I really don’t know what to do about Mrs. Simpson. But I do know that making the banoffee pie is a blast. Violet and I triple the recipe—so we have enough for us, plus lots of free samples for school. Luckily, Rosemary’s Kitchen has plenty of bowls and pie pans.
Making the filling is sweet and sticky and messy and fun. We gorge ourselves on bananas and licking out the bowls. Then we talk and laugh and look through the cupboards while the pies set in the fridge. I find several large chocolate bars and take them out.
“The recipe says to decorate the pies with chocolate curls,” I say, pointing to the book.
“We can use these too.” Violet takes out a container of baking decorations—sprinkles of all sizes and colors, icing bags and colors, even gold leaf you can eat.
When the pies have chilled, we take them out one by one—two round ones, and two that we made in containers shaped like a heart and a gingerbread man. “Look, it’s Georgie Porgie,” I say when I take the swirly banana cream man out of the fridge. We both laugh.
I make the chocolate curls using a vegetable peeler like the recipe book says to do. Violet decorates Georgie Porgie with little icing stars and a tie made of multicolored sprinkles. She gives him eyes of chocolate buttons and an icing nose and mouth. I can’t help laughing as I add his hair of chocolate curls—I’ve never seen such a fancy pie before, and Georgie Porgie looks nothing like Nick Farr. Violet laughs too and gives him a collar and belt of crystallized violets. He ends up looking like a large, goopy snowman.
On the heart-shaped pie, Violet writes “The Secret Cooking Club” in big, loopy icing letters, and I cover the rest in sprinkles and chocolate curls. Finally, we’re done.
“They look fab,” I say, beaming. We find some deep Tupperware cake containers to use to take the pies to school tomorrow. Then we sit and eat the little round one we’ve made for ourselves.
The pie is gooey and moist, and the taste of toffee and fresh banana seems like the most natural combination of flavors in the whole world.
“Mmm,” Violet purrs, taking a bite. “This is the best.”
I let cool sweet cream settle on my tongue for a second before swallowing. It’s delicious and sweet, but not too sweet—like Goldilocks’s porridge, it’s just right. I still can’t believe we’ve made it ourselves. But we did!
“We’ll need plastic bowls and spoons for school.” I lick the cream off my upper lip. “It’s pretty gooey.”
“Yeah,” Violet says between bites. “We can get them at the store on the way to school. Do you have any money?”
“I’ve got some saved from my allowance. I can use that.”
We clean everything up and put the pies back in Mrs. Simpson’s fridge to chill overnight. We agree that I’ll come and get them tomorrow before school.
It’s dark by the time we leave the house, and stepping outside is like plunging into a cold bath. Nothing seems real to me anymore, other than Rosemary’s Kitchen. Violet seems unusually quiet, as if she feels the same as me.
“You okay?” I ask. We stand at the dim edge of a circle of streetlight.
“Yeah.” Violet nods. “See you tomorrow.” She turns and starts walking. I stand there watching her go until she turns the corner and disappears.
• • •
This time when I get home, I’m not so lucky as before. Mom is in the kitchen, frantically calling people on her phone, looking for me.
“Seriously, Scarlett,” she says, “I was worried sick. Where have you been?”
I sit at the table, feeling exhausted. I wish I could tell Mom everything—about the hospital, the cooking, Mrs. Simpson, and how we have to save her from Mr. Kruffs. And about the excellent banoffee pie we made. I open my mouth and close it again. I can’t tell Mom anything. If I do, I’ll only regret it.
“Sorry, Mom,” I say, half meaning it. “There’s a new girl at school—I went over to her house. We’re working on a project together for science.”
Mom doesn’t ask the girl’s name, and I don’t volunteer it. She shakes her head. “Honestly, Scarlett. I mean, I know you don’t want to talk to me anymore, but you really can’t do that kind of thing.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just that…” I take a breath. I’m going to tell her how I feel. I’m going to see if we can be friends again. I’m going to—
“Don’t do it again.” Her face is red as she checks her watch. “I’m so behind. My guest post for the Scary Kids website is due tomorrow. I can’t believe how thoughtless you are sometimes.”
She turns and marches off into the Mom Cave. The door slams behind her. With a big sigh, I go upstairs to my room and crawl into bed. I dream of a flock of girls chasing a pie-shaped Nick Farr, whose eyes meet mine as he runs away.
• • •
The next morning I wake up with butterflies in my stomach. I find my allowance box in my sock drawer and open it. There are a few loose coins in the bottom, but the ten-dollar bill I had inside is gone. I groan softly. Not only does Mom often forget to give me my allowance, but she’s always “borrowing” money from me when she forgets to go to the ATM.
Snores are coming from Mom’s room, and I don’t want to wake her. Instead, I head downstairs to the Mom Cave where she keeps her purse. As usual, her desk is a mess. There are papers everywhere—crumpled drafts of articles and blog posts, letters from Superdrug and glossy photos of the Survival Kit packaging. I’m struck by how hard Mom is working to keep her blog empire going.
I find Mom’s purse and “re-borrow” my money, scribbling on a yellow sticky note to let her know. Underneath the bag there’s a piece of paper—a printout of something she’s writing, half of which is crossed out in red pen. My stomach knots as I skim over the uncrossed-out part.
“Me Against Her: Why Have We Grown So Apart?”
It starts out in a joking way, stuff like: “I never wanted to be one of those pushy parents. But now I see I messed up big-time. I mean, if I’d known my daughter was going to hate me by the time she was a teenager, I should have made sure she was a concert pianist.”
I read on. Instead of going into the usual stuff, I’m surprised by what she’s written. “Lately, something weird has happened. I’ve started remembering what it was like to be her age. It began when I had a craving for macaroni and cheese—the way my grandma used to make it. And I started wondering: How does she feel, and have I really been paying attention…?”
The paragraph is scribbled out in red pen. But the words are there in black and white.