my clarinet on the table near the piano.

  I went to the kitchen and gathered ingredients. Whatever happened this weekend, I’d have to face it alone.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE EPIPHANY

  I’d had such high hopes for Saturday.

  The temperature and humidity were already soaring as we headed off to Jules’s soccer game, but that didn’t dampen our excitement. Mom put her phone in her purse so she wouldn’t be tempted to read emails and pulled out her fancy camera instead. Henry had an all-day tech rehearsal for his play, but Riya came with us “under protest”—she hid behind sunglasses and earbuds and made it clear she cared more about listening to her recital music than watching the game.

  Ignoring Mom’s complaints that he was eating too much junk food, Dad brought his own cooler packed with snacks.

  I’d made a batch of cannoli ice cream sandwiches filled with chocolate chip ricotta ice cream to share with Jules’s team after the game. The frozen treats reminded me of Jules—sweet and universally liked, if sometimes stiff and unyielding. I’d stashed them in a separate cooler so Dad wouldn’t eat them all himself.

  Jules’s team, the Comity Chameleons, was facing their biggest rival, the Bridgeton Badgers. While Jules had always been a great soccer player, she’d morphed into a truly remarkable one while playing on the high school varsity team. Jules was one of the highest scorers, had a record number of assists, and, as Fletcher had pointed out the other night, she’d managed to make every penalty kick all season.

  The score was tied 2–2 as the final minutes ticked down. Jules looked unstoppable as she took a shot, but she was fouled with seconds to go. She looked completely focused as she lined up for her penalty kick, sizing up the goalie and calculating where to place the ball. Even Riya took off her sunglasses, put down her phone, and started to watch.

  A murmur ran through the crowd, and then it erupted in laughter.

  “Seriously?” Riya said next to me.

  A man-sized soccer ball with “I Heart J” printed across the front bounced from the sidelines across the field. I soon realized that it had legs—it was an enormous inflatable soccer ball costume—and I c
ould make out some shaggy hair. It was Cole! A small part of my brain was impressed with his ingenuity—how did he get that costume? Did he decorate it himself?—but mostly I was horrified. Within seconds he’d loped all the way to Jules and, after some wobbling and rolling, managed to get down on one knee in front of her. Cole grasped her hand while she stood frozen for a moment with her mouth gaping. Then Jules came to her senses and tried to haul him off the field.

  The refs descended in a burst of whistles and flags. They rolled Cole to the sideline and deflated him. “Jules! My Jules!” he bellowed. “I shall return!”

  Jules lined up for penalty kick again, and the other players stood behind her outside the penalty box, some of them giggling to each other. Jules looked rattled, and I could see her body trembling as she readied her shot. She took a deep breath, made a few quick strides up to the ball, and struck it.

  The ball arced . . . it sailed toward the goal . . . and kept going, missing the net completely.

  Jules had missed her first penalty kick in a year.

  “I think she was still distracted after that prank,” said Mom. “Riya, do you know anything about it?”

  “Don’t ask me. I don’t have a clue about anything anymore,” said Riya, hiding behind her sunglasses again.

  We all watched helplessly as the Chameleons lost in overtime.

  No one wanted my ice cream sandwiches, so I gave the cooler to Dad, who grinned like Christmas had come early.

  On the drive home, Jules stared out the window and bit her nails until they bled. On my other side, Riya sighed and looked out her own window.

  “What did Cole say?” I asked Jules.

  She shook her head and mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “He asked me to the prom,” she said. Her eyes were unfocused. “You know, the prom that’s like eleven months away, at the school he hasn’t even been to yet.” She threw a hateful glance at Riya, then turned back to the window and started in on the nubs of her nails again.

  Riya had devoted months to rehearsing for her dance recital. As we piled into the car, she reminded us for the millionth time that a professor from a New York arts college was rumored to be attending.