“I get that a lot.”
I eye him. “You realize if you actually told her that, she’d have me in a velvet cape before the day was out. Probably crowned ShadowDaddy Fae Lord of the Misty Meadows, eternal ruler of glitter and doom.”
Caspian snorts. “And you’d go along with it, too, because no one says no to Ann-Sabrina.”
I sigh. “Yes. That’s what terrifies me the most.”
COLE
It’s the annual Pie Pie Baywood charity event and the entire town square smells like cinnamon, cream cheese frosting and confusion.
Because no one really knows what we’re raising money for. A small stage has been set up near the gazebo, draped in what looks like repurposed prom decorations.
Behind it, a banner reads:
PIE PIE BAYWOOD: FOR THE CHILDREN, OR POSSIBLY THE LIBRARY ROOF
Officially, Pie Pie Baywood is a community bake sale and creative expression showcase. Unofficially, it’s just another day of Baywood chaos, only with more sugar.
I linger near a folding table selling peanut butter pie in Tupperware that predates me.
Noah’s skipping in short bursts between bake stands, his face already streaked with chocolate.
Mom is volunteering at the peach pie booth together with Caspian’s mom, and the pair is trying to out-Chanel one another.
When I went over to say hi, Mom took one look at me and asked, in genuine desperation: “Oh darling, what do you have against mirrors?”
The creative expression showcase, which is just a fancier way to say ‘open mic’ begins promptly at 3:07. Steve Pell is hosting.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, holding the mic upside down. “We’re kicking things off with a dramatic reading from Ann-Sabrina Fenton.”
Ann-Sabrina glides onstage in velvet and combat boots. She opens a dog-eared paperback and reads an excerpt fromA Court of Mist and Furylike it’s Shakespeare.
At the first mention of ‘undulating hips’, Harold, in what can only be described as an "accidental-on-purpose" move, knocks the book from her hands, and Steve swiftly takes the microphone back.
Scowling, Ann-Sabrina steps down from the stage to a round of polite applause and one overenthusiastic cheer from a boy who immediately pretends it wasn’t him.
Next up is Steve himself, doing stand-up.
“What do you call a pie that tells dad jokes?” he asks, already laughing. “A pun-kin pie.”
The crowd reacts like they’ve just been force-fed cold gravy. Steve continues, undeterred. “What do you call a pie that ghosts you after one date?” He pauses dramatically, and then — doubling down with laughter — snorts into the mic: “A disap-pie-rance!”
People stare. A toddler starts crying.
“Don’t worry, Steve!” Earl shouts encouragingly from the audience. “Maija says not everyone is gifted with humor!”
Eliot turns to me and mutters, “You know, in the 1930s, an entire town vanished after a bake-off turned violent.”
“I believe you,” I whisper.
Then Becky hops onstage with sheer determination, shouting into the mic: “Baywood Child Genius Club applications are now open! Ages 6 to 12. Parental consent is not required if your child is very convincing!”
Harold takes the mic from her. “I’m very tired,” he announces for some reason. “Please know that.”
Somewhere in the back, Henry is calmly photographing the event like a war correspondent. He’s juggling an old Polaroid and a vintage film camera like they’re extensions of his hands.
Noah’s babbling about all the pies he’s tasted, when Henry notices us. “You exist beautifully in backlighting,” he says.
