Midsummer's Mayhem

by Rajani LaRocca

  “You’re obviously great at baking.”

  I shook my head. “Everyone’s happy to eat my stuff, but I’m not even good enough to win a Golden Leaf on my first try. Henry, Riya, and Jules are famous in Comity—the best actor, the beautiful dancer, and the soccer star. And they’re all musical, too—Henry plays the piano and guitar, Jules plays the drums, and Riya sings—while the music genes completely skipped me. Anyway, they’re all so busy being the best at everything that they forget about me. Sometimes I feel like . . . like I don’t belong with them. Like I’m in the wrong family.”

  There. I’d said it. I held my breath and steeled myself for Vik’s advice, which I was sure would be like Mom’s, Dad’s, and even Emma’s. Of course you belong. They’re your family, and they love you. They don’t mean to make you feel bad.

  “I know what you mean,” said Vik, plucking idly at a stem of thyme. When he had picked off all the leaves, he let it fall to the ground. “Hey, enough thinking about sad stuff. Want to read another story?”

  “Sure.”

  Vik leafed through The Book again. “Here’s a fun one.” He leaned forward. “Once there was a girl who was a weaver,” he said in a low voice. “Weaving was what she knew and loved. She wove fabrics to delight the senses, fabrics that shimmered and shined, fabrics that comforted and cuddled. But she felt that no one truly understood her.”

  I closed my eyes and pictured the girl from the story.

  Vik continued. “And then she met the Woodland Queen, the Queen of The Wild, who knows everyone’s deepest desires.

  “To join the Court, the girl needed to give something worthy of the Queen. So the girl offered the Queen a luxurious cloak of softest goat’s hair, lustrous and just the shade of winter’s first snow. And the Queen was pleased, but she asked for something more.

  “Next, she brought the Queen a gown of glimmering gossamer silk, reflecting the light of the stars that shone when it was woven. And the Queen was pleased, but still she asked for something more.

  “So one stifling day when the sun burned the sky, the girl presented the Queen with her heart’s work, a clever basket made of marsh reeds holding water from an icy spring. It was something that only she in all the world could have wrought. And the Queen presented her with an ebony loom, unmatched in weaving the most intricate fabrics. And so the girl was welcomed to the Court of The Wild and resides there still, weaving fabrics both humble and ethereal.”

  Humble and ethereal. Now that was something to think about.

  And another magical gift! If I ever met the Queen, what would she give me? And what would I give her?

  I stood. “We’d better get home and start baking. I told Dad I’d go with him to the While Away this afternoon. Want to come?”

  Vik jerked his head back, and his eyes widened. “Sorry, Mimi, I can’t come today. I’m—I’m busy this afternoon.”

  Why did he seem so startled? “Don’t you want to bake the chocolate-thyme cookies with me?” I asked.

  “I can’t.” He looked genuinely disappointed. “But I’ll be around tomorrow.”

  I’d have to settle for that. “Same time, same place?”

  “Absolutely. Tell you what—I’ll send you off with a song.”

  And Vik pulled out his pipe and played his beautiful song. It followed me the whole way home. And I didn’t hear a single snort.

  It had been a perfect morning in the woods. Hopefully, the baking would go just as well.

  CHAPTER 11

  BACK AT THE WHILE AWAY

  I got to work as soon as I got home. I creamed butter and sugar, then added eggs and vanilla. I sifted in flour, baking soda, sea salt, and two heaping tablespoons of finely chopped wild thyme leaves. These are truly from my heart, I thought as I sprinkled the fragrant herbs. I wish Mrs. T, and the While Away, nothing but success. I figured it was hard to run a business given all the failing restaurant shows I’d watched on Food TV. After everything was mixed well, I stirred in chocolate chunks and the zest of a tangerine for brightness.

  After putting the cookies in the oven, I washed my mixing bowls and spoons and tried to distract myself from my nerves. Would these cookies earn me a Golden Leaf? I didn’t think I’d have the guts to try a third time. Finally, the timer went off, and I took three pans of cookies out of the oven. They smelled fresh, green, chocolaty, and citrusy. After the cookies had cooled, I tasted one. Now, this was how I liked to bake. The sea salt set off the sweetness of the chocolate, and the tangerine zest woke up all the flavors. The thyme was subtle but definitely noticeable. They were good. Really good.

  For the first time in a long while, I felt brave.

  I broke out in a sweat as Dad parked the car and we walked to the While Away. I kept telling myself to calm down, but my body didn’t want to listen. I was extra-anxious to be visiting the café with Dad, who’d been acting so weird. Would he eat half the store and not even notice what the food tasted like? I was grateful, though, that he finally wanted to spend time with me. And I looked forward to seeing sweet Peaseblossom again. I gripped my cookie container and hurried along beside him.

  We passed the snack shop, the Salt Shaker, which had a slow-moving line that snaked around the block.

  “Hi, Darla,” I said to a girl with glasses and stringy brown hair.

  “Oh, hi, Mimi,” she said.

  “This place must be excellent, if it’s worth waiting in this line.”

  “Their food is ridiculously good,” said Darla’s mom, an extremely fit woman who always wore yoga pants. “It’s a tiny place inside, barely enough room to fit two people. You have to know your entire order and say it as quickly as possible, or they won’t serve you.”

  Dad laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. That might work in Boston, but in Comity?”

  “I’d stand in line for an hour just for the fries and onion rings, but they’re nothing compared to the potato chips,” said Darla’s mom.

  “Really?” I asked. How could they make chips that much better than what I could buy in a bag?

  “They’re amazing. Like magic.” Darla gazed at the door like a potato chip might try to escape and she’d be able to grab it.

  I giggled and glanced at Dad. To my surprise, he was rubbing his chin and looking back at the line like he was contemplating standing in it.

  “Dad. The While Away. The review,” I said, tugging at his sleeve. “Bye, Darla. Bye, Mrs. Moody.”

  Dad kept looking back but allowed me to lead him away.

  As we passed the front of the line, I could hear voices from inside the snack store.

  “Three bags of the Super Green Chips, please, sir,” a boy asked.

  “The Super Green, for athletes everywhere,” said a voice that creaked like branches in the wind.

  For athletes? Jules wouldn’t touch potato chips within forty-eight hours of a game, saying that they slowed her down too much. And Riya hadn’t eaten anything fried in years.

  Dad held the door for me as we entered the café. It was a little busier today. The dreamy music still played, and the café still had that wild smell. There were new shimmering tablecloths on the tables and iridescent curtains in the windows.

  A waitress greeted us. It wasn’t Peaseblossom, though.

  This waitress was ready for Halloween in the middle of June. She was tall and thin, with dark skin and asymmetrical black hair with gray tips. She had at least five piercings in each ear, and a nose ring. She wore thick combat boots, a tiny black skirt, and a poncho that looked like it was made from spiderwebs.

  She spotted Dad and sighed. “And will it be the usual for you?” she asked.

  Had he eaten here before?

  “I’m here on official business this time,” said Dad. “I’ll need to sample everything.” He cleared his throat and stood up taller. “I’m writing a review for the Comity Journal.”

  The waitress raised her eyebrows and nodded at me. “And now you’ll tell me I must feed her, too?”

  “I’m his daughter.” I h
eld up my container of cookies. “I have something to show Mrs. T. For—for the contest. Can you please tell her Mimi is here?”

  “Oh, Mimi’s here! Let’s give a cheer.” The waitress rolled her heavy-lidded eyes. “Won’t win the contest, I sadly fear,” she said under her breath. She turned and stomped to the back office.

  Well, that was rude. And rhyming wasn’t nearly as charming when it was sarcastic. I turned to Dad, but he wasn’t even looking in my direction.

  “Come over here, Mimi. This is my favorite table,” said Dad, steering me to one with a view of the woods.

  “I thought you hadn’t eaten here yet,” I said.

  “Oh, I’ve stopped here a few times after my runs,” said Dad. He grinned and rubbed his tummy like a little kid.

  “I’m going to check out the pastry case,” I said.

  “Okay, but they’re going to bring us some of everything,” he called after me.

  Peaseblossom greeted me from behind the counter as I put down my cookie container.

  “Dear lovely Mimi, what have you brought today?” she asked with a smile.

  “Chocolate-thyme cookies with fresh citrus zest,” I said.

  “My mistress even now comes o’er this way.” Peaseblossom gave a deep curtsy as Mrs. T emerged from the back office wearing a green dress the shade of first spring leaves.

  “Mimi Mackson! You’ve returned.” Mrs. T inclined her head gracefully and examined me with her bright green eyes. “Have you brought me something from your heart?”

  “I think so,” I said, opening the container.

  She selected a cookie and sniffed it in rapid, shallow bursts like an extremely elegant rabbit. “Quite lovely,” she said. “I think I can detect . . .” She took a small bite. “Thyme, correct? And orange? How unexpected.” She quickly devoured the rest of the cookie.

  “Thyme, and tangerine. I told you I like to combine interesting ingredients.”

  She gave me a swift, piercing look. “Methinks this one will save us all from ruin.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Mimi, this is extraordinary. Peaseblossom, try one.”

  Peaseblossom shook her head. “My—”

  “Try one, P. I insist,” said Mrs. T.

  Peaseblossom took a cookie with a shaking hand. She nibbled delicately, and then, her eyes wide with surprise, ate the rest in two bites.

  “We’ll give out free samples, don’t you think?” said Mrs. T.

  “Samples? Of my cookies? But—”

  “These are just what we need at the While Away. Don’t you agree, P?”

  Peaseblossom nodded, making the pink flower in her hair tremble.

  “Come sit down, dear Mimi. We’ll let you have a variety of treats—no charge, of course—while we hand out your stupendous cookies.”

  “I should sit over there, with my—”

  A plate crashed. Dad had knocked something off his table, now overrun with desserts. He didn’t seem to care, though, and kept eating. “Mmph,” he said, waving at me.

  “Oh. He’s here,” said Mrs. T. “I do hope he doesn’t choke again. At least, not before he’s paid.”

  Apparently, Dad had been choking in a variety of places.

  “Um, that’s my dad.”

  “That’s your father? Food writer of repute?”

  I nodded. “He’s here today to review the café for the newspaper.”

  Mrs. T looked back and forth between us a couple of times and seemed to recognize the resemblance. “I see,” she said. “I must go greet him properly, and see he has all he needs.” She hastened to Dad, her dress floating behind her like a cloud. I followed as quickly as I could. The lady sure could move; her slippers barely touched the ground.

  As we approached Dad, I noticed what was left on his table: snickerdoodles, linzer squares, brownies, oatmeal-raisin cookies, coconut cupcakes, and a crème brûlée. They were some of Puffy Fay’s signature desserts.

  “So you did get Puffy Fay’s cookbook,” I said.

  Mrs. T briefly furrowed her eyebrows. “Indeed, my dear. How did you come to know?”

  “Those are all desserts from the first chapters. I told you they’d be good.”

  Mrs. T sighed. “They’re good, but I need brilliant.” She addressed Dad. “Welcome, Mr. Mackson.”

  “Call me Paul,” said Dad, revealing a mouth full of half-chewed snickerdoodles.

  “I hope you are enjoying yourself.” Mrs. T gazed at him intently despite the gross globs of wet crumbs on his chin.

  “Oh, yes.” Dad sprayed bits of cookie all over his shirt as he talked. “You wouldn’t have any potato chips, would you? It’s good to get a break from the sweet stuff sometimes.”

  “Potato chips?” Mrs. T winced like she’d gotten a mouthful of wasabi. “Certainly not!” She rooted me to the spot with a scathing look. “You haven’t been to that horrible snack shop, have you, Mimi?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not yet, but it’s on my list,” Dad said, reaching for a brownie and downing half of it with a single bite.

  “Mimi, Paul, you’re such discerning . . . people,” said Mrs. T, nudging a plate away from the edge of the table. “Don’t you agree that sweets are infinitely better than salty snacks?” The green intensity of her gaze made me slightly dizzy.

  I loved desserts—in fact, I was obsessed with them. But everyone needs a break from sweets sometimes. I didn’t want to upset her more, though, so I nodded.

  “Of course sweets are my favorite,” said Dad in a sugar-addled voice. He reached for a napkin and blotted his lips. Unfortunately, he missed most of the crumbs around his mouth; splotches of brownie had joined the snickerdoodle crumbs to make a kind of revolting cookie beard. Dad pointed to the decimated pile of desserts on the table. “Especially since all of this is free, because I’m a member of the press writing a review.” He scarfed the other half of the brownie.

  I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. Why was he being such an obnoxious mess in front of Mrs. T? And I could have sworn I saw a glimmer of purple in his eyes again. I rubbed my own eyes. Was I imagining things?

  “Ah, yes,” said Mrs. T. Her eyes widened, and a slow flush crept up her neck. “Well, I look forward to reading your piece.”

  Dad jotted something in his notebook. “It should be out next Thursday. I’ve got a tight deadline, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to my research.” He started in on the crème brûlée.

  “Mimi, come to my office, please,” said Mrs. T, laying a surprisingly heavy hand on my shoulder. “I’d like to have a word.”

  I broke out in a sweat again as I followed her. Was Mrs. T so completely disgusted with Dad that I wouldn’t get a Golden Leaf?

  When we arrived at the office, Mrs. T took a seat in the velvet chair behind the desk and motioned for me to sit on the tree stump stool again. I perched there and chewed a strand of hair.

  She reached into a drawer and pulled out another golden box. “May I offer you another chocolate, Mimi?”

  “No thanks,” I said, twisting my sweaty hands together.

  “Did you eat the last one I gave you? Or did you give it to your father?” she asked softly.

  How did she know? I gulped. “It was very generous of you, but I was so full that day, and I knew Dad would enjoy it.”

  “Did you look at the chocolate? Did you remove it from the box, I mean?” She leaned forward and scrutinized me.

  “Yes—and it was beautiful. I loved the tiny purple flowers and the gold dust sprinkled on top. It looked like a little jewel. I hoped Dad would love it. As a food critic, he can be quite picky. But he thought it was delicious.”

  Mrs. T tilted her head and stared past my ear like she was trying to work out a difficult math problem. After a few seconds, the most beautiful smile spread across her face, like spring had returned after a long, snowy winter.

  “Mrs. T?”

  She stopped looking so distracted, but the smile remained. “Yes, Mimi?”

  “I’d lo
ve to learn how to do decoration work like that. Would you teach me, sometime? And—and have I made it to the next round of the contest?”

  “Of course, my dear Mimi, of course!” Her lovely eyes twinkled. “Here you are, my dear.” She gently laid something in front of me. “You truly deserve this.” She looked at me like I was the only person in the whole world.

  The Golden Leaf glowed warmly in the light. I had made it to the second round! My chest puffed up like a buttery brioche, and I blinked back tears. “Thank you so much, Mrs. T.”

  I turned the leaf over and found another poem:

  Oh, leaves and flowers glorious to behold,

  Oh, hearty nuts and sweet, refreshing fruits!

  We’d never hear your precious story told,

  Without the strong, deep nourishment of ________.

  Bring your Second Round entry by 9 a.m. on Saturday, June 23!

  A special judge will choose THREE to compete immediately

  afterward in the Bake-Off!

  Another poem! Okay, this word had to rhyme with fruits. Something that was strong, and deep, and had to do with plants.

  “Roots,” I said.

  Mrs. T smiled at me affectionately. “Yes, my brilliant girl. I’d so love to see more of you. Do visit us again, and soon. Tomorrow, perhaps? And bring more cookies if you can.”

  I hesitated. Was she serious?

  “Of course, of course, you’re busy, I’m sure. But do say you’ll try,” she said.

  I laughed. “Sure. As Puffy Fay always says, the best way to avoid baker’s block is to keep baking. I’m not going to let up before June twenty-third.”

  “Puffy Fay . . . you do love him, don’t you?”

  “Of course. He’s not just the best pastry chef to come from Comity,” I said. “He’s the best pastry chef in the world.”

  Mrs. T looked away for a moment, and then snapped her fingers and leaned closer. “Mimi, can you keep a secret?”

  There was a knock at the door. “Mrs. T? The crowd in here is growing rather large. It’s very urgent that you come take charge,” came Peaseblossom’s worried voice.