When it’s your ninth birthday and you’re consuming indecent amounts of sugar, it’s as if you’ve suddenly sprouted wings and found a natural source of laughing gas. Today, it just feels easy to be me, like I’m generating my own sunshine.

Wilder knocks my elbow with his, and I spill flour over the edge of my measuring cup. I immediately scoop it up and flick it at my best friend with a satisfied grin.

My dad glances at us. “Maddi,” he corrects me, wiping the counter clear of the mess we’ve been making in the kitchen of my family bakery.

“What? He’s cheating,” I say, feeling justified.

“I’m not cheating,” Wilder replies, his wavy hair flopping in his face, messy and dusted with flour. “I’m just helping myself win.” He mixes his bowl of (what are sure to be) inferior cupcakes and grins. We’ve been in a constant bake-off since my dad bought me a toy oven for Christmas when we were four.

“Dad, my best friend’s a total wanker,” I say—a word Wilder picked up on one of his family trips to London.

Dad’s eyebrows shoot up. “Madeline DeLuca!”

“What?” I stare at him with innocence, mixing spoon dripping yummy gingerbread batter into my bowl. “What does wanker mean?”

“It means—” my dad starts and stops, his cheeks taking on the color of Wilder’s red velvet batter. “Don’t worry about the meaning. It’s a bad word.”

Wilder’s shoulders vibrate subtly with the laugh he’s trying to contain.

“Oh,” I say. “But what does it mean?”

“I have customers waiting,” Dad says, and pushes through the door separating the kitchen from our family bakery.

As soon as the door closes, Wilder explodes with laughter. Needling our parents in good fun is one of our favorite hobbies. It’s especially great when our families are having their weekly dinner together and we can get them all at once.

Wilder swipes a glob of maple frosting from my bowl and licks it off his finger. “Not bad.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You mean best ever.”

Wilder smirks mischievously. “I mean, maybe I’ll let you work in my bakery when we’re older.”

I laugh. “Your bakery? No thanks. I’ll be busy running this one. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll hire you as my assistant.”

Wilder’s grin widens and his hair flops in his eyes. “Battle of the bakeries. You’re on.”