The Magic Cake Shop

by Meika Hashimoto

  He would inspect every dessert, running his cruel, piggish eyes over each scrape of frosting and each crust to make sure that Emma had not snitched a grain of sugar. Then he would sit, fingers deep in the cakes, pies, cookies, tarts, and truffles, snatching and snatching and gulping and gulping until every last bite had disappeared.

  Afterward he would let loose a smelly belch, tell Emma to clean up, and waddle off to watch television. His favorite show was a reality contest called Supreme-Extreme Master of the Kitchen, in which chefs competed with one another for fame and fortune. Emma often wished she could watch the show—she felt as if she could have picked up some useful cooking tips. But Uncle Simon liked to heckle the cooks with blisteringly foul language, and after learning twenty-eight horrible words in one evening as she watched Supreme-Extreme with him, Emma decided she much preferred cleaning the kitchen when the hour-long program came on.

  Though Uncle Simon made life absolutely miserable, Emma soon discovered that Nummington held a world of lovely people to balance out her uncle’s awfulness.

  The first day she went to town with Uncle Simon’s enormous dessert box on her shoulders, she felt curious glances on her as she trudged down the main street. When she passed by Pete’s Fine Sausages and Ham, she bumped into Mrs. Dimple, who was just coming out of the store. In one hand she held a waxed paper package, in the other, her orange parasol. Mrs. Dimple looked at Emma and arched one eyebrow. “That’s quite a box you’ve got there, dearie,” she said.

  Emma nodded. “It’s for my uncle’s desserts,” she explained, shifting the box uncomfortably. She reached into her pocket and showed Mrs. Dimple her uncle’s dessert list.

  Mrs. Dimple’s eyebrow inched higher. Her parasol twirled. “Are you sure you can carry all of this?”

  Emma reached the end of the cake shop line and heaved the box to the ground. She shook her head. “It’s a pretty heavy box, even empty. It’ll take me a couple of trips to bring all of Uncle Simon’s desserts back.”

  Mrs. Dimple stopped twirling her parasol and laid it gently against her knee. She bent down and gave the box a delicate yank. “Oomph! Pretty heavy is right! How far does your uncle live from town?”

  “About a mile.”

  Mrs. Dimple frowned. “Tell you what. My pickup truck is parked down the street. When you’ve finished getting all those desserts, we’ll load them up and I’ll drive you home.”

  Emma blinked. “Are you sure, Mrs. Dimple?”

  Mrs. Dimple smiled. “Absolutely.”

  Just then, Albie trotted up with a red-faced man in tow. “Emma! How’s it going?” Albie turned to the beety man. “Now, stay in line. If you cut again, you won’t get any cake.”

  “But … but I am very important!” the man sputtered. “I am the famous movie director of Whale Bubbles and Popsicle Juice! I have enough money to buy this whole town. I do not need to wait!” He glared at Albie.

  Albie glared back.

  The man sighed. “Fine,” he grumbled. Crossing his arms and huffing, he stomped to the back of the line.

  Satisfied, Albie turned his attention to Emma. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the box at her feet.

  Emma gave the box a little kick. “It’s my uncle’s dessert box. I have to load it up.”

  Albie gave a whistle. “You’ll be stocked for weeks!”

  “Nope, this will only last a few days.” Emma grabbed the straps of the box and dragged it along as the line moved forward.

  Mrs. Dimple gave the box a stern look. “Well, I hope he’s having a large dinner party tonight!”

  Emma shook her head. “It’s just for him. He has a large appetite.” She dragged the box another few feet.

  Albie frowned. “Mr. Crackle won’t like this—all those sweets for some guy who doesn’t share. Here, let me talk to him for you and see what I can do.” He disappeared behind the back of the cake shop.

  A few minutes later, a tall, gray-haired man came out. He was wearing a blue apron spattered with cocoa. He had kind, twinkly eyes surrounded by laugh wrinkles, and he smelled of vanilla and cinnamon.

  He dusted off a floury hand and offered it to Emma. “Hello, Emma. I’m Mr. Crackle. Albie tells me you’ve got an uncle problem.”

  Emma took Mr. Crackle’s large, weathered hand in her own. Years of baking had made his palm rough and calloused. “Sort of. Uncle Simon feeds me enough, but he never lets me have dessert.”

  Mr. Crackle frowned. “I am familiar with your uncle’s astronomical orders, but I did not know he ate everything himself. Do you mean to say that your uncle eats pounds and pounds of dessert a day and refuses to give you even a crumb?”

  “Yup.”

  Mr. Crackle said thoughtfully, “What your uncle needs is a good kick in the pants.”

  Emma giggled.

  Mr. Crackle grinned.

  Albie crowed, “He sure does!”

  “Now, let’s see what your uncle ordered for today,” Mr. Crackle said.

  The wrinkled dessert list was brought forth, and desserts speedily filled Uncle Simon’s box. Then the box was lifted into Mrs. Dimple’s pickup, trucked to Uncle Simon’s, and hustled into the kitchen. As they unpacked the desserts, Emma thanked Mrs. Dimple and Albie, who had come along to help.

  “This summer is going to be much better than I thought,” Emma said as she arranged truffles on a plate. “At first, all I knew was that I would have to spend all my hours with Uncle Simon. Now I’m going to try and go to town as much as I can.”

  “Speaking of your uncle, where is he?” Mrs. Dimple asked, sliding the chocolate buttercream cakes into the fridge.

  “He’s in the living room. I think he’s watching a rerun of Supreme-Extreme Master of the Kitchen.” Emma finished with the truffles and began to stack the brownies.

  Albie perked up. “I love Supreme-Extreme! It always has the neatest people. You know, Mr. Crackle won it, right before he set up shop in Nummington.”

  Mrs. Dimple nodded. “Folks say the show changes you—that winning guarantees that anything you make for the rest of your life will be an instant success.”

  Emma popped a truffle into her mouth that Mr. Crackle had given to her as a gift. As the sweet, rich chocolate melted on her tongue, she had to agree.

  The days rolled by, and Emma grew to love Nummington. When she was not crushed by Uncle Simon’s demands, she would escape to town, where she would often go over to Mrs. Dimple’s house for tea and cookies. Mrs. Dimple introduced her to many of the warm, quirky townspeople, who welcomed her with jokes and stories and usually a snack or two.

  If Emma was waiting in line at the cake shop, Albie would find her when he wasn’t busy bringing cutters to the back of the line, and they’d chat about the best flavor of bubble gum or the right way to hold a baseball bat.

  One day Emma put on her cactus-prickled, pickle-stemmed hat for her trip to Mr. Crackle’s shop. When Albie saw her, he burst out laughing. He taped a bonbon to his hat, and they spent a marvelous afternoon pretending to be fancy supermodels.

  Emma loved going to the cake shop every day. She loved the smells and the sights and the cheerful pink-and-green awning that hung over the shop window. She loved the gleaming and glistening pies and tarts and pastries that were lined up so neatly in the enormous glass display case.

  But most of all, she loved the kindness of the cake shop’s owner. Mr. Crackle made sure that anytime Emma wanted a pastry, she could help herself. And every once in a while, if Emma came in with an especially frustrated face because Uncle Simon was being particularly horrid, Mr. Crackle would doctor a dessert with something that caused uncontrollable itching or knuckle cramps.

  And so Emma might have spent the entire summer avoiding her uncle and having a lovely time in Nummington but for a knock at the door two months after her fluff-headed parents plopped her down on her uncle’s front porch.

  One evening when Emma was scrubbing the toilet with a toothbrush (Uncle Simon spent lavishly on food, not cleaning supplies), she heard a
rapping at the door.

  Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap.

  “Uncle Simon, someone’s at the door!” Emma called.

  “Answer it, brat, and if it’s not my steak delivery, throw them out!” yelled Uncle Simon from the upstairs bedroom.

  Emma sighed, wiped her hands, and went to the door.

  Before she could turn the knob, it twisted on its own and the door swung open. A man stepped into the room.

  He was dressed in a white suit that was impeccably ironed. He had white gloves, a white hat, and a white cane. He was bony and tall, and his eyes had a glint to them that made Emma shudder.

  “Where is Simon Burblee?” the man asked in a cold, thin voice.

  “He’s upstairs. Are you a new steak deliveryman?” asked Emma.

  The man gave Emma a withering look. “Child, do not ask stupid questions.” He swept past Emma and called out, “Simon Burblee, show yourself this instant!”

  Heaving and thumping were heard upstairs, and the weighty bulk of Emma’s uncle came waddling down the stairs. In his left hand he carried an enormous piece of chocolate cake, while his right hand gripped a giant mug of milk. He swigged the milk and latched his jaws onto the cake. He caught sight of the visitor and stopped.

  A twisted look of delight came over his face. “Why, if it isn’t Maximus Beedy! I haven’t seen you since we shot tree sloths on our hunting trip three years ago! How are you? And what are you doing here? I thought you were in Tuptiddy City extracting scorpion poison for the School of Assassins!”

  “I was, until I found something I couldn’t pass up. Wait until you hear what I’ve discovered,” said Maximus Beedy.

  Uncle Simon looked at Emma. “Get back to work, you detestable slug. I don’t want a speck of grime on my toilet seat.” With that, he and Maximus Beedy disappeared into the living room.

  Emma hesitated, then tiptoed over to peer through the keyhole.

  “… the time when you shot that baby zebra? I thought I would die laughing,” Uncle Simon chortled.

  “Good times,” Maximus Beedy said curtly. “But even better times are ahead of us if you just shut your mouth for a moment and listen to what I have to say.”

  Uncle Simon stopped laughing abruptly. “Go on,” he said, his voice dripping with greed.

  Maximus Beedy perched fastidiously on the edge of the couch. “I was in the catacombs underneath Tuptiddy City hunting for scorpions,” he began. “But there was another reason why the catacombs interested me so much. They hold the skeletons of famous rulers, including Emperor Fuddlykoo of the twelfth century.”

  Uncle Simon gulped down his milk and burped. “Fuddlykoo? Wasn’t he the one who kept offing his chefs?”

  “The very one.” Maximus rubbed the top of his cane. “Fuddlykoo had a fickle sense of taste coupled with a bad temper, and most cooks didn’t last long in his kitchen. One day he would gobble up pickled spiders’ toes, and the next day he couldn’t stand them. On Monday he’d stuff himself stupid with roasted pheasant eggs, while on Tuesday the smell of them sent him into convulsions. No one is sure why. I suppose he was picky.”

  “Extremely picky,” snorted Uncle Simon. He thrust a blobby hand into his pocket and pulled out a lint-covered licorice stick. “Candy, Maximus?”

  Maximus shuddered. “No.”

  “Suit yourself.” Uncle Simon gnawed at the licorice, lint and all.

  Maximus pursed his lips, then continued. “Fuddlykoo lopped off six hundred and twenty-nine heads before he hired a pastry chef named Alexus Mastivigus. Mastivigus was the most talented baker in the world, but that wasn’t what kept his head off the chopping block. He had supposedly created an elixir that would make any food taste irresistibly delicious. When Fuddlykoo died, Mastivigus buried the elixir recipe with him. Since I was already going to the catacombs underneath Tuptiddy City on business, I went to investigate. I found this hidden among Fuddlykoo’s remains.”

  Through the keyhole, Emma saw Maximus reach into his coat pocket and remove a scroll made of ancient, yellowed parchment. He handed it to Uncle Simon.

  There was a silence. Then Emma heard Uncle Simon say, “Maximus, this is a recipe for your mother’s chicken casserole.”

  “Sorry, wrong one.” Maximus dug back into his pocket and pulled out another scroll. He handed it to Simon.

  After several moments, Emma heard her uncle’s voice. “Bah. I can’t understand any of this. And, anyway, it won’t work. Nothing in the world can make any kind of food instantly delicious.”

  “Aha! I thought so too. But just to be sure, I sent the recipe to some very talented bakers, promising them fame and fortune if they made the recipe correctly. All but Maddie Tinkleberry failed.”

  “Maddie Tinkleberry? The Maddie Tinkleberry? The winner of last year’s Supreme-Extreme Master of the Kitchen Contest?”

  “The very one,” replied Maximus Beedy. “She managed to get it precisely right. I meant to dispose of her afterward so she would never be able to make the potion again—after all, you can’t have gallons and gallons of this stuff around or it becomes worthless—but a day after she gave me the potion, she disappeared.” Maximus looked down and swung his cane in a slow circle. “I searched the world for her for eight months, but she never turned up. Then I realized that she probably knew I was hunting for her. If she replicated the elixir and tried to sell it, I’d immediately pinpoint her whereabouts. And if she has to lie low for the rest of her life, then the elixir and the money it can make is all mine!”

  Through the keyhole, Emma saw Maximus Beedy take a small glass bottle from his coat. It couldn’t have held more than a teaspoonful.

  “Behold the Elixir of Delight, the most valuable liquid in the world!” crowed Maximus. “With it, you will charm the taste buds of anyone you please. One drop will adapt to suit the taste of every man, woman, and child.”

  “You don’t mean …”

  “Ah, yes, but I do. You can put a drop in a pile of sawdust and people will knock each other over to eat it.”

  “Which means they’ll be willing to pay for it …” Uncle Simon’s eyes glimmered.

  “Yes, Simon, yes! You catch my drift! It is very simple. We set up a cake shop in this town, throw together flour, water, and food coloring so it looks something like cake, add a drop of elixir, and presto! You can charge any price—anything you want—and people will pay. It will taste like heaven to them, only better.”

  “But that bottle doesn’t hold enough to spit in—”

  “We don’t need much to get rich. This bottle is good for two hundred servings. We’ll charge a horrendous price and bankrupt this rich old town, then head south for the rest of our lives!”

  Uncle Simon’s voice suddenly turned suspicious. “Maximus, you are my best friend, but you do have a reputation for being horribly greedy. Why are you letting me in on this scheme?”

  “My dear Simon, if I told you it was out of the goodness of my heart, I would be lying, and you would know it,” Maximus said. “So here’s the real reason. I need someone respectable enough to run a pastry shop. Of all my friends, you are the only one who is not in jail, on the run, or trying to conquer Greenland. If you’re up for it, we’ll buy a shop tomorrow, and within the month we’ll be millionaires!”

  Emma heard her uncle’s triumphant drawl. “What a splendid plan. Of course I’m up for it. I’ve been hoping to rid myself of my maggot of a niece without losing the money her parents pay me to babysit her. With this elixir, I’ll get rich and throw her out! Hooray! No more nasty kid on my hands! Whoopee!”

  It was at times like this that Emma hated her uncle most.

  “Simon, we’ll need a safe place to keep the elixir and the recipe.”

  “I have just the spot. Bring them over to my gun cabinet. I’ll store them between the A-Bolt Stainless Stalker and the Savage 10GXP3.”

  “Simon, you and I are going to cheat the pants off this town and get rich, rich, rich!”

  As the two men cackled, Emma quietly retreated from the
keyhole and tiptoed up the stairs.

  Emma returned to the bathroom and scrubbed furiously with the toothbrush as she thought. She came to three conclusions:

  1. Maximus Beedy was not the new steak deliveryman.

  2. If Maximus and her uncle succeeded with their plan, their pastry shop would drive Mr. Crackle out of business.

  3. She had to stop them.

  If only I could make one of them drop the elixir bottle and smash it to bits, she thought. Then they’d have to make the recipe all over again, and it sounds like no one can do that.

  Finished with the toilet, she threw the toothbrush into the trash and walked to the sink. She turned on the water and began to lather her hands with a bar of soap. Suddenly the soap slipped out of her hands. She tried to grab it before it fell, but the bar slid past her fingers and dropped to the floor. As it hit, it broke in two.

  As Emma picked up the pieces, an idea occurred to her.

  Soap!

  Slick soap!

  Coat the bottle with soap and whoever picks it up will be sure to drop it!

  Excitedly, Emma rinsed off her hands and charged into her room to form her plan.

  That night, after Uncle Simon and Maximus had gone to bed, Emma slipped on her pajamas, then quietly opened her closet door and pulled out a metal hanger.

  She unraveled the thin line of steel that coiled around itself to form the hook and smoothed out the bends, making a long, straight wire. Using a rubber band, she attached a small piece of cloth to one end.

  Then she sat down and waited.

  Midnight passed. Emma didn’t move.

  At one o’clock, she was still sitting.

  Two o’clock passed. Outside, the wind blew softly.

  At three o’clock, when even the owls had flown back to their trees and settled in for the night, Emma finally stirred. She gently picked up the hanger and silently crossed the room. She twisted the doorknob and, inch by inch, pulled the door open.