Pies & Prejudice

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Hey, Beauty!” I hear a voice behind me and turn to see Zach Norton coming through the door with Ethan and Third and Simon Berkeley.

  I smile. “Hey, Beast!”

  Zach and I were in a play together back in middle school, and we’ve been friends ever since. He came with me to the Founder’s Day dance last spring, so Frankie and Adele already know him, but I introduce them to the other boys.

  “Adele Bixby and Francesca Norris, meet Ethan MacDonald and Third—excuse me, Cranfield Bartlett III.”

  He bows, and Frankie and Adele both laugh.

  “And this is Simon Berkeley. Simon and his family are living at Emma’s house this year.”

  The boys crowd onto the couch across from us.

  “How’s Melville?” I ask Simon.

  “Moping,” he says. “He misses the Hawthornes.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “Hey, we’re going sledding tomorrow morning at Nashawtuc Hill,” says Zach. “You three should come.”

  “Sounds like fun,” says Adele.

  “It’ll be wicked fun if this snow keeps up,” Zach replies.

  Simon looks puzzled.

  “Wicked is a good thing,” Zach assures him.

  “It’s New England-speak for really,” I explain. “Wicked fun equals really fun.”

  Simon’s face clears. “Got it.”

  Zach pokes me in the arm. “Cassidy said she’d try and get there between hockey practice and her, uh, workout with Simon’s brother. Did you hear about her ice-dancing gig?”

  I nod.

  Simon looks down at the floor. Apparently his brother and Cassidy aren’t exactly hitting it off.

  “So will you come too?”

  I shake my head. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I sigh. “My mother signed the two of us up for a cake-decorating class,” I admit sheepishly. “Tomorrow’s the big finale. While you guys are having fun tobogganing, I’ll be decorating a wedding cake at the Rec Center.”

  “Ooh,” says Ethan. “Lucky you.”

  “Shut up, Tater.”

  Ethan shoots a glance over at Adele and Frankie and reddens. I grin. He totally hates being reminded of his old nickname, especially when there are girls around. He earned it, though. He’s the one who used to like to eat stray Tater Tots off the cafeteria floor back in elementary school.

  Zach grins and puts his finger to his lips, as if to assure him that his secret is safe with us.

  “Jess makes killer frosting roses,” says Frankie, her dark eyes sparkling mischievously over the rim of her mug. She has a whipped cream mustache, but Zach doesn’t seem to notice. He grins back.

  The bells over the door jangle and Peyton Winslow parades in with a new friend in tow, some girl from Phoenix named Beatrice. Peyton and Savannah were friends last year in eighth grade, but from what Savannah tells me they’ve had kind of a falling out this year, which is awkward since they’re roommates. It’s not because of any one big thing, really—although I guess Peyton got her feelings hurt when Savannah didn’t invite her along on her family’s Christmas trip like she did last year. Mostly it’s just that Savannah wised up and stopped being so mean, plus she’s working harder at school and at MadriGals and everything. Peyton’s jealous that Savannah has other friends and activities, and isn’t as interested anymore in her favorite hobby—boys, with being snarky running a close second.

  Peyton and Beatrice place their orders and drift over toward us, eyeing Zach and Simon. Not that I blame them. Let’s face it, they’re both cute guys. Wicked cute, in fact.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Jess?” says Peyton.

  “No,” I tell her. “Go away.”

  Adele and Frankie both start to giggle. I know I’m being rude, but I don’t care. I’m not afraid of Peyton Winslow. If I can survive a whole year of Savannah Sinclair, I can survive anything. I’ve been permanently cured of queen bees.

  Simon stands up and holds out his hand. “I’m Simon Berkeley,” he says politely. In addition to being wicked cute, he has really good manners. Megan’s always gushing about that.

  Peyton and Beatrice pull up a couple of chairs and we all sit there for a while awkwardly, making small talk. Finally, I check my watch.

  “Gotta go,” I tell everybody. “My dad’s coming to pick me up.”

  “Can he make it in this snow?” Simon asks, sounding concerned. He is really polite.

  I smile. “I live on a farm, remember? We have a truck.”

  “That’s right,” Peyton sneers. “You raise goats, don’t you?”

  “Yup,” I reply cheerfully. “And chickens, too. They call me Goat Girl, and Princess Jess of Ramshackle Farm.”

  Zach, who has just taken a sip from his mug, sputters out a laugh, spraying the table with hot chocolate. I laugh too, feeling pleased with myself. No way am I going to let Peyton get my goat. Literally. I really have come a long way in the last few years.

  The storm continues through dinner, and all night I hear the scrape and clank of snowplows up and down the road in front of Half Moon Farm. Come morning, though, I wake up to sunshine and a sparklingly white world. The thermometer has shot up, and everything is melting. The January thaw has finally arrived.

  Although I’m still disappointed over not getting picked for a MadriGals solo, it’s hard to be droopy on such a beautiful day, and I’m in a much better mood by the time my mother and I arrive at the Rec Center.

  Frankie is right, actually. I do make killer frosting roses. And a lot of other things too. It turns out I have a knack for cake decorating.

  “I knew all those science and math classes would come in handy someday,” my mother teases, as I squeeze a final pink curl of frosting ribbon onto the top of my masterpiece. “That pastry bag is a precision instrument in your hands.”

  I grin at her and wipe a stray smudge of buttercream off the cake plate, then carry it to the display table. Ours is the only cake that isn’t round. When we were first given this assignment, I got to wondering why people didn’t pick other shapes for wedding cakes—triangles, maybe, or ovals or octagons. My mother explained that round cakes are like round wedding rings, meant to symbolize eternal love. I guess that makes sense, but still, it’s kind of boring, the same old tower of round tiers every time, with a cascade of frosting flowers winding down the side. Sometimes it’s just fun to be different.

  So our cake is square. The base is made of three layers of chocolate cake covered in pale green fondant frosting. Fondant is cool stuff—you can roll it out and drape it over things for a really smooth look, almost like wrapping paper. On top of that base we heaped a pile of smaller squares—we found a square muffin pan online and used it to make square chocolate cupcakes—and decorated them to look like presents too, each with fondant frosting and “ribbons” of contrasting colors tied neatly in a bow. We had fun picking out the designs—polka dots, stripes, zigzags, that sort of thing.

  And because I really do love making frosting flowers, I scattered a few pale pink roses in among the presents, and just for fun, a white marzipan mouse peeking out from under a curl of ribbon.

  The teacher finds something nice to say about every cake on the table, but when she gets to ours, she stops and just looks at it for a while, smiling.

  “Now, this,” she says, “is really original. I love the strong geometrical lines, the color scheme, and the whimsical touches. Well done, Team Delaney!”

  “It was mostly Jessica’s idea,” my mother tells her.

  “Then Jessica, this is for you to take home with you.” And she hands me a blue ribbon.

  Later, in the truck on the way home, my mom turns to me. “Aren’t you glad I signed us up for that class?”

  “Yeah,” I have to admit, fingering my ribbon. Our cake is balanced on the seat between us. I’ve made my mother promise she won’t let the boys or Dad at it until I get a chance to show Emma tomorrow. I haven’t videoconferenced with Emma for nearly two weeks
, because she and her family have been off on another road trip.

  I give my mother a sly glance. “Maybe I have a future career as a singing veterinarian who runs a bakery.”

  “And makes deliveries on horseback,” my mother adds.

  “And teaches math on the side,” I finish, and we burst out laughing.

  The following afternoon, I get the cake from where we hid it in my mother’s closet and carry it down the hall to my room.

  “Ta-da!” I cry, holding it up in front of my laptop’s webcam.

  If I was expecting an enthusiastic response from Emma, though, I don’t get it.

  “Cool,” she says listlessly.

  I set the cake down and peer at her, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  Emma bursts into tears. “My life is over!” she wails.

  “What happened?”

  Between sobs, she spills out her tale of woe. “Remember what happened under the mistletoe?”

  I nod.

  “Well, Annabelle Fairfax sent the cell phone picture to half the students at Knightley-Martin,” she continues. “Worse, to make sure the other half didn’t miss out, she blew the picture up to poster size and plastered it all over the halls.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Now everybody thinks I’m dating the biggest dork in Bath!” Emma finishes, blowing her nose. “Everywhere I go at school, people make smooching noises when they see me. I pretended to be sick two days this week just so I wouldn’t have to go.”

  “Oh, Emma,” I tell her. “How horrible! I wish there was something I could do!” There’s no way I’m telling her about MadriGals. Compared to her disaster, mine is nothing to complain about.

  She shakes her head sadly. “There’s nothing anybody can do.”

  “Can you sic Darcy on her?”

  Emma frowns. “He just tells me to quit worrying about it. He says it’ll blow over.”

  We talk for a while longer, and then Emma tells me she has to go because her parents are taking them out to dinner. I don’t get a chance to talk to Darcy, but tonight I don’t feel like it anyway. I’m kind of mad at him for not sticking up more for his sister.

  As soon as I shut my computer, I grab my cell phone and send a text to Cassidy and Megan and Becca: HELP! EMERGENCY MDBC MTG!

  MY HOUSE—4:00 Cassidy texts back.

  We rendezvous in the turret. Cassidy or her mother must have been up there reading, because there’s a copy of Pride and Prejudice lying open on the window seat.

  Cassidy is the last one up the stairs. She enters carrying a tray. “Mom sent up French Silk Chocolate pie for everybody. She’s testing recipes for the show.”

  We each take a plate and sit down.

  “So what’s going on?” asks Megan.

  My eyes slide over to Becca. “You all have to absolutely promise not to tell anyone,” I say sternly. “Especially you, Becca.”

  “Whatever,” she replies, forking up a bite of pie.

  “I mean it,” I say.

  She sighs. “Okay, fine, I promise.”

  I tell my friends about Annabelle Fairfax. They all laugh when I get to the “Stinkerbelle” part, but they stop laughing when I tell them about the cell phone picture and the mistletoe.

  “Do you think maybe she’s making a mountain out of a molehill?” asks Becca, carefully avoiding looking at Megan. The two of them were involved in a cell phone picture prank a couple of years ago, and it almost cost Becca Megan’s friendship.

  “Molehill?” My voice rises. “Just imagine how you’d feel if you got tricked into kissing, say, Kevin Mullins, and somebody took your picture and showed it all over school.”

  Becca bites her lip. “I guess I see what you mean.”

  “We have to do something!” I tell them. “Lucy’s the only good friend she’s got over there. Emma needs us.”

  “What did you have in mind?” asks Cassidy.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you guys would have some bright ideas.”

  “Can Emma get me a picture of Stinkerbelle?” asks Megan. “I could blog about her.”

  “That’s a great idea,” says Cassidy, who’s always up for a good prank.

  “I wasn’t really thinking about getting even with Annabelle Fairfax at this point,” I tell them. “Not that it isn’t a good idea. I just want to do something to cheer Emma up.”

  “Too bad we can’t put Pip in a box and mail him to her,” says Cassidy. “All she has over there to keep her company is the Berkeleys’ stupid parrot.”

  “Too bad we can’t put Emma in a box and have her parents mail her back here to Concord,” says Megan.

  “Yeah,” Becca agrees. “I know Stewart would really like to see her too.”

  That’s admitting a lot, for Becca. It totally grosses her out to think that her brother likes her book club friend.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Why not what?” says Cassidy.

  “Why not bring Emma home? Spring break’s coming up soon—maybe we could send her an airplane ticket.”

  “Round trip from England’s got to cost a ton of money,” says Cassidy.

  “Not as much as saving Half Moon Farm,” says Becca. “This would be a piece of cake in comparison to what we did back in seventh grade.”

  Two years ago, we held a fashion show to help raise money for the Delaneys’ property taxes. Becca turns to Megan. “You must have a bunch saved up from Bébé Soleil. Can’t you pay for it?”

  Megan shakes her head regretfully. “My mother makes me put it all in a special savings thing at the bank. It’s for college, and you know my mom and college. She’d kill me if I got into it.”

  I make a face. “There’s always babysitting, I guess.”

  “We’d have to do a whole lot of babysitting to afford a plane ticket from England,” Megan points out.

  We’re quiet for a while, thinking. Cassidy takes another bite of pie. She smiles. “Maybe we could do what they do at school, and have a bake sale,” she jokes.

  That makes us laugh. Then Becca looks down at her plate. “You know, that’s not a totally stupid idea, Cassidy.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  “You know what I mean! This pie is incredible. All your mom’s pies are incredible. I’ll bet she has a zillion great recipes.” She turns to me. “And you and your mother just took that cake-decorating class. We could start a little business, and sell pies and cakes and cupcakes. Our own private bake sale.”

  “Who would we sell stuff to?” asks Cassidy. “Restaurants?”

  Becca shakes her head. “Too complicated, and I’ll bet there are all sorts of health laws we’d have to know about.”

  “She’s right,” I tell Cassidy. “I know, because we sell cheese to restaurants.”

  “I was thinking more like selling to neighbors, and friends of our parents, that sort of thing. People are always having parties, and word gets around.”

  We nod slowly, thinking it over.

  “This could really work,” I say, starting to get excited.

  “No kidding,” Megan agrees. “It could be fun, too. But where are we going to do all this?”

  “We can’t use my house,” says Becca. “My mother has all her stupid worm bins on the counters. It’s disgusting.”

  “The kitchen’s a no-brainer,” says Cassidy. “Ours is commercially licensed because of the TV show. I’m sure my mother would let us—I mean you guys—bake there. I don’t have a whole lot of extra time these days. But I can pass out flyers and help with the marketing.”

  “And I have my food handler’s license already, because of our creamery,” I tell them. “You have to have one for selling cheese and stuff to the public. It’s not a big deal to get one. There’s this test you study for—”

  “A test?” Becca protests. “Don’t we get enough of those at school?”

  “Becca! This is Emma we’re talking about.”

  She sighs deeply, as if making a huge sacrifice. “Okay, count me in.”

&nbs
p; “Me too,” says Megan.

  “Didn’t you tell me Stewart has his driver’s license now?” says Cassidy, and Becca nods. “I’ll bet he’d be willing to help with the deliveries.”

  Becca nods. “Probably. I’ll ask him.”

  “We need a name,” I say. “For the flyers and menus and things.”

  Megan whips out her sketchbook and a pen. “You’re good with names, Cassidy. Everybody loves ‘Chicks with Sticks.’”

  “How about ‘Chicks with Sweets’?” Becca suggests.

  I shake my head. “That sounds too much like Easter.”

  We brainstorm for a while. Pie-a-palooza. Chick-a-licious. Sweet Treats. Have Your Cake and Eat it Too. Everything’s either too dumb, too bland, or too silly. Then my gaze falls on the window seat, and Cassidy’s copy of Pride and Prejudice. “Hang on a sec,” I tell them. “I’ve got it! Pies and Prejudice.”

  “Perfect,” Becca decrees, giving it her stamp of approval.

  Megan bends her head over her sketchbook. With a dozen or so strokes of her pen, a lady in a Jane Austen–style dress appears, holding up a pie in one elegant hand. Above this little sketch Megan writes “Pies and Prejudice” in fancy script. Then she erases the “and” and changes it to “Pies & Prejudice.” “Behold our logo,” she says, holding it up.

  “Way to go, Wong!” says Cassidy admiringly.

  “We’re probably going to have to tell our moms this time,” Becca cautions. “We can’t keep it a secret, the way we did the fashion show. We’re going to need too much help.”

  Megan nods. “Gigi will definitely want in.”

  “The more the merrier,” I tell her. “Only don’t let your mom get any ideas, okay? Seaweed pie is not an option.” Cassidy snickers, and Megan kicks her in the shin. “Let’s keep it a secret from Emma, though. A surprise would be more fun.”

  We all agree that this is a good idea.

  I turn to Cassidy. “Let’s go talk to your mom.”

  Downstairs, we find Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid in the kitchen with Fred Goldberg. He’s the producer of her TV show, and they’re bent over some paperwork on the island counter.

  “Hi, girls,” says Cassidy’s mother as we troop in. “What did you think of the pie?”