“Uh, okay.”I glanced at the door that led outside—and offered convenient access to the windowsill where the cupcakes in question were cooling.“Maybe I’ll go for a walk—”
He stretched out one foot and pushed a chair into my path.His knife looked very sharp.
“Okay, okay,” I said.And then, once again, my genius came to my assistance.I pulled out my phone as though I’d just gotten a message, grimaced, and said, “Never mind.It looks like I’m going to gas up the Jeep and get ready for a trip to the emergency room.”
Keme arched his eyebrows in a wary question.
“I guess Millie brought a skateboard over, and now she wants someone to teach her.”
I’d barely gotten the words out of my mouth before Keme launched himself from the table, knife forgotten, and sprinted toward the front of the house.
Another thing about teenagers?They’re walking hormone factories.
As I slipped into the kitchen, I considered that I might be able to make the world a better place if I used my powers for good.Then I decided cupcakes were a concrete, specific good, and that was enough for me.
Cakes and pies and trifles and bar cookies and regular cookies and tarts and crisps and, yes, dear God, whoopie pies covered every inch of the counter.And there, still cooling on the windowsill, the fresh air mixing the smell of the ocean with the spiced sweetness of the baked goods, were the cupcakes.Browned-butter apple cupcakes.Twenty-four of them.And nobody would miss just one.
I’d just picked one up when voices came from the butler’s pantry.A woman’s voice I didn’t recognize was saying, “—don’t know how much this means to us every year.Most people donate the cheapest thing they can buy, and we’re grateful, of course, but it’s a special treat for everyone who uses the food pantry when they get something you’ve made.Especially at Thanksgiving.”
Her voice became clearer as she and Indira stepped through the doorway.Followed, of course, by Bobby.
Indira said, “Thank you for offering to help load everything, Bobby, and—Dash?”
“Hey.Hi.Hello.”
Bobby wasn’t one for rolling his eyes, but I could see the toll it was taking.
“I was just going to say,” I said slowly, buying myself time, “that I was going to help you load everything too.”
“Really?”Bobby said.
“Yes, really.”
He looked at the cupcake I was holding.“One cupcake at a time?”
I glared at him.“I mean, sure, if I have to.I wasn’t, uh, clear on the protocol.”
Indira looked like she was trying not to smile.
“It’s so lovely,” the woman said, “to see a group of friends who have truly embraced the spirit of the season.”
As carefully as I could, I set the cupcake down and, ignoring the look on Bobby’s face, I even managed to say, “Happy Thanksgiving.”
2
It was the day before Thanksgiving, and somehow, Fox had talked me into skipping lunch (the third most important meal of the day) and instead doing…this.
Thisbeing, apparently, a historical-ish (Fox’s word)tableau vivantstaged on a flatbed truck in a warehouse.I was confused about the warehouse part—it was dark, it was cold, it smelled like motor oil, and I had no idea who was going to come here to see the tableau.I was also confused about the historical part.
“I don’t understand why I’m wearing a turkey costume,” I said and flapped my wings.
“Because you’re a turkey,” Fox said.
“Right, yeah, I got that, but I don’t think there were anthropomorphized turkeys the size of an adult male, you know, at the historical Thanksgiving.”
“That’s why I said historical-ish.What happened to your claw?”
“I don’t think turkeys have claws,” Bobby said.Bobby wasn’t wearing a costume.Bobby wasn’t even on the flatbed.Bobby was standing by Fox on the floor of the warehouse, eyes suspiciously alight with what I suspected was amusement.
