Teacher's Pet (Marguerite Henry's Misty Inn Book 7)

by Judy Katschke

  “My dad buys produce from Randy Beardan’s farm,” Willa explained. “He cooks for his restaurant at our bed-and-breakfast, Misty Inn.”

  Willa stopped to take a breath, then continued, “I have an awesome recipe for Randy’s Razzle-Dazzle Raspberry Torte, and I’d like to show the class how to make it.”

  Ms. Denise’s eyebrows flew up.

  Oh no, Willa thought. She really doesn’t like raspberries. . . . I knew it. . . . I knew it—

  “Willa, do you know what my very favorite berry is?” Ms. Denise asked. “Take a wild guess.”

  “Um . . . raspberries?” Willa asked.

  “Yes, raspberries,” Ms. Denise confirmed. “Not only are they my favorite fruit, raspberry red is my favorite color.”

  Willa smiled, her fears drifting away.

  “But we don’t have an oven in the classroom,” Ms. Denise pointed out. “How do you plan to bake your raspberry torte?”

  “I figured it out, Ms. Denise,” Willa said. “I’ll bring in a fresh-out-of-the-oven raspberry torte, which will cool on the windowsill. While that cools, I’ll show how to put together the ingredients.”

  “Then can we eat it?” Dougie Sapperstein asked.

  “Sure, you can all have some,” Willa said happily.

  But when Jasper said, “Ms. Denise, I can’t eat Willa’s pie; raspberries make me break out in hives,” her happiness burst like a bubble.

  “What?” Willa gasped under her breath.

  “Well, Jasper, if raspberries make you break out in hives,” Ms. Denise said, “I’m not sure raspberries in the classroom is a good idea after all.”

  Willa felt like she was the one breaking out in hives. Was her speech about to be rejected?

  “Hives?” Dougie scoffed. “Ms. Denise, raspberries make Jasper gag because he doesn’t like them. That’s all.”

  “Who asked you?” Jasper snapped.

  “Boys,” their teacher warned. “Jasper, did you make up the hives story because you don’t like raspberries?”

  “I guess,” Jasper mumbled. “Raspberries look like tiny little brains.”

  A few giggles. A few “Ewww”s.

  “Then you don’t have to eat the dessert, Jasper,” Ms. Denise said. She turned and wrote Willa’s how-to idea on the board: “How to Make a Raspberry Torte.”

  Willa felt a congratulatory pat on her shoulder from Sarah. She was so excited, she hardly heard Dougie share his idea: how to whistle with a mouth full of cracker crumbs.

  “I’m afraid not, Dougie,” Ms. Denise said.

  Dougie was disappointed, but Willa was over the moon.

  On the bus ride home from school, Willa sat next to Chandra Patel. Sarah and Lena sat with Olivia in the back, discussing their next double Dutch practice.

  “Aren’t Sarah and Lena your best friends?” Chandra asked when she caught Willa glancing back at them. “Don’t they want to help you bake your raspberry tart?”

  “It’s a torte, actually,” Willa said with a smile. “And I really don’t need anyone to help me.”

  The bus came to a stop down the hill from Misty Inn. Willa said good-bye to Mr. Carmichael before hurrying ahead of Ben.

  “Wait up!” Ben called as Willa raced toward the inn.

  “I have to tell Dad about my how-to speech, Ben,” Willa called. “Ms. Denise said yes.”

  Willa neared the kitchen door and noticed a truck parked outside. It was a Germination and Meditation truck.

  “Farmer Randy’s here,” Willa said excitedly as Ben caught up. “I hope he dropped off lots of raspberries so I can practice making the torte.”

  The kitchen door swung open and out stepped Farmer Randy. He was wearing a denim jacket over his usual faded overalls.

  “Guess what, Mr. Beardan?” Willa asked.

  “What’s that?” Farmer Randy asked. His face was stony, his eyes wide.

  “I’m going to be baking a torte for school,” Willa explained, “using the amazing raspberries from your farm.”

  “Is that right?” Farmer Randy asked, still not smiling. “I just dropped off a batch of raspberries with your dad.”

  “Awesome!” Willa said.

  Ben brushed past Willa into the kitchen. She remained at the door watching Farmer Randy walk to his truck, still looking unhappy.

  As Grandma Edna says, Willa thought, even horses have good days and bad days.

  She looked at Starbuck grazing in the pasture.

  And their muddy days. She sighed to herself. Not again!

  Chapter 6

  “DON’T THEY SELL READY-MADE CRUSTS in the supermarket?” Ben asked.

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, Ben,” Dad said.

  It was Saturday morning. Misty Inn was booked with guests there to bird-watch and enjoy the last summer days on Chincoteague Island. Willa stood next to her father in the kitchen, ready to watch him prepare the torte and see firsthand how it was done.

  “Dad likes to make his piecrusts from scratch,” she explained to Ben. “Right, Dad?”

  “Right,” Dad said. “And when you bake your torte, so will you.”

  Taking a break, he wiped his hands on his apron and said, “You know, some restaurants have special pastry chefs.”

  “How come?” Ben asked.

  “Because pastries are as much work as the rest of the meal,” Dad explained.

  Willa thought making desserts would be easy, but as she gazed at the ingredients on the table—sticks of unsalted butter, vanilla extract, a bag of flour, limes, brown sugar, and of course a glass bowl of fresh raspberries—she realized she had a lot to learn.

  “How about some hands-on experience, Willa?” Dad asked. “I can use someone to sprinkle flour on the dough.”

  “While you get some hands-on experience”—Ben reached toward the raspberry bowl—“I’ll get my hands on some berries—”

  “Don’t even go there,” Willa warned.

  Ben managed to snatch a few berries before rushing out of the kitchen.

  After washing her hands, Willa positioned herself behind the rolled-out dough. She carefully reached into the bag for a pinch of flour.

  “Sprinkle it nice and even,” Dad directed.

  Willa followed her dad’s instructions, coughing a bit as flour flew up her nose.

  Dad was right, Willa thought, sniffing back a sneeze. Baking isn’t as easy as it looks.

  But almost two hours later, as Dad pulled the warm torte out of the oven, Willa knew her hard work was worth it. The finished product was hot, crispy, and oozing with juicy raspberry goodness.

  “Oh, Dad.” Willa said as the kitchen filled with the sweet scent of brown sugar and warm raspberries. “It’s beautiful!”

  “It is,” Dad agreed as he placed the torte on the windowsill to cool. “Thanks in part to the world’s greatest chef’s assistant.”

  “Thank you!” Willa said, taking a dramatic bow. “But today was just the dress rehearsal. Next week is the real deal.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Dad assured her. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of heavy cream. “Now, while the pie is cooling, you can prepare the whipped-cream topping.”

  Willa was about to squeeze some juice for the lime-flavored cream when her mom came into the kitchen.

  “Something smells amazing,” Mom said. She held up her computer tablet and said, “And speaking of amazing, what do you think?”

  Willa studied the photo of a living room, decorated almost entirely in black and white—black furniture, white sofa and chairs, black-and-white rug!

  “Um . . . Mom?” Willa asked. “Won’t the guests track mud all over that white carpet?”

  “Not unless Starbuck gets in the house!” Mom joked.

  Willa heaved a sigh. “I was too busy helping Dad to groom Starbuck today.”

  “You can groom her after dinner,” Mom told Willa. “I’ll ask Ben to start setting the tables in the dining room.”

  Mom looked around and asked, “Where did Ben go, anyway?�
��

  “Maybe he’s in the pasture with Starbuck,” Willa suggested. She glanced out the kitchen window and gasped. Standing outside on tiptoes was Ben, his hand poised over the windowsill and raspberry torte!

  “Ben Dunlap, step away from the raspberry torte now!” Willa shouted.

  “A raspberry fell off on the plate,” Ben insisted. “I was just going to put it back.”

  Mom and Dad chuckled as Ben ducked out of sight.

  “Now I have two things to worry about.” Willa sighed. “Baking a raspberry torte for the class and keeping it away from Ben.”

  Any doubts Willa had about her torte were gone after dessert was served that evening. Willa and Dad watched from the doorway as smiling guests finished every last crumb.

  “Randy’s Razzle-Dazzle Raspberry Torte is a hit, Dad,” Willa whispered excitedly. “A big juicy, creamy hit!”

  “It’s those smiles and requests for seconds that make me love my work,” Dad pointed out dreamily.

  “I’ll see if we have any more torte left,” Willa said, “just in case a guest wants another helping.”

  When Willa turned back into the kitchen, she gulped. All the ingredients she would need for her how-to speech on Friday reminded her of what a major undertaking this torte was. And how she was making it all by herself.

  “All Sarah and Lena have to bring to school,” Willa mumbled to herself, “are jump ropes!”

  Chapter 7

  IT WAS A PEACEFUL SUNDAY morning as Willa rode Starbuck toward the beach. The summer crowds had left and the boat tours were slowing down. But to Willa, Chincoteague’s best-kept secret was the migration of wild birds flying through on their way south.

  Willa had already spotted sandpipers, willets, and black skimmers, and hoped to see more birds on the beach that day. She also hoped her arms would stop throbbing.

  “Oww,” Willa complained, gripping Starbuck’s reins. After helping Dad in the kitchen for almost a week, her arms ached from chopping, mixing, and rolling out dough.

  Starbuck slowed to a gentle trot along the road.

  “Who knew cooking was such hard work?” Willa asked Starbuck. “Not as hard as grooming a pony, but for that I know the drill.”

  The drill to Willa was knowing that each grooming brush had its own job, starting with the currycomb for tough, deep-set dirt. Once the dirt was brought to the surface, Willa used a brisk brush to dust it off Starbuck’s coat. There was a special brush for mane and tail, and a hoof pick to tackle Starbuck’s feet. Last but not least came Starbuck’s favorite part, a soft clean rag for her face and around her eyes.

  That was Willa’s recipe for grooming a dirty horse. But the one recipe on her mind that morning was for Randy’s Razzle-Dazzle Raspberry Torte.

  “Now I need to write the speech,” Willa told Starbuck. The only how-to demonstrations Willa had seen were on the shopping network that Dad watched, for the latest cooking gadgets.

  “Kids, what do raspberries mean to you?” Willa practiced as she imitated the hosts on TV. “Sticking your tongue out and making funny noises or surprising your tongue with a burst of sweet fruity flavor?”

  Starbuck lazily flicked her ears as she continued along the trail.

  “Either you’re swatting a fly from your ear, Starbuck,” Willa giggled, “or you’re not too impressed.”

  As she and her pony rambled on, Willa spotted a surprising flock of snow geese overhead. Those birds usually came through Chincoteague closer to Thanksgiving.

  Thanksgiving!

  “Maybe I should talk about Thanksgiving,” Willa thought out loud. “And how Randy’s Razzle-Dazzle Raspberry Torte would make the perfect dessert.”

  Willa then heaved a big sigh and said, “Or maybe I should just ask Dad to help me write my how-to speech. He’s the expert.”

  They were halfway to the beach when Willa heard a girl singing: “Applesauce, mustard, cider! How many legs has a spider? Two, four—”

  The voice seemed to be coming from the Starling house up the road. But it didn’t sound like Sarah or her older sister, Katherine—and it certainly wasn’t her baby sister, Bess.

  Picking up her pace, Starbuck seemed to know she was nearing a familiar place and a friend. Sarah’s pony Buttercup had once been housed in the Dunlaps’ barn right next to Starbuck.

  With a grunt Starbuck came to a stop in front of the Starlings’ yard. Willa gulped when she saw Sarah, Lena, and Olivia jumping double Dutch. She hoped they didn’t see her, but it was too late. . . .

  “Hi, Willa!” Sarah called, smiling at Willa while she turned the ropes. Bad, bad idea!

  “Ahhhh!” Olivia cried out as both ropes tangled around her legs.

  “Why did you stop turning, Sarah?” Lena called as Olivia stumbled.

  “Because Willa’s here,” Sarah said.

  Olivia kicked away the tangled ropes. “You’re not supposed to stop for anything,” she declared. “Not for a friend, a brother or sister—even a charging bear.”

  All Willa wanted to do was ride on, but she forced a smile and called, “How’s it going?”

  “Pretty good,” Sarah called back, helping to straighten the ropes. “How’s your raspberry pie coming along?”

  “Raspberry torte,” Willa corrected. “I baked one last night and the guests really liked it.”

  Olivia cocked her head as she studied Starbuck. “Is that your pony?” she asked.

  “This is Starbuck.” Willa nodded. “We were just on our way to the beach.”

  Lena turned to Sarah and Olivia. “Let’s go to the beach too,” she said.

  “Sounds like a plan!” Sarah said eagerly.

  Olivia shook her head. “We can’t jump rope on the sand,” she said. “Our how-to speech is just four days away so we have to practice until it’s perfect.”

  Sarah and Lena turned disappointed faces toward Willa.

  “We’ll go another time,” Willa promised them. “See you guys in school tomorrow.”

  She pressed both legs lightly against Starbuck’s sides. Her pony shook her mane before trotting onward.

  So Olivia wants everything to be perfect, Willa thought as they rode farther away from the house. Sort of like Dad is when it comes to cooking and baking.

  Starbuck veered onto the path leading to the beach. Willa took in a whiff of clean, salty air. It was then that she made up her mind about her own project.

  “Randy’s Razzle-Dazzle Raspberry Torte can’t just be good anymore,” Willa told her pony. “It has to be perfect too.”

  Chapter 8

  “MOM, WHY DO WE HAVE to spend so much time here?” Willa asked. “It’s Wednesday, and I have a ton of stuff to pick up for Friday.”

  “I know, Willa,” Mom said. She was on her knees flipping through a stack of rugs in the home decorating store. “I can’t decide between a solid color or floral.”

  Willa still didn’t understand why her mother wanted to redecorate the inn so soon after they had moved in.

  “I thought you loved Misty Inn’s old-fashioned style, Mom,” Willa said.

  “The new style will be old-fashioned,” Mom said. “And modern, too.”

  “Old-fashioned and modern?” Willa asked.

  Her mother nodded and said, “It’s called eclectic.”

  Willa called it strange. But she wanted to understand her mother’s thoughts.

  “Mom, why do you want to change everything all of a sudden?” Willa asked.

  “I see all the work that goes into Dad’s meals,” Mom explained with a smile. “It makes me want to do something extra too.”

  Extra? While Dad cooked, Mom practically ran the whole inn. How would she find extra time to redecorate?

  “Maybe I’ll fancy up the barn, too,” Willa said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “And trade Starbuck in for a Lipizzaner stallion.”

  “A Lipizzaner?” Mom asked.

  Willa nodded, although deep inside she would never, ever trade Starbuck.

  “Grandma Edna told me all about Lipiz
zaners,” Willa said. “They’re white stallions specially trained to perform fancy moves.”

  Mom chuckled. “If you think cleaning a muddy butterscotch mare is hard, try cleaning a muddy white one.”

  Willa frowned at the thought of more mud on Starbuck. It had already rained three days that week.

  “I think I’ll go with the blue floral rug,” Mom decided. “And throw pillows to match.”

  After a fifteen-minute consultation with the store decorator, Willa and her mom finally left. The rain was just starting again as they rushed into the supermarket.

  “Are you sure you know what to buy for your raspberry torte, Willa?” Mom asked.

  Willa proudly held up her shopping list. “It’s all here, Mom,” she said.

  “I should have known you made a list,” Mom said, smiling. “I’m going to grab a few things for dinner. Can you get started on your own?”

  Willa nodded. She looked at her watch and said, “I’ll meet you at the ice-cream freezer in twenty minutes.”

  “Since when is ice cream part of your recipe?” Mom asked.

  “It’s not,” Willa said. “But after I finish this project on Friday, I’m going to need some.”

  With a smile, Mom walked off. Willa carried a basket down each aisle, selecting ingredients and checking them off her list one by one.

  “One carton of heavy cream,” Willa said softly, placing the small carton inside her basket. “Shopping for a recipe isn’t that hard.”

  She was about to check the cream off her list when she heard, “Hi, Willa.” It was her mom, carrying her basket up the aisle. “I was just on my way to meet you at the ice cream.”

  Mom nodded at Willa’s basket. “I see you got a lot done.”

  “Shopping is a piece of cake, Mom,” Willa said. “Or should I say . . . a piece of torte?”

  “I guess making a raspberry torte is more fun than jumping double Dutch, right, honey?” Mom asked.

  Willa was about to agree when the word “double” made her gulp.

  “Is something wrong?” Mom asked.

  “Totally!” Willa groaned. “I forgot I need two tortes for my how-to speech. One to make from scratch and one already baked.”