“Verdict?” Kat asks as he swallows.
“I think that was banana cream,” he says. “What’s our rating scale? Are we doing out of five or out of ten?”
“Five, it’s easier,” says Gideon, as I reach across the table and swipe a piece of what I’m pretty sure is lemon meringue.
“Three and a half stars, then.”
“If you’re going to give half stars, rate them out of ten,” Kat says.
“Seven and a half stars,” Silas says, scooping up another piece of pie and grinning at her.
Kat opens her mouth, closes it, sighs, and reaches across the table for the chocolate pie.
“You’re impossible,” she says.
“You like it,” Silas says, looking pleased as anything with his mouth full of pie, and Kat laughs and rolls her eyes but doesn’t disagree.
It’s Friday night, and Debbie’s Diner is pretty full, mostly with teenagers who probably have nowhere better to go in Sprucevale. It’s a little loud but in a bright, fun way that makes me think of house parties in the suburbs that I wasn’t supposed to go to when I was that age and did. It’s a far cry from the constant noise and light of Brooklyn, something I loved when I was younger.
I don’t think I miss it, now. Sometimes I feel like I should, though.
Next to me, Gideon frowns, pointing his fork at a pie.
“That’s not strawberry,” he proclaims.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. An abomination,” he says. “It’s—grape, or something?”
Obviously, the rest of us all reach for it at once. It’s sort of red-pink-purple and creamy, and I put it into my mouth while watching Gideon’s face. He looks apprehensive.
It is not a good pie.
“I did warn you,” he points out as I chew. I’m probably making a face.
“Whatisthat?” Kat asks.
“It tastesred,” I say, still wrinkling my nose and trying to figure out what that even means. “You know how sometimes candy or soda or whatever is strawberry or cherry or watermelon but sometimes it just tastes… red?”
“Like Gatorade,” Silas says, and Kat looks profoundly unhappy.
“Right. This tastes like red pie.”
Thoughtfully, Gideon pokes the remainder with his fork.
“Careful,” Kat warns, and he snorts.
“Just curious,” he says.
“That’s pretty bad,” Silas says, reaching for another bite. We all watch him put it in his mouth. “But a good kind of bad?”
“It’s all yours,” Gideon says, already moving on.
We eat the pies, and then we rank the pies. Silas places the red pie suspiciously high on his list, and I’m pretty sure he’s doing it to get under Kat’s skin, but he looks so happy when she tells him he has awful taste that I can’t judge. I can’t judge too hard, at least.
They’re still debating pie rankings when I slide out of the booth to hit the bathroom before we leave. I’m at the sink, washing my hands and wondering whether that red pie dyed my tongue or if it’s just my imagination when a woman appears behind me. She’s staring hard enough in the mirror that I stop what I’m doing, the water running, for a moment.
It’s been years and years since I last saw her, but way less than that since I heard her name. I think.
