Cake

Love, chickens, and a taste of peculiar

By Joyce Magnin

Release Date: 12/25/2012

Price: $14.99

Spunky, smart, twelve-year-old Wilma Sue moves into her fifth foster home---this time
to live with two quirky sisters. The sisterss house has something shes never known---
love. Well, love and chickens and maybe a little magic---or so it appears. But mostly its
the love.

About the Author

Joyce Magnin is the author of five novels, including the popular and quirky Brights Pond
Series, Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus, and the middle grade novel, Carrying Mason. She
is a frequent conference speaker and writing instructor. Joyce lives in Pennsylvania with
her son, Adam, and their crazy cat, Mango, who likes to sit on her desk.

Find Joyce on Facebook, Twitter, and on her website:
http://joycemagnin.blogspot.com/

ZONDERKIDZ
Cake
Copyright 2012 by Joyce Magnin Moccero
Illustrations copyright Olga & Aleksey Ivanov
This title is also available as a Zondervan ebook.
Visit www.zondervan.com/ebooks.
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zonderkidz, 5300 Patterson Ave., SE Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Moccero, Joyce Magnin.
Cake : love, chickens, and a taste of peculiar / Joyce Magnin.
p. cm.
Summary: Wilma Sue is wary of the eccentric sisters, Ruth and Naomi, at her
new foster home, but wonders if she might have a true home with them, baking and
delivering cakes and tending their chickens, until she is implicated in a series of
neighborhood crimes.
ISBN 978-0-310-73333-1 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Foster home care Fiction. 2. Conduct of life Fiction. 3. Eccentrics and
eccentricities Fiction. 4. Bakers and bakeries Fiction. 5. Neighbors Fiction.
6. Chickens Fiction. 7. Sisters Fiction. I. Title.
PZ7.M71277Cak 2013
[Fic]dc23
2012037297
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, King
James Version, KJV.
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are
offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement
by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers
for the life of this book.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopy,
recording, or any other except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior
permission of the publisher.
Zonderkidz is a trademark of Zondervan.
Art direction: Cindy Davis
Cover illustration: Gayle Raymer
Interior Illustrations: Olga & Aleksey Ivanov
Interior design: Greg Johnson/Textbook Perfect
Printed in the United States of America
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For my son, Adam

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Chapter

1
Hope is the thing with feathers . . .
Emily Dickinson

irds have hollow bones. Thats how they can fly.

Sometimes I wish I had hollow bones so I could fly. I would
fly so far away no one would ever find me. I would fly to the
highest mountain on the furthest continent. I would perch there
and wait for just the right air current to come my way, and then
Id fly some more. Id fly over oceans and farms fat with corn
and wheat and cows. Id rise with the air and fall with my wings
outstretched so wide youd think they might snap . . . but they
wont. My wings are strong.

That night I stayed awake. I didnt want to sleep. I knew if I

did the morning would come too fast. So I kept myself awake,
awake dreaming about flying over the ocean and watching the
waves build and roll and crash on the shore. Awake dreaming

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Joyce Magnin
that I could fly over the Great Redwood Forest. That I could
fly above the green tree canopy where salamanders live on the
branches of the worlds tallest trees.
I flap my wings but only a few times so I wont get tired.
Mostly I rest on the air currents like dandelion seeds. Mostly I
fly with only the wind under my wings.
Miss Tate arrived the next morning. Shes my social worker
from Miss Daylilys Home for Children, or Miss Daylilys Home
for Unwanted and Misunderstood Children. Thats what I call
it. I lived there before I went to live with the Crums. Actually,
Ive lived at Miss Daylilys Home off and on since I was a baby,
but Ill tell you more about that later.
The Crums dont want me anymore. So Miss Tate tall,
dark, and skinny like a Slim Jim is taking me to a new foster
home.
Lester and Mauveleen Crum have had me long enough, they
said. Time for someone else to take over. Reason one: Lester
won a boatload of money in the lottery, and now he wants to
take Mauveleen on a trip around the world. They dont have
room for me to go along, even though I am small, like a wren.
They only have room for their three real children. Mauveleen
said Id just be in the way.
Reason two: I put shaving cream inside Lolas pillowcase.
Shes the oldest Crum child. I put honey on one of the kitchen
chairs, and Lester sat in it. And I rigged a small bucket of water
over a doorjamb, and it rained down on Lola.
So I had kind of a record with them. Mauveleen said they
couldnt have a prankster along on the trip, and they were sending me back. Fortunately, Miss Tate told me she had some people
who were interested in taking me right away, so I wouldnt need
to go back to the home. No siree, Bob! I was going straight from
the Crum house to my new foster family.

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Cake
Come on, Wilma Sue, Miss Tate called from downstairs. Its
time to go.
I had one suitcase. The same one I carried into the Crum
house three years ago. Its brown with wrinkled leather that
reminds me of cracked sidewalks and trees and maps of places
Id like to see. I crammed my book Emily of New Moon inside,
along with my most secret possessions: a spiral-bound journal
where I write my deepest thoughts, and the dictionary I won in
a fourth-grade spelling bee. Ever since then, words have become
my hobby. Im always looking up new ones and figuring out
a way to use them during the day. I also crammed my walkaround notebook into my back pocket because I never know
when the flash will strike. Thats what Emily, in Emily of New
Moon, called that sudden urge to express whats in your deepest
heart. Sometimes its like a lightning bolt; sometimes it comes
on slow, like Christmas.
Next, I stuffed a brown bear that Ive had forever inside my
suitcase and zipped it closed. I think I got the bear when I was a
baby, but I cant be sure. I dont remember too much about those
baby days. I just remember sounds. Loud sounds like crying or
muffled sounds like water running.
Im coming! I called. I took one more look around the little
bedroom that had been my nest at least a small part of it. Id
shared the room with Lola.
I lugged my suitcase down the steps. Lester Crum was out
getting a haircut. Mauveleen stood near the front door with
Miss Tate. Mauveleen wore her brand-new dress, hot pink with
black buttons. She had her hair all done up like a princess, complete with a diamond tiara. I knew she couldnt wait for me to
go so she could climb into her brand-new red Porsche and drive
away.

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Joyce Magnin
You take care, Wilma Sue, she said. It was good having
you.
I smiled at her. For a second I thought I should hug her,
but she was closed that morning, the way she was closed most
every day. Mauveleen Crum rarely looked me square in the eye,
unless it was to holler at me about some such thing that I might
or might not have had a hand in. And she always seemed to
stand with her arms crossed against her chest, the best way of
all to say, No hugs allowed. I had written in my notebook a
few months back, I will always look people in the eye and always be
ready to give out hugs.
I looked at Miss Tate. Her face reminded me of a walnut,
warm but wrinkly.
Can I help with your suitcase? Miss Tate asked.
No, thank you. Its not heavy, I said. I smiled just so shed
believe me. I figured a girls got to carry her own bag through
life.
We drove in Miss Tates van. It was black like midnight and
had the words

Miss Daylilys Home for Children

emblazoned on the side in big yellow letters. The van was
large enough to carry nine unwanted children. I was certain
that everybody we passed knew the kid in the backseat was
Unwanted and probably Misunderstood.
Miss Daylilys Home sat like a great stone factory with billowing smokestacks and chain-link fences in Philadelphia, all
the way down near the waterfront. I had lived there off and on
my entire life. Miss Tate said I arrived one cold winter day as a
baby. She found me on the front steps with a small note pinned
to my yellow blanket. The note said my name was Wilma Sue.
She and Miss Daylily took care of me until I went to live with the
McAllisters. Id been two years old when I went there, and the

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Cake
thought of Mrs. McAllister gave me a slight pain in my chest.
It was probably just heartburn, which I had pretty much all the
time when I lived at the Crum house. But after the McAllisters,
I lived at Miss Daylilys again for a whole year almost to the
day from the time I was eight until nine. And then I went to
live with the Crums.
Before Miss Tate took me to the Crum house, for a while
I was the oldest kid at Miss Daylilys, and Miss Daylily and
Miss Tate expected me to do a whole lot to earn my keep, like
change little Earls diaper. And when Miss Daylily told me to do
something, you betcha I jumped, cause otherwise shed have me
writing an entire essay on the origin of diapers or something.
Even so, I liked Miss Daylily. She was big and fat and wore
long skirts down to her ankles. She wore her hair in a large
gray bun that she secured to her head with two chopsticks, and
most of the time she smelled like cherry cola. She made the best
applesauce on the planet. And every once in a while, she would
hold me in her lap and read me a book.
As Miss Tate and I drove, we passed block after block of row
homes, some in better shape than others, with flower gardens
and wrought-iron fences and lawn gnomes. Some of the houses
we passed looked like ruins, with broken or missing windows
and doors hanging off their hinges like dislocated shoulders.
One house had yellow police tape stretched across the front
door.
We drove through the large shopping district they called
simply Forty-fifth Street, where I saw people on foot pushing
shopping carts or carrying tote bags. We finally made it out of
the city and into the suburbs. I knew this because I could see the
summer sky again, blue and cloudless.
Miss Tate didnt have much to say the whole way. Me neither. She did tell me three times that the weather was nice for
early summer, but shed heard rain was moving in later in the

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Joyce Magnin
day. She also looked at me in the rearview mirror, and I saw her
eyes were a little stern and thin. She said, Do your best to get
along in the new house, Wilma Sue. The most important thing
is to do your best to get along with everyone.
This is exactly what she told me when she took me to the
Crums. It was probably what she told me when she took me to
the McAllisters, too. And now she said it again.
Millie and Meg McAllister were very nice people. Millie
was the mother. My mother for all of six years.
Her husband, Mervin, died about two years before I got
there. They had one other daughter, Meg, and she was a lot
older than me. But that was okay. Meg treated me real nice. But
when Meg went away to college, Millie sent me back to Miss
Daylilys Home. I was so sad that day; I thought my heart would
break into a gazillion pieces.
Do you ever feel that way? So sad that you cant even stand
it another second and think for sure that your heart is breaking into a gazillion tiny pieces never to be put together again
ever? Thats how sad I felt when I left the McAllisters house. It
was the first time I wished I had hollow bones.

Did you hear me, Wilma Sue? Miss Tate asked. I said for you
to get along in the new house. She pointed her index finger into
the mirror. And no more pranks! I mean it, Wilma Sue. This is
a trial run. Just one infraction and back you go to the orphanage.
Thats the rule.
Yes, maam, I said as I watched out the van window as
neighborhoods of large houses whizzed past. Giant trees lined
most of the streets. No more pranks.
Then we turned onto a street called Bloomingdale Avenue.
I liked the name but decided it was too soon to say it out loud.
There were fewer cars on Bloomingdale Avenue and most were

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Cake
parked in driveways. We drove more slowly, and I noticed the
houses grew further and further apart. They had larger and
larger yards and longer fences. I thought maybe the longer the
fence, the richer the people who lived on the other side.
Here we are, Miss Tate said as she pulled up in front of a
big stone house. It looked creepy, like a haunted house, with
many roofs and porches and funny round windows like the
kind youd see on a ship. It sat on the corner of the street all
by itself.
This is the parsonage, Miss Tate said. Your new home.
Parsonage. I knew that word from all the time I spent
reading. Its where the pastor of a church lived. Am I going to
live with a pastor?
Miss Tate laughed a little. No. Not a pastor. Missionaries.
The church is letting them live in the house.
Oh.
Their names are Ruth and Naomi Beedlemeyer. Theyre
sisters. Never married. They lived in Africa until last year.
Africa? That part sounded extravagant. Imagine that,
Africa. I would like to fly to Africa. Are they black?
Miss Tate looked at me in the rearview mirror. No. Theyre
. . . theyre like you. They worked as missionaries in Africa.
I didnt know much about Africa, only what I learned in
school. While Miss Tate snagged some papers from her briefcase, I imagined flying over Africa like a pink flamingo, sleek
and fast, eyeing the continent for a lake.
I lugged my suitcase up the long cement path to the steps that
led to the front door. The whole house was made from stone
that looked like mica schist, great huge rocks with flecks of silver and gray that twinkled suddenly in the afternoon sun. The
house had many slanty roofs and windows and two crooked
chimneys. Even the roofs were covered with slate rock. I would
call it Gray House.

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Joyce Magnin
The Crums house was Black House. The house itself was
white with shutters the most awful shade of dark purple youd
ever seen. It was like the color of plums left in the refrigerator
too long. And when I walked inside, it was like walking into a
black, dark cave. At least that was how it felt. Somebody was
always fighting with somebody.
My favorite house so far was the McAllisters Yellow
House. It was sunshine yellow with black shutters, and walking
inside it was like walking into a field of Black-eyed Susans.
Gray House had several wind chimes that dangled from the
porch roof. But they were silent. There was no wind that day.
But I figured that if Miss Tate was right about the rain, then
Id probably get to hear the wind chimes tonight. I liked them.
They were birds suspended from long chains. Miss Tate was
just about to push the doorbell when the door flung open with
gusto.
Well, hello there! Come in. Come in. The woman, tall,
old, and smelling of buttercream frosting, stepped aside and
waved her arm with a flourish. She was barefoot. Welcome
home, Wilma Sue.
And then I saw a long cardboard sign made up of individual
letters hung on a piece of string draped across the mantel:

WE

L OME HOME
C

Each letter was gold. Only the C was crooked and hung by a
single strand of string.
I looked at Miss Tate.
Go on, Wilma Sue, say hello.
Hello.

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Cake

Here we are, Miss Tate said when she pulled up out front of a big stone house.
It looked creepy, like a haunted house, with many roofs and porches and funny
round windows like youd see on a ship.

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Joyce Magnin
That was when the other woman appeared. She was fatter
around the middle but with skinny ankles like a sparrow. Oh
my goodness gracious! Arent you just the sweetest little thing
to ever walk the earth? Come on over and sit down on the sofa.
She sat first and patted the seat next to her. She talked to me like
I was five.
I looked at Miss Tate. She moved her eyes in a way that told
me I should sit.
Isnt she darling, Naomi? the woman on the sofa said.
I felt like a Christmas present.
Yes, yes she is, the other woman said. Darling. Darling.
Darling.
I felt my eyes roll, even if I didnt show it.
And you must be Ruth, Miss Tate said to the woman on
the sofa.
Yes. Thats right. Im Ruth, and this, of course, is my sister
Naomi. She giggled with three fingers to her mouth. But I just
told you that, now didnt I? I must be nervous.
Miss Tate smiled with tight lips.
Are you thirsty, Wilma Sue? Naomi asked. We have
lemonade.
A minute later she returned with a tall, sweaty glass of lemonade. I sipped it as they all stared at me like I was the royal
food tester checking for poison. Its good. Thank you.
They all let go of their collective breath. Oh, and such nice
manners, Naomi said.
Good, good, Ruth said.

I tried to listen to what Miss Tate was telling Ruth and Naomi,
but after a while I stopped. The sisters house was kind of weird.
The sofa smelled like bread dough, and it was thin and lumpy,
like they had mice tucked away underneath the cushions.

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Cake
Strange and colorful blankets hung on the walls. One of the
blankets had a picture a sunset had been woven into it with
a silhouette of two giraffes in the foreground. It was pretty and
colorful, orange, red, purple, and yellow. I thought about the
person who might have made it and imagined that her hands
were thin and callused.
On the table next to me stood a lifelike wooden carving of a
tall, skinny black woman with a long face holding a naked baby
to her breast. The woman wore a long skirt, and even though it
was carved in wood, it flowed like ocean waves, like the woman
and her baby were standing on a mountaintop letting a warm
summer breeze swirl about them.
Ruth and Naomi had shelves and shelves of old books
crammed together with pottery bowls and cups and animal
statues tucked in places haphazardly, like the sisters never
gave a single thought to it. Like the tiny wooden animals chose
their own places. A tingle of excitement sparked in my belly at
the thought of all those books, but I quickly extinguished it. I
doubted Id be here long enough to read many of them.
The Crum house had been bookless, except for the ones I
brought from the public library.
Would you like a slice of cake? Ruth asked. She patted my
knee again. I decided she was a knee-tapper. Id have to live with
it if I wanted to get along. Getting along, said Miss Tate, was
important wherever I went. Getting along.
I popped back into the discussion. No, thank you. I lied. I
did want cake but I didnt want to sound eager.
Are you certain? Ruth asked. Are you quite certain?
Because its no trouble. No trouble at all. Is it, Naomi? She
looked at Naomi, who was whispering to Miss Tate.
What? Oh, certainly not, my dear. Cake is never a problem.
No. Im not hungry.
Just as well, Ruth said. It will be suppertime soon. She

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Joyce Magnin
put one of her long, thin hands on my knee again. You do eat
supper, dont you? She laughed and laughed.
We were all silent. I held my lemonade in both hands and let
the dewy condensation drip down my wrists. It felt cool. The
house was warm. I could feel my eyes darting around like lizard eyes. I couldnt help it; there was so much to see. I avoided
looking into Naomis eyes or Ruths eyes. But I could not avoid
Miss Tates eyes.
She stood and smoothed her skirt.
Well then, Miss Tate said. I should be going.
Ruth and Naomi stood.
I stood, still holding my glass.
Thank you, Ruth and Naomi said together.
Miss Tate nodded.
She looked at me. Ill call in a few days, Wilma Sue. See
how youre getting along.
I nodded and held my glass tighter, wishing my bones were
hollow.
We all walked her to the door. We watched Miss Tate climb
into the van and pull away. My stomach wobbled and a burp
formed in my throat. I held it in for as long as I could. Until
Miss Tate was out of sight.
Just then, I looked down at my lemonade and saw a goldfish
swimming around inside the glass. And not just a little one, but
the kind with big, bugged-out eyes. The fish seemed to say, Glub,
glub. It startled me so much that I let go of another giant burp and
dropped the glass. The fish flopped around on the blue shag carpet.
Theres a . . . a goldfish in my lemonade, I said.
Most interesting, Ruth said.
Naomi picked up my glass and scooped up the fish. Ill take
these to the kitchen.
I wanted to scream for Miss Tate. But I didnt.
I swallowed and walked back to the sofa on jelly legs.

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Also by Joyce Magnin

Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus
Carrying Mason
The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow
Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise
Griselda Takes Flight
Blame It on the Mistletoe

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