“If you want to, you can. It comes with practice. You didn’t give the clarinet much of a chance, you know.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Anyway, can you describe what you hear? What does this song make you think of?” asked Henry.
I looked at him, puzzled.
“Is it happy or sad, simple or complicated?” he asked. “How does it make you feel?”
“I guess it’s . . . happy, and simple. It makes me think of summer, like sunshine on the creek, and birds singing to each other.”
“Good!” Henry said. “Now think about that and see if it stirs up some ideas.” He continued to play and added a meandering accompaniment.
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on feeling a summer’s day with sunlight shining through a canopy of leaves, making bright spots and shadows dance across the forest floor.
“When I play music, I’m telling a story. You do the same thing when you bake,” Henry said.
I imagined walking on a leafy forest path with Emma. We picked wildflowers and made necklaces. We climbed trees and watched birds and squirrels at work. We told jokes, and I made Emma laugh so hard she snorted like a petite pig. We collapsed in fits of giggles.
I pictured oval leaves, translucent and veined in gold and green.
“Nice song, Henry,” Riya said. I hadn’t even heard her come in. “Let me join you.” She began to sing the melody in her glorious voice.
“You guys need more rhythm,” Jules said from the doorway. She entered and started tapping on the coffee table.
Henry played chords on the piano to accompany them. They sounded great together. Perfect, in fact. Like always. Whatever arguments they had with one another melted away in the music. It was like they were conjuring summer in the room—the warm air, the bright sunshine, the sounds of the woods I loved. As usual, they’d forgotten about me. I didn’t dare try to join them; I’d break the spell and ruin everything.
It would have been like deflating a perfect soufflé.
After a few minutes I crept out of the room, leaving my dejected-looking magazine on the sofa. My brother and sisters didn’t even notice. I kept going. I had to get out of the house.
I stopped in the kitchen, threw my Puffy Fay cookbook into my backpack, and headed outside. Once I got onto the forest trail, I relaxed into the scent of pine needles and dirt. I’d walked this path for so long that I knew each rock and root along the way. But there were changes from day to day. Clusters of wildflowers popped up in sunny patches, or delicate tendrils of vines wound their way up mossy tree trunks. Mushrooms sprang up after a heavy rain, and sometimes branches or whole trees came down overnight. There was always something new in the woods.
After a few minutes of walking, I came to the clearing where Emma and I had built our hangout—a small lean-to made of an old tarp thrown over a bunch of branches, with a tattered rug covering the dirt floor. I sat inside, where the air was still cool and damp from the night before. A tube of Emma’s favorite ginger lip balm lay on the floor. I took the cookbook out and flipped through it distractedly, squinting in the yellow light coming through the triangular entrance. What would impress Mrs. T—snickerdoodles or brownies, linzer cookies or coconut cupcakes? But Mrs. T deserved something that suited her, something special, something regal. Something to do with leaves. I was getting nowhere.
“I miss you so much, Emma,” I said out loud. Even if Emma couldn’t help me, she would have listened. You don’t need to be the best at anything, Mimi, she’d say. You just need to be yourself. But being myself was lame. How much worse could this summer get? Emma had moved across the world to Australia. Right now she was traveling in the outback somewhere, and she wouldn’t even get email until next month. Dad seemed to be too busy to bake with me last night or today, and I couldn’t win the contest without his help.
A familiar melody wound through the air around me. There it was again! I strained to hear it better. It definitely wasn’t a bird. It wasn’t a person’s voice, either. And why did I feel like the song was asking me a question?
I scrambled outside and headed farther on the path into the woods, following the song. Eventually, I had to leave the path and strike through the trees, pushing aside branches and scanning the ground for roots. The song seemed a little closer, a little louder.
And then it stopped. I froze and held my breath, hoping it would start up again.
It didn’t.
Pu-de pu-de pu-de, called a cardinal, and its mate responded. A robin chirped, Wheet, wheet, a-wheet. Small animals scurried through the underbrush. But the song had disappeared completely.
Something snuffled faintly. I stared hard at the place where I thought it had come from, but I couldn’t see anything but bushes.
Goose bumps erupted on my arms.
There was something out there. Something that was snuffling and watching me. I wasn’t going to wait around and see what it was.
I backed up slowly, then turned and sprinted back to the path, trying not to look behind me too many times.
I was sweating by the time I arrived at the hangout. Realizing I’d left my backpack and cookbook inside, I stooped under the opening to grab them quickly before going home. My empty backpack lay on the floor like an open mouth, but the book wasn’t in it. Even after getting down on my knees and groping around in the shadows, I still couldn’t find it.
I was positive I’d left it there! Where had it gone? Mom and Dad had gotten it for me when we visited Puffy’s New York bakery last year. It was signed by Puffy himself. This was turning into the worst day of the summer since Emma moved.
Something rustled in the trees nearby.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
No answer.
A flash of yellow feathers took off from a branch above me, and a leaf fluttered to the ground at my feet. I picked it up. It was unusual—quite large, oval and shiny, and green-gold in the light.
I searched my surroundings, but the area was filled with maples and oaks. There was no tree with gigantic oval leaves. There was something really strange going on.
“Where did you come from?” I asked the leaf.
The woods answered with noisy silence.
CHAPTER 5
LEAVES OF GREEN AND GOLD
Over the next week, I went to my hangout daily, but I didn’t see the bright little bird. I kept hoping my Puffy Fay cookbook would somehow turn up, but it had apparently disappeared for good. And I kept hearing pieces of the song drifting from deep in the woods, but it never lasted long enough for me to follow it to its source.
Although I spent hours whipping up treats to practice for the contest at the While Away, I wasn’t satisfied with anything I made. I kept coming up with stuff that I thought was good but likely not special enough to truly impress. Every time I finished one of my creations, I imagined Puffy Fay critiquing it like I was on his show. My nutmeg-caraway shortbread had too many conflicting spices, he would say. And of course, it had nothing to do with leaves. The lemon-raspberry cake decorated with lemon leaves was too tart, and the toffee cupcakes with leaf-shaped maple candy were cloying. And then I would hear him say those fateful words: “I’m sorry, Chef Mimi. You will not be the winner of today’s Bake-Off. Please turn in your toque.”
Mom sampled everything, but getting any kind of real feedback from her was impossible. Despite being a fantastic cook, she didn’t know much about baking, and besides, as far as she was concerned, everything I made was amazing and delicious. What I really needed was Dad’s input. I could trust him to be critical of my food if something wasn’t working, or to suggest another flavor to enhance it. At least, I used to be able to. If only I could get him to say anything useful.
Since he’d returned from his trip to Texas, Dad had been eating everything in the house. He was supposedly working from his home office, but he must have spent most of those hours eating, too. Chips and popcorn disappeared from the pantry. There were never any leftovers in the fridge, not even the frittata that no one ever w
anted the next day. And every time I baked, it was all gone by that night. I realized that even if I finally made something I felt was good enough to bring to Mrs. T, I’d have to hide it from Dad, or none of it would even make it out of the house. When he wasn’t eating, he spent hours running in the woods.
Dad became even worse than Mom in the advice department—he never offered any suggestions for improvement on anything I made. He just said everything was “scrumptious.” My dad, who wrote about food daily in exquisite detail, whose job was to describe smells, tastes, and textures precisely, had somehow been reduced to a single word.
The next Friday, almost a week after I first visited the While Away, I woke when it was still dark outside—which, given that it was the middle of June, meant really early. I tossed and turned for a little bit, but there was no way I could go back to sleep. So I went to the kitchen to try to bake my way to inner peace. I was in the mood for some savory scones—I couldn’t eat only sweet things, no matter what Mrs. T said.
I cut cold butter into flour with my pastry blender, added minced sun-dried tomatoes, fresh Parmesan, salt and pepper, sprinkled in oregano, and then, on a whim, tossed in crushed fennel seeds. I mixed in an egg and some milk. I kneaded the dough a few times, cut out rounds, and plopped them on a cookie sheet. I brushed the tops with more milk and slid the sheet into the hot oven.
I sat at the kitchen table and gazed out the big window that faces the backyard. Branches swayed in a sky warming with the day’s first light. It was summer in the woods I loved—the perfect inspiration for a leaf-themed dessert. I closed my eyes and let the red from the sunlight dance under my eyelids.
It seemed like only a few minutes had passed when the timer went off. The scones were golden brown and smelled wonderfully cheesy and herby. I pulled the pan from the oven and left it on the counter to cool while I cleaned up.
Dad wiped sweat off his brow as he came into the kitchen through the back door. He sniffed the air. “What did you make? It smells scrumptious.”
“Come on, Dad, you know the rules. You’ve got to use your nose, and your mighty palate.” I smiled at him hopefully. Dad and I always played a game at restaurants trying to identify the ingredients in each other’s meals.
“Okay, Mimi Mouse, whatever you say, as long as I get to eat a lot.”
“Here you go.” I put two scones on a plate and offered it to him. “Tell me what you think is in there. Watch out, they’re still hot.”
Dad broke a scone in two and stuffed an entire half in his mouth. I could see steam coming off the piece in his hand and was sure he was burning his tongue, but he didn’t seem to mind. He chewed a couple of times and then crammed in the other half. “Mmm!” For a second I thought he might choke. But then he swallowed and reached for the other scone.
I pulled the plate back. “What’s in them?”
He smacked his lips. “Flour? Definitely butter.”
“Oh, Daddy.” I giggled, but Dad didn’t laugh with me, didn’t rattle off the right ingredients like he’d done a hundred times before.
Flour and butter. He was being serious.
I stared at him. “You can do better than that. You write about food all day! You can detect a pinch of cloves in a whole bowl of batter! You can taste the difference between white and black truffles!”
He looked around and glanced at the milk container on the counter. “Milk?”
“They’re scones, Dad, of course they’re going to have flour, butter, and milk. But what about the flavorings?”
“I’m sorry, Mimi,” Dad said, not meeting my eyes. “I’m not sure what else you want me to say.”
“But—”
He grabbed the other scone and shoved it in his mouth. “I may not know what you put in them, but they really are scrumptious. Now I’d better jump in the shower so I’m not late for work.” He snatched two more scones from the still-hot cookie sheet and darted out of the room.
I flopped into a chair. Dad had been the only one with the patience and endurance to taste seventeen versions of my coconut key lime pie until we found the perfect balance of tart and sweet. And now all he could guess was flour, butter, and milk? I gently pulled apart a scone and nibbled. The sun-dried tomatoes were robust and sweet and played well with the salty Parmesan. The oregano added a floral note, and the fennel made it energizing and playful. These scones were good—maybe even good enough to survive the opening round of one of Puffy Fay’s Bake-Offs.
Puffy would be able to taste every little detail of my work. And so would Dad, under normal circumstances. Why couldn’t he do it now?
But I didn’t have time to think about that now. I had to keep going. I had to make something leaf-themed to impress Mrs. T, and I wanted to bring it in the next day, to make sure I didn’t miss the window for the contest. I glanced at the oval leaf, which I’d propped in the window like a piece of stained glass.
It occurred to me that maybe I’d been making things way too complicated. As Puffy Fay liked to say, sometimes simple and sweet are all that you need.
Three hours later, I applied the finishing touches to my entry for the first round of the While Away Café’s Midsummer Baking Contest: vanilla bean sugar cookies, decorated with green and gold royal icing. I didn’t have leaf-shaped cookie cutters, so I used heart-shaped ones instead and paid careful attention to drawing stems and veins. They looked beautiful, and they tasted buttery and full of warm vanilla flavor. Now I just needed to hide them from Dad overnight so he wouldn’t eat them all before the icing had time to set. I snuck them up to my room in batches and left them on top of my bookcase.
“Are you texting Cole?” Jules glowered at Riya across the breakfast table the next day.
Riya glanced up from her phone. “No, it’s not Cole,” she said. “I told you I don’t like him.”
“Then why does he keep making excuses to come over and talk to you?”
“If you want to know, it’s—”
“Just shut up. I don’t want to hear it. I really like him, and you’re toying with him! I invited him over for dinner tomorrow night, so keep your claws off him!” Jules sprang to her feet and left the room in a huff.
Riya rolled her eyes and went back to her phone. “I invited someone, too.”
A few hours later, I accepted Mom and Dad’s offer to drive me into Comity Center. I didn’t want to risk biking there and having the cookies crumble to dust in my backpack. I asked them to drop me off near the While Away while they ran errands. I didn’t want them coming in with me while Mrs. T judged my cookies—succeed or fail, I wanted to do it without an audience.
I passed the other new food place in Comity, the Salt Shaker, which had a line snaking out its door. In contrast, the While Away looked relatively quiet. Gripping my platter of cookies in sweaty hands, I took a breath and stepped inside.
The café was busier than it had been the previous weekend. More than half the tables were occupied, and a bunch of people were milling around in the back. There was a short line at the pastry counter, where Peaseblossom stood helping customers.
“Hi, Mimi. Still wearing those shoes?” came a sneering voice.
Kiera Jones. Of course. The only person who could possibly make me feel more nervous. Even without her usual gang of hangers-on around her, Kiera looked like she was in charge. She tossed her perfect light brown hair with perfect gold highlights. It was always smooth and shiny, and never in her face.
“Hi, Kiera.”
“I assume you’re hoping to win one of these?” She fanned an oval-shaped piece of paper in front of my eyes so I blinked instinctively. A Golden Leaf! How had she already gotten one? “It has the clue for the theme of round two,” she said. “I can’t wait to get started.”
“I didn’t know you baked,” I said.
“I’ve been baking for years, with my nana.” Kiera sniffed. “Is that your entry? Are you going for a Green Valentine’s theme?”
My face heated up like a broiler. “They’re leaves. Isn’t that supposed
to be the theme?”
Kiera squinted at the platter. “Oh. I see. How . . . literal.”
“What did you make?” I asked.
Mrs. T called from across the room. “Mimi Mackson! How lovely to see you again! Whatever took you so long?” She was seated at a long table at the back of the café.
I pushed past Kiera and made my way to Mrs. T. She had a large selection of baked goods on various plates, platters, and other containers spread in front of her like a smorgasbord.
“I’ve been working hard on my entry for the contest,” I said.
“Of course you have, my dear. Do put your entry down, and sign your name on that clipboard. I’ll judge it in due time.”
In public? I thought she might judge entries back in her office. What if she hated my cookies? I cringed at the thought of the whole café full of people, and especially Kiera, watching my humiliation. I put the platter down, scrawled my name on the sheet, found a nearby seat, and looked around. Sure enough, there were a couple dozen kids hanging around, ranging in age from tiny second graders to middle schoolers like me, and a pair of taller girls who I assumed were thirteen-year-olds.
“If you ask me, Demetrius is the most interesting role in the play,” came a loud voice from the door. I turned to look. It was Riya’s friend Fletcher, who was as artificial as sour gummy candy. As he walked into the café, he ran a hand through his smooth blond hair, then jerked his head forward to make his hair flop in front of his eyes again. “He has the biggest transformation, loving Helena at the end when at first he only has eyes for Hermia.”
“Um-hmm,” said Riya, tapping on her phone as she followed him inside. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she wore a soft, loose cardigan over her tank top and leggings. What was she doing here?
“No offense, of course, Lily,” said Fletcher, tilting his head so his hair flopped to the side.
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