Henry came in with his latest crush—Lily, a petite girl with long, wavy dark hair. “I’m not Hermia, I’m just playing her,” Lily said with a laugh. “You’re not offending me. And if I were going to be mad at anyone for what their character did, it would be Puck. Right, Henry?” She giggled and pulled Henry farther into the café.
“If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended,” said Henry with a laugh. “I didn’t mean to mess up everyone’s lives, honest.”
They must have come straight from play rehearsal. But why was Riya with them? Unless they’d given her a ride from the dance studio. Which was near the soccer field where . . .
“Move it, guys, it’s hot out here,” Jules said. She trudged in, sweaty from soccer practice, with her hair billowing like a storm cloud above her headband.
Every head in the café turned to them. A table of teenagers waved and chattered, and even some of the grown-ups nodded and smiled. As Comity’s reigning Actor in a Lead Role, Prima Dancer, and Most-Likely-to-Go-Pro Soccer Star, Henry, Riya, and Jules were recognized by everyone in town. I was just an anonymous afterthought, the sister who tagged along and witnessed all their triumphs. Maybe I was the changeling in my family—only from the Land of the Lame and Untalented instead of the fairy world.
“Oh, hi, Cole!” Jules called. I turned and realized that sitting a few feet away from me was none other than our new neighbor, sipping a coffee and reading a book on robot design.
Cole looked up at Jules, and his freckly face flushed a deep pink. “Hi,” he said softly.
“Mind if we join you?” Jules asked.
“Well, I—”
“There’s lots of room. Look, we can pull up another table.” Jules hauled over a nearby table, scraping it across the floor. She took a seat next to Cole with a grin. “Henry, get me an iced green tea, okay?”
Henry gave Jules a thumbs-up from the line at the counter as Riya and Lily joined Cole and Jules at the table.
How long were they all going to be here? I didn’t need my sisters getting into an argument and embarrassing me in front of the whole café. And I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of them, like I had so many times before. I glanced anxiously at Mrs. T, but she was taking her time, asking questions of a tiny pigtailed girl and tasting the girl’s green swirled cheesecake bars before giving her a Golden Leaf. I slumped in my seat and pulled my hair in front of my face to hide from my sisters while keeping a surreptitious eye on them.
“Hey, Riya, have you thought about what I asked you the other day?” Cole asked.
Riya nodded as she tapped on her phone.
Fletcher and Henry arrived carrying two trays of drinks and pastries.
“So, Cole,” Jules said in a high-pitched voice that didn’t sound like her. “Henry, Lily, and Fletcher are in the Comity Youth Theater’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Have you seen it before?”
“No.” Cole laughed nervously and looked at Riya.
“Well, Carl, you have to come. It’s going to be amazing,” Fletcher said.
Jules turned pink. “His name is Cole.”
“Henry plays the mischievous fairy prankster, Puck,” Fletcher said. “And Lily and I are two of the young lovers.”
Lovers? That sounded terrible. I sank further into my seat.
“There are two women and two men—regular people—who get caught in the middle of a fairy fight,” Henry explained to Cole. “Both guys like the same girl at first, but the fairies—well, Puck, on orders from the fairy king—interfere and make them fall in love with the other girl. Everything goes crazy for a while, and it’s hilarious, but it all works out in the end.”
“And it takes place in the woods,” Lily said. Given the strange things that were happening in my woods, it didn’t sound that far-fetched.
“That’s the best part,” Fletcher said. “Not only is the play set in the woods, but we’re actually performing it outside. We’re running in and out of the trees the whole time—it’s almost like the woods are another character in the story.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Problem is, it’s hard to see when the light gets dim. I nearly twisted an ankle the other day.” He flopped his hair in front of his face again.
“I wish,” Jules muttered.
“What about you, Charles? Do you act?” Fletcher asked.
“It’s Cole. And I’m more of a math and science guy,” Cole said.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” That wasn’t an apology for getting Cole’s name wrong. Fletcher looked horrified to be sitting next to a nerd.
“I think math and science are fascinating,” said Jules, smiling brightly at Cole.
Riya snickered.
“What?” Jules snapped.
Riya rolled her eyes. “It’s a rather recent fascination, don’t you think?”
Jules gripped her glass so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Why don’t you—”
“Mimi Mackson.” Mrs. T’s clear voice rang through the café. “Please come up to be judged.”
Henry, Riya, Jules, and their friends looked up in surprise as I approached Mrs. T’s table, shaking like a flan, like a cup of gelatin.
Like a leaf.
CHAPTER 6
HOME
“My dear, dear girl, what did you make for us?” Mrs. T wore a gauzy white dress embroidered in tiny pink roses.
“They’re vanilla bean sugar cookies,” I said. “Decorated to look like—”
“Leaves. Yes, heart-shaped leaves like those of the empress tree. How appropriate,” she said with a titter.
I guessed they weren’t too literal, after all.
“And you intend these to . . .” She looked at me curiously.
I spluttered in confusion. “To win a Golden Leaf. I’d love to get to the next round of the contest.” I gave her a tentative smile.
“I see.” She chose a cookie, sniffed it delicately, and took a bite. “Well, they’re not unpleasant. Very . . . vanilla.”
The smile hardened on my face like old gingerbread icing.
“They’re not quite what we’re looking for, I’m afraid,” said Mrs. T.
My stomach dropped to my sneakers. “But—”
“I told you to bring something from your heart.”
“These cookies are from my heart. I love the woods, and that was my inspiration.”
“Let me tell you a secret.” She leaned toward me, carrying the faint scent of wild roses. “It’s important that the While Away do well this summer, Mimi. Exceedingly important,” she whispered. “I see potential greatness in you, but I need you to work harder. I need you to put everything you have into this contest.”
“But . . .” I’d been thinking about nothing else for a week! I had racked my brains and done my absolute best.
“Mimi, Mimi, don’t be disappointed. You can try again to earn a Golden Leaf. Next time, put yourself into your creation. I’m asking for courage. And loyalty.”
“Loyalty? I don’t—”
“Return with something from your heart, something only you in all the world could make, and you will succeed.” She focused on the sign-up sheet. “Sam Blake! You’re next!”
My ears started to buzz while I took my platter and shuffled away. The other kids waiting to be judged stared at me, and my siblings put their heads together and whispered. The edges of my vision turned gray as I threw myself into the nearest chair.
I thought the cookies had been tasty. They looked appealing, and smelled sweet, and tasted of luscious vanilla. But my idea wasn’t good enough. My execution wasn’t good enough.
I wasn’t good enough.
Memories of my biggest failures boiled over in my brain like milk on a stove. There was the time I’d scored a goal against my own team in soccer. I hadn’t meant to, but the ball had bounced off my leg. Kiera Jones had bellowed, “You’re supposed to shoot at the other goal!” and looked at me like I was half a worm she’d discovered in her apple.
At my first and only dance recital, I’d tripped a
nd stumbled into the girl next to me, causing a domino-like chain reaction and a pile of screaming dancers in fluffy chick costumes.
And at my first and only clarinet recital, I’d squeaked like a goose in mating season.
And here I was, a failure yet again.
In front of my brother and sisters. In front of their friends. In front of a whole café full of people.
Henry hurried over. “You okay?” he asked.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without crying.
“Those cookies are beautiful,” said Jules fiercely. “That lady is crazy.”
“I told you there’d be lots of competition,” said Riya.
“Riya, this isn’t the time,” said Henry. “Want a ride home?” he whispered to me.
“It’s all right. Mom and Dad will be here soon. Go back to your friends. Please.”
Henry, Riya, and Jules went back to their table, but it didn’t make me feel any better. Especially when Mrs. T handed a Golden Leaf to a red-haired boy who couldn’t have been older than eight.
My parents walked in a minute later. “How’d it go?” Mom asked.
I shook my head.
Kiera pranced over and shook hands with Mom and Dad. “Mr. and Mrs. Mackson. How wonderful to see you!” She turned to me. “Don’t be too disappointed, Mimi. Mrs. T said she wanted the very best, and loads of kids have been turned away today. Just not me.” She gave an evil giggle and waved her Golden Leaf again. “I brought in the most glorious napoleons—you know, mille-feuilles, or ‘thousand leaves’ in French. Isn’t that clever? And she loved them so much, she’s serving them to the customers!”
I kept my eyes on Mom. “Let’s get out of here,” I said grimly.
“I spy some things I’d like to try,” said Dad, eyeing the pastry case.
“Let’s go, Paul.” Mom grabbed his arm.
Dad allowed Mom to lead him to the door, but he kept glancing back at the pastries. He grinned at me like I hadn’t just been humiliated in front of the entire town.
As we exited the While Away, I thought I saw a tiny flash of purple in his eyes.
The ten-minute car ride home seemed to take hours.
“These cookies are scrumptious.” Dad munched on his fifth one. “I don’t understand why you didn’t get through to the next round.”
“What did the owner say again?” asked Mom.
“She wants me to bake something from my heart,” I said dully. I swiped at the tears on my face. I might have won a Golden Leaf if Dad had helped me like he used to. And what was up with his eyes?
“Dad, are you feeling okay?” I asked.
“Never better, Mimi, never better.” Dad reached for another cookie. He winked at me in the rearview mirror, and his eyes were their normal color. Had I just imagined that violet flash?
When we finally reached home, I went straight to my room and took a long look around at the lavender-colored walls with black butterflies, the bookcases under the windows that held all my cookbooks and baking magazines.
I loved to bake. But was I doomed to be terrible at it?
I opened my closet and reached into a dusty corner where I’d stowed shoes I’d outgrown and extra poster board for school projects. I pulled out my clarinet case, which stared at me accusingly, and my old dance shoes, still shiny and unscuffed. My soccer cleats were tiny and barely used. Maybe I should cram all my cookbooks in there, too.
The library would be a better place for them—at least that way someone else could learn from them, someone who might someday be great. I was fooling myself about my baking abilities if Kiera Jones and two eight-year-olds could make it into the next round of the contest when I couldn’t. I started to make a pile of books, but when I picked up The Cupcake Codex, I couldn’t bear to part with it. It had given me the inspiration for my lemon-lavender cupcakes, the best ones I’d ever made.
I flopped on my bed to browse through it one last time. I couldn’t pay attention, though—my mind kept drifting back to Dad. People’s eyes didn’t just start flashing purple. And what about his bottomless appetite? Did he need to see a doctor? Had he actually lost his food writer’s sense of taste, or was it just that he didn’t want to help me bake anymore?
The next thing I knew, I woke to the sound of knocking. I sat up and realized I’d drooled on my book. “Come in,” I said. I closed the book and rubbed my eyes.
Mom carried in two small bowls. She glanced at the pile of books on the floor, then sat at the edge of my bed and handed me a bowl.
“I thought you could use a treat you didn’t have to make yourself.”
The bowl was warm, and I inhaled the comforting aroma. It was kesari bhath, a dessert Mom had learned to make from her mom, who’d learned it from hers in India, and on and on and on for who knew how many generations. It was made with semolina, sugar, milk, and ghee, flavored with saffron and cardamom, and studded with raisins and cashews. I tasted a spoonful of the thick, golden pudding. It was perfect.
“What about everyone else?” I didn’t want to eat all of it, knowing how much the whole family loved it. Especially Dad.
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty more downstairs. But this is for you and me.”
I sighed and put down the spoon. “I can’t believe I failed. Again.”
Mom shook her head and looked at me with her beautiful eyes, so dark they were nearly black. “I wish you wouldn’t take things so hard, Mimi. I know how much work you’ve put in, and you can always try again.”
“But what if I fail again? What if I fail at everything, always?”
“Life isn’t about succeeding or failing. It’s about trying your best, and loving what you do, and being kind. I’d be so disappointed if you were a snide little snake, like that Kiera Jones. I don’t care how many Golden Leaves she won.”
I gasped in surprise. Then, against my will, I started to smile, and giggles bubbled through me until they burst from my mouth. Mom started to laugh with me, and all of a sudden, neither of us could stop. We laughed until tears ran down our cheeks. I couldn’t catch my breath, and Mom clutched her stomach. We lay on the bed and took gasping gulps of air.
Eventually, we were able to control ourselves and sit up again.
Mom looked at me like I was the only person in the whole world. “You remind me of myself.”
“But you’re so good at everything, and you always know what to do.”
She snorted. “You’re a much better cook than I was at your age. You wouldn’t believe my dreadful attempts when your dad and I were first married.”
“Really?” I giggled again.
She nodded. “I burned more things than I can count, and we didn’t have much money, so we had to eat it, no matter how bad it was. And I had a real talent for undercooking rice. But I kept at it, and read lots of cookbooks, and asked both your grandmothers for recipes, and eventually, I got better.”
“You’re the best cook I know.”
“You’re the best baker I know.”
“Mom, don’t make stuff up!”
“I mean it. Keep baking, honey. Because you love it. Contest or no contest, no one can take that away from you. And if you do want to try the contest again, I think you’ll have a great shot.”
“Thanks. But I’m not sure what I want to do.”
“Whatever you decide, I’m proud of you. Now, move over,” said Mom.
We propped up pillows and Mom snuggled next to me while we ate. I let the sweetness of the sugar and ghee, the sunniness of the saffron, and the gently grainy texture of the semolina play in my mouth. It was the perfect combination of sweet and savory, smooth and gritty, fragrant and the tiniest bit bitter.
It tasted like home.
CHAPTER 7
INTO THE WOODS
Humidity is the enemy of meringues, but it can wreak havoc on buttercream, too. The next day was the hottest of the summer, and by the time I finished piping purple frosting onto my pale yellow cupcakes, they were already starting to sweat. I’d decided to take a
break from thinking about the contest and just bake something for fun. I wanted to bring the cupcakes to my hangout and let them inspire my letter to Emma.
I placed two cupcakes in my special carrier, snapped it closed, and put it in my backpack with a thermos of limeade and my notebook and pen. As long as I was careful and kept the container horizontal, the cupcakes would be fine.
I reached the hangout and took off my backpack. By habit, I glanced around for my still-missing Puffy Fay cookbook, and something caught my eye. I crawled to the far end of the tarp and picked it up.
It was a book. But judging by its size, not the one I was looking for. I brought it into the sunlight.
The book was smaller than Mischief and Magic, but it was much thicker, with a worn leather cover. It had no title on the front or the spine. Where had it come from? I opened it and leafed through its soft, translucent pages, pages filled with exquisite drawings of herbs and flowers in bright colors. It was a catalog of every plant I could imagine—and many I’d never heard of—and all their subtleties of flavor, scent, and use in cooking.
The ultimate cookbook! It didn’t just list ingredients and give directions for recipes; it explained what each ingredient was good for. I sank to the ground and flipped to the beginning. An image of bright blue flowers caught my eye: cornflower, read the entry, to alleviate discord and strife. I’d love to sprinkle those into pancakes for Jules and Riya. Next to a picture of small oblong green seeds: fennel, to promote strength and healing. Fascinating! Then, a lifelike drawing of tiny purple petals on vertical blooms: lavender brings luck and—
I jerked my head up. There it was—a wistful melody, a question repeated.
The song!
I stowed the book in my backpack, hoisted it onto my back, and followed the dreamy tune through the trees. I walked quickly—first on the path, and then off it—for a long time. The song steadily grew louder, and every few feet I thought I’d find whoever (or whatever) was making the music.
But then, almost as if the music maker had heard my thoughts, the song stopped.
Trees crowded together, thick with foliage. Brightly colored insects buzzed in the humid air. I’d come to a part of the woods I’d never seen. Ahead of me lay a large and unfamiliar pond. How could this be? Emma and I had explored every corner of its thirty acres over the past few years, and I would definitely remember if we had been here before.
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