Apple Pie Promises, page 1
CURL UP WITH ALL OF THE NOVELS!
Pumpkin Spice Secrets by Hillary Homzie
Peppermint Cocoa Crushes by Laney Nielson
Cinnamon Bun Besties by Stacia Deutsch
Salted Caramel Dreams by Jackie Nastri Bardenwerper
Apple Pie Promises by Hillary Homzie
Cotton Candy Wishes by Kristina Springer
Copyright © 2018 by Hillary Homzie
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Kate Gartner
Cover photos credit iStock
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-3922-2
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3924-6
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
THE MOUNTAIN ISN’T OUT
I know they say an apple a day is good for you. Personally, I prefer my apple inside of a pie. And not just any pie, but one that I’m baking.
There is nothing like the smell of a buttery piecrust and cinnamon-tossed apples. It says that the world is good, even after your parents have been arguing, or your braces have been tightened, or an entire mountain range of zits have just erupted on your face, or the boy you’ve had a crush on since sixth grade still doesn’t know you exist.
That’s the power of pie.
That’s why I’m smiling right now. Because Mom and I are baking one.
It’s not officially fall, but it’s close, since it’s towards the end of August. It’s an overcast Saturday morning and there’s a definite chill in the air.
We use two varieties of apples: Honeycrisp because they are sweet and sturdy and Granny Smith because they’re tart and refreshing. This keeps everything balanced. If you use too many Honeycrisps, the sugariness will take over. If you use too many Granny Smiths, the pie will become tart and bitter. It’s all about finding that perfect balance.
“This pie is going to be awesome,” I say, slicing across the bottom of an apple core.
“Mmmm,” agrees Mom. Only she sounds far away, like she’s thinking about her next group project or research paper. Mom is finishing up her master’s degree in public health at the University of Washington (a.k.a. U-Dub), which means she commutes a couple of times a week from Tacoma (where we live) into Seattle.
Using a paring knife, she peels her apple into thick threads. “So I want to talk to you about something.” Her voice suddenly sounds bright and eager.
“I know! You want us to enter an apple pie into the baking contest this year at the Fall Festival.”
My middle school sponsors the festival as a fund-raiser in mid-October. It’s really fun, raises money for the P.T.A., and everyone goes. There are hayrides, carnival games, a cakewalk, even a haunted house. The contests are an especially big deal—the winners get awesome gift cards! Last year, I didn’t enter because I thought it was something only the eighth graders did. But anyone can enter, including seventh graders like me.
“Is that what it’s about?” I ask because she weirdly hasn’t answered me. “The pie contest.”
“Not exactly, although entering is a great idea. You’re becoming quite the baker, Lily.”
Mom pushes her dark hair off her forehead. Like me, she’s good at staying neat, so I’m surprised to see strands of hair sticking out of her ponytail. She haphazardly slices her apples, creating a mix of halfcentimeter and full-centimeter slices.
Alarmed, I glance at the mess of apples. “Mom, they’re too thick. And too thin.”
“What? Oh. It’s fine.” Her smile is extra bright. With her long hair and freckled nose, she looks like a carefree teenager. But she’s not. She’s thirty-five and a worrier. So the way she’s acting right now makes no sense. She’s always reminding me that texture is everything with a pie. If the slices are too thin, the texture is off. Too thick and the pie will feel chunky.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She sets down the knife and scoops the apple pieces into a colander. “I won the fellowship!” she trills.
“What are you talking about?”
“Someone dropped out of the program. So as the alternate, I’m going to Morocco for a year in her place!”
“What?! They can’t do this to you! It’s so last minute. They can’t tell you no, then suddenly yes. They should have picked you in the first place.” Last fall, Mom had applied to a yearlong fellowship in Rabat, Morocco, to help organize a conference on women’s rights and health. She was excited about it because her grandfather was Moroccan, but she knows very little about the culture and wants to learn.
“You told them no, right?”
“I said yes.”
“Mom, how could you?! There’s no time.” My heart pulses in my ears.
“There’s over two weeks.”
“How am I going to get ready, or tell my friends goodbye?”
“Don’t worry. You’re not going with me.” She jostles the colander as if she can bang the juice right out of the apples. “We went over this last year. It’s a twelve-month fellowship in the capital. I’ll be living in a very small apartment, and I’m going to be working twenty-four seven. It’s just not set up for families.”
“How long have you known?” My voice is shrieky even in my own ears.
“Honey, I just got the phone call.” A giant smile grows on my mom’s face. She seems super happy about leaving her only kid. “And it just worked out.”
“Worked out?”
“We’ll be in constant contact and you’ll be with your dad.”
“Yeah, and his new-and-improved family.” A couple of weeks ago, I got back from spending two months with my dad, and now I have to go back? My hands tremble, and my mom looks pale. Probably because I’m implying that my stepmother is an improvement over her. And that’s not true. My hand cups my mouth. Usually I’m good about keeping mean things inside.
But not today.
Mom is seriously the most incredible person I know. She works full-time as an administrator at a women’s health clinic, goes to school, and always has time for me. Plus, she doesn’t ever completely lose it. She wasn’t always that way, though.
Before my parents got divorced, they fought a lot. It wasn’t good. And I promised myself I would never ever be like them. I would never explode or argue. I’d keep my feelings safely inside.
I remember my parents getting into a huge argument on the plane when we were traveling to see my grandma in Virginia. Unfortunately, they were sitting on either side of me, and I couldn’t pretend to need to go to the bathroom because the seat belt sign was on.
It was bad. It was loud. It was embarrassing. And it was all about leaving a cell phone charger in the airport waiting area.
Dad had waved his arms.
Mom had thrown an entire packet of mini pretzels. I later found a pretzel in my hair.
Everyone around us had stared, including the very cute boy across the aisle. I vowed that I would never lose control like that. I would be legendary for my calmness.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say softly. And very calmly. “I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t expecting this. To live with Dad full-time and for you to be away. Very away.”
“I know.” Color returns to her face. “Lily, remember to live like the mountain is out.”
I nod and try not to cry. It’s a saying we have in Tacoma. It means to live like it’s a clear sunny day, when you can see Mount Rainer, which looms snowpeaked over the city. Sometimes you can’t see the mountain because of the weather, but you know it’s close by. This situation is way different, though. Mom will truly be far away.
Suddenly, I’m dying to talk my best friend, Keisha. She’ll be super surprised that Mom would leave so last minute, since, like me, Mom’s a planner.
This year, Mom and I were supposed to enter our pie and win first place.
She was going to show me how to knit.
The only thing I was supposed to worry about was whether Ethan Sanarov, a super awesome eighth grader who I’ve been afraid to talk to, could be more than just a secret crush.
This year wasn’t supposed to be like this.
As soon as I can, I text Keisha and tell her to meet me at Jefferson Park by the giant sequoia. I let her know it’s urgent. The tree is our usual spot. It’s far away from the little kids in the water spray area and the playground.
Listening to the shush-shush of the sprinklers in the water park, I watch for Keisha. It feels like it takes forever, but I finally see her ride up and dump her bike in the nearby grassy field. I hurriedly motion for her to sit next to me.
W
When Keisha asks me what’s going on, I do my best to fill her in on the details without crying.
After giving me a huge hug, she gives me her intense Keisha eye lock and grabs my hands. “It’s going to be hard being separated from your mom. That’s some rough stuff.”
“I know.” I sniffle but I don’t cry.
“You got this, Lily. Seriously. You can do anything.” She pauses.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“But if you want to scream, go ahead. You’ll just scare some leaves off the trees.”
Even though I have a lump wedged in my throat, I snort.
Suddenly Keisha points and shrieks. “Look! There’s Ethan. He’s playing basketball.”
“Are you serious?” I feel my eyes bug as I steal a glance at my ratty sweatpants.
“Actually, I lied. I just said that to cheer you up some more. I hated seeing you look so sad.”
“Well, hearing that Ethan—The Ethan—Mr. Beautiful Ethan with his shiny blond swimmer hair is standing in the same park when I’m looking like pond scum doesn’t make me happy!”
“Sorry. It was meant to be a get-to-your-happy-place thought.” She peers at my torn-up tie-dye t-shirt. It’s not like me to just thrown any old thing on and she knows it. Usually, I like to put some thought into what I wear. “I freaked you out,” says Keisha with a sigh. “How about this happy thought? You can video chat and email with your mom. And probably call a whole bunch.”
“Yes, but it’s not the same! Look, it’s not like I don’t love my dad, it’s different.”
“At least Kimberly’s nice. You’ve even said so yourself. And Hannah’s, um, interesting.”
Dad and Kimberly met on some dating app last summer. (A dating app that I showed him how to use! When it comes to phones, he’s normally clueless.) That fall, he introduced me to Kimberly and her daughter Hannah, who I already semi-knew because she’s a year ahead of me at Carlton Middle, a huge school where it’s hard to actually know the kids who are in different grades. Well, other than by reputation. But Hannah, with purple streaks in hair, is hard to miss. She’s known for her creativity. But not her modesty. Somehow she manages to do theater, excel at art, and is a very competitive swimmer.
On the other hand, I’m not a superstar at anything. Unlike Hannah, I don’t go to some special camp for the gifted and talented. I’m nice. I’m not popular but I’m not unpopular, either. I play the flute and like pie baking. Oh, and I do well in school, not because I’m some genius, but because I always do my homework, and I try really hard.
Grades are probably the only area where I beat Hannah. I’ve overheard Kimberly complain that Hannah’s grades are uneven. We all know Hannah is smart, but somehow, she’s always behind on assignments.
I’m never been behind on anything. I’m not the kind of person who can improvise or do anything the last minute so I like to stay on schedule.
In the fall, I’ll start seventh grade and Hannah will be in eighth, so we’re pretty much in different worlds.
Last April, Dad moved out of his apartment and into Kimberly’s townhouse, and then they got married in May. Which meant I had a chance to have a lot of awkward dinners with Hannah, but hardly any alone time with her since it was always the four of us. Plus, over the summer, Hannah was away at camp and visiting relatives, so we’ve never actually lived together.
“I think calling Hannah interesting is being really generous,” I say to Keisha. “More like unfriendly. And how about just plain rude?” The few times we’ve hung out, Hannah was either on her phone or drawing on her iPad. She’s seemed completely uninterested in me, like she was pretending I didn’t exist.
“Well, she is older, and last year we were just sixth graders,” says Keisha. “Maybe now that you’re about to be a seventh grader, it’ll be different. Think about how well everything went this summer when you were living at your dad’s.”
“Yeah, because Hannah was away at art camp.”
“Things will change once you get a chance to really know her.”
“You sound just like my mom.”
“That’s because I’m awesome. And she’s awesome.”
“I know,” I say. It’s true. Keisha’s always been there for me, and so has Mom.
My mom is a seriously supportive person.
She helped me when I quit tae kwon do to focus on playing the flute. When I thought I lost Keisha because of a stupid misunderstanding. When I needed wrist surgery and couldn’t go on our sixth-grade class field trip to the Woodland Park Zoo, instead we went to a paint-your-own-ceramic place and made supercool zoo plates. The list of her awesomeness is endless.
And that’s exactly why I don’t want her to go away.
The sky is vanilla white.
When I look up, there’s no sun or mountain in sight.
Chapter Two
TAKEOFFS AND PROMISES
Two weeks later, I’m standing with Mom at Sea-Tac Airport in front of international departures. It’s Labor Day weekend and the airport is mobbed. Uber drivers and shuttle buses load and unload. Dad’s circling around so we have time to say our goodbye.
Mom has two large suitcases as well as a carry-on. She holds out her phone and takes a selfie with me.
She’s smiling, beaming actually, and I’m not. Well, I’m trying to be happy, but I know it looks forced.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she says over the roar of planes taking off and landing.
Neither can I. “Will you send me the photo?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“You might not have Wi-Fi on the plane.”
“Doing it now.” Mom taps her phone. “Sent.”
She gives me a huge hug and I don’t want to let her go. My throat feels thick. “I’m happy for you, Mom,” I say. And that’s true, at least partly.
“This is something I’ve dreamed about forever. I’m still pinching myself. It’s like waking up and realizing you’re getting that gold on the other side of the rainbow.”
For as long as I can remember, she’s always wanted to travel and work internationally, especially in Morocco.
She shakes her head with an awestruck expression. “Always go for it, Lily. Never give up. Never. Even when it seems like everything’s against you.” Her cheeks are Jonathan apple red. She’s seriously glowing.
“I won’t,” I say, thinking about how Mom got pregnant with me when she was a senior in college, and she told me how hard it was to finish her degree. But she did it.
She smoothes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Honey, I get this isn’t … this isn’t going to be easy for you. But I know you’re strong and will learn a lot.” She places her arm around my shoulder. “Let’s look at this way: I want to go. I don’t want you to be miserable. This will be an opportunity to try new things, make stronger bonds—starting with your stepsister.”
“Yeah, I guess that part’s good.”
“More than good. Great! Hannah’s so creative. You could have fun together. You know those watercolor pencils Grandma sent you? You two can do that together. Or maybe make an About Me collage. Or greeting cards to mail to a certain person who’s going to be overseas—hint hint. And you know Kimberly’s nice. Maybe you can show her and Hannah how to bake.”
“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know if they’re into that sort of thing.”
Some guy jumps out of a van and practically runs over my toes with his luggage.
“It’d just be another way to get close,” continues Mom. “I understand Kimberly’s really into scrapbooking. Maybe she can help you decorate your room. She has a wonderful design sense. I think you all will have a great time! And they just got that cute dog.”
“Maybe,” I say, and somehow my mom’s enthusiasm is working a little bit. Thinking about Maisie, an adorable goldendoodle, helps.
Unclenching my hands, I give a tentative smile.
“Try to really make this new”—she pauses—“living situation all work out.” She looks so earnest, so hopeful as she reaches out a hand to me, that I can’t help but feel hopeful, too. “Promise me you’ll try your very best.”
