Jumble Pie - free eBook - Jumble Pie by Melanie Lynne Hauser

IN THE BEGINNING, there was the pie. The pie was without form and texture (and any manner of identifiable filling), and darkness was upon the face of the Home Ec Teacher.

And the girl said to her cooking partner, “Let there be chocolate chips;” and there were chocolate chips. And the girl saw that the chocolate chips were good, and mixed the chocolate chips with the cherries (and the Karo syrup). The girl called the pie Jumble Pie. And it was warm, and it was runny (though still without form and texture). And it was good.

And the girl said to her partner, “Now that we have the pie, this Jumble Pie, let there be a firmament formed in the midst of the darkness that is upon the face of the Home Ec Teacher, and the Math Teacher, and the School Bus Driver and all the stuck-up cheerleaders in their short little skirts.” And it was so. And the girl called the firmament friendship.

And the girl said, “Let this friendship be long and fruitful, a beacon to shine upon the darkness of unrequited love and failed attempts to pass Drivers’ Ed and disastrous haircuts and the endless, inexplicably successful, incarnations of Madonna in the years to come.” And it was so. And the girl saw that the friendship was good.

Until, Lo! Like Adam, it was her fate to be expelled from this paradise, to roam the earth angered and alienated and puzzled and misunderstood, and, finally, alone. And all because of an apple – not figuratively, as one might expect, but literally. An apple (Granny Smith, I believe) dangled by the serpent, whose name is well-known to all concerned but which shall not taint these pages, or, in truth, the memory of the first fragrant fruits of the friendship.

But all of this was to come later.

First, there was the pie. And it was warm, and it was runny.

And it was good.

Chapter 1
Juliet, 1999

Oh, for corn’s sake. Is she going on about that – excuse my French – damned pie again?

It’s just a pie. That’s all. And really, if you consult a cookbook, it’s not even a pie. It’s a mess, that’s what it is. And it always has been – a mess.

But no. It’s not a mess. It’s not, really, merely a pie. No, not to her. It is a symbol. It is the subject of many epic poems and works of prose. It is, above all else, a metaphor.

I can hear her, always. No matter how long it’s been, no matter how many times I’ve tried to give her the right answer. And still it’s never enough. “It’s a metaphor, Juliet,” she’ll say, her green eyes narrowing, challenging, pushing. “Do you even know what a metaphor is?”

Well, of course I do. But even now, there’s something about those eyes that can make me stop to think before I answer, that can make me wonder if I’ve forgotten everything I’ve ever known. Even now, she can make me feel so unsure, so unformed. So helplessly – new.

Everything that she is not, nor ever has been. Even back when she was twelve (or was it thirteen?).

But then bit by bit, piece by piece, I’ll reconstruct who I am now. My hands will reach for the ends of my hair to twirl, and then I’ll remember – it’s shorter now. Not so soft. I’ll start to smile, careful not to open my mouth because of my braces – and I’ll run my tongue across my teeth and be surprised to find them smooth and straight. And I’ll think, Oh, right, they’re off. They have been for a long time. I’m twenty-nine. Almost thirty! I’m married, I own a house. And I’m happy.

Everything, even at twenty-nine, that she is not. And that breaks my heart, although I can never let her see. She’s kind of, oh, prickly about that sort of thing.

But there’s just so much, these last few years, that she doesn’t want to see. So much that she just can’t let herself understand…

Like tonight. The way she barged in here – although she was invited, of course she was! In the end, I realized there was no way I could celebrate the Millennium without Em.

But this party was different from the ones we used to throw back in high school. We’re supposed to be adults now. We can do a little better than a keg and nine bags of M&M’s and the pie.

Great Caesar’s ghost! The inevitable blow-up in the kitchen – because she brought the ingredients for the pie, of course she did. Even though I specifically asked her not to.

“You didn’t mean that,” she assured me as she started to unpack everything in her usual way – just tossing things about the counters, not folding the paper bag up properly.

“Yes, I believe she did,” Sabra insisted.

Oh, I know, I know! It was my fault, inviting both Em and Sabra to the same party. I should have learned this by now. But it’s the Millennium. It only happens once!

Em didn’t blink. She just kept talking to me, as if Sabra wasn’t standing right there next to the stove, her fists parked on her hips.

“We always have the pie. Don’t we, Juliet? It’s something that some people just can’t understand. It’s our secret handshake, our nom’de’plume. Our metaphor.” She caught my eye and smiled her special Em smile – wrinkling her nose and showing her front teeth like a beaver.

“But, Em, tonight – my party – it’s not really–”

“Appropriate,” Sabra interrupted. “Here.” She handed me the Apple Pie a la Rob Petrie. “We already made dessert. It’s apple – Granny Smith. With a smattering of walnuts.”

“Right!” I grabbed a knife. “You’ll love it! You love walnuts, don’t you? And really, Em, you didn’t have to bother – although it was very sweet of you. But you’re my guest tonight! Maybe we can hook up tomorrow, make the pie then? And anyway…” I nodded toward the dining room, where everyone was waiting.

For my pie. Mine. Not mine and Em’s. For my pie, from my recipe, in my cookbook.

“But –” Em dropped a bag of chocolate chips on the counter. Then she snapped her head up and turned to me with those eyes, that glare, and I grabbed the ends of my hair like a lifeline.

“Oh, for corn’s sake – oh, all right, Em. Leave it. We’ll do it later, OK?”

“Jules.” Sabra gave me her ironic look, the one where you can see the question marks in her eyebrows. I stopped, considered my messy counters, let go of my hair and for once remembered who I am right now.

“No, Em.” I shook my head and all the tangles, inside and out, worked themselves free. “No. We’ll make the pie tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow won’t be the same, Juli-”

“It’ll be more fun tomorrow, Em. You know? Just the two of us?”

“But tomorrow will be too late, it’s tonight that –”

“Em.”

She clamped her mouth shut and took a big breath; I could see her shoulders heave. Then she started shoving all the ingredients back inside the bag – and things started spilling, the sugar, the chocolate chips rolled all over the place, she knocked the Karo syrup over and it shattered when it hit the floor. The flour bag broke open and in an instant my new counters and cabinets – from our Beverly Hillbillies-inspired line – were coated with a fine dust of snow, Em was covered too, it even frosted her curls.

“Em! Oh, Em – wait a minute, Em –”

“Let her go, Jules.” Sabra caught my arm but she wasn’t angry anymore; she just looked sad. Sometimes I think she understands Emily better than I do. That’s what makes me so crazy about this feud that’s been going on between them since before God made trees. I think, deep down, they have a lot in common. I think, deep down, they’d make good friends.

“Yes, let me go. It’s not even the Millennium, not technically. And come to think of it, I don’t feel like being surrounded by drunken revelers tonight.” Em paused at the back door, whipping around to face us – and a little cloud of flour flew out of her hair. “I choose to use this time to reflect. To take stock of my life. I’d really rather be alone, tonight.”

“Oh, Em! Please, not again, you’re not leaving again! Just this once –”

But the door had already slammed; people were waiting for me in the next room. And there I stood in my messy kitchen with a pie in my hand.

And you know what? I couldn’t help but consider this a metaphor. And I couldn’t help but remember that it was Emily, all those years ago, who taught me to appreciate the significance of this kind of moment.

Sabra squeezed my arm and smiled, her eyes tired and understanding. I tried to smile back, but I couldn’t.

Through the doorway I could see everyone gathered around my dining room table, laughing, chatting, their glasses lifted in a toast. The crystal sparkled, catching fragments of light from the chandelier and scattering them about the room. It seemed like I was about to walk into a picture – or a mirror. A beckoning, shimmering mirror illuminated with radiance. And suddenly I knew – if I walked through this magical looking glass I could never go back. I could never return to who I used to be, that scared little girl, that girl Em needed me to remain.

I took a step, stopped. Sabra hissed something in my ear but I couldn’t understand it, because all of a sudden I just wanted to throw the pie on the counter and run after Em. I wasn’t sure what I would do if I found her – either hug her to death, or shake her until all the kinks in her hair straightened out.

All I knew was that it wasn’t right without her. I needed her beside me, pie or no pie; I needed to bring her with me through that looking glass, the next logical step on this journey we started together back when we were thirteen – no! It was twelve. I remember now, because we used to talk about how old we’d be in the year 2000. We’d be thirty! Ancient! We couldn’t begin to imagine it, not even Em. And she had a very vivid imagination.

But I didn’t. I relied on hers, for far too long.
Because back then I was so young, so uncertain. So eager to learn…