“That’s because they make their own cider and doughnuts. Come on! I’ll
show you,” said Alex, leading the way through the crowd to a weathered red
barn. Inside, kids were gathered around an old-fashioned doughnut press
next to tables lined with jugs of cider.
“Yum!” Charlotte exclaimed. “It’s too bad that Brooklyn had to miss this
for practice.”
“We’ll bring her some cider,” suggested Ms. DeRose. The plan was to buy
apples and help Brooklyn make some pies for her soccer team’s upcoming
bake sale.
Alex and Charlotte each took a basket, then boarded a horse-drawn
wagon for a short ride to the orchard. As they jostled along, Charlotte read the
farm’s apple fact sheet. “It says Granny Smiths are great for pies.”
“Let’s get the kind for applesauce, too,” Alex suggested. “Mom and I made
some last year. Mmm!”
Charlotte scanned the page. “They recommend Golden Delicious for
applesauce. And McIntosh apples are for snacks. We could take those to
school for lunch.”
The wagon drew to a stop, and the girls scrambled down. They followed
a sign marked “Golden Delicious” to a row of trees full of butter-colored
apples with tiny freckles. After filling half of Alex’s basket, they found the
McIntoshes. When Charlotte’s basket was half full of the rosy red apples, they
moved on to Granny Smiths.
“It takes three whole apples to make two cups of peeled, sliced apples.
And you need six cups for a pie,” said Charlotte. “That’s nine apples per pie.”
“Brainiac,” teased Alex.
“So we’ll need twenty-seven Granny Smiths for three pies,” Charlotte
calculated as they plucked bright green apples from the branches. Once both
baskets were full, Ms. DeRose helped them lug the fruit to the barn to be
weighed. Then she treated them to cider and doughnuts.
“Look, they have farm animals!” Charlotte exclaimed. “Let’s go see.”
As they neared the fence, a goat stretched its head up toward Charlotte.
“He likes you,” said Alex.
“Think so?” asked Charlotte. Delighted,
she leaned over the fence. The next thing
she knew, the goat grabbed one of her
braids in its mouth.
“Hey! My hair!” she exclaimed,
trying to tug her thick, dark tresses
away.
“Sweetie Pie!” cried a boy in a
Whitmore Farm T-shirt, hurrying
toward them.
Charlotte thought the boy was
talking to her until he scooped
up the goat and eased the animal’s
mouth open.
“Sorry about that,” said the boy, as
Charlotte surveyed the soggy strands of
hair and Alex fought back giggles. “He loves
long hair.”
Sweetie Pie rubbed his head against the boy’s
shoulder affectionately, then stretched it out toward Charlotte.
“Aw, he’s cute,” said Charlotte. The words had barely left her lips when the
goat chomped down on her other braid.
“Oh, no! Bad goat!” scolded the boy as he repeated the rescue operation.
Giving in to laughter, Alex threw her arm around her friend’s shoulders
and led her back to the car. By the time they got home, Charlotte was chuck-
ling, too. Both girls were eager to tell Brooklyn, who was waiting on the front
steps of Alex’s house.
“Sweetie Pie must be really sick of apples if he’d rather eat people’s
braids!” Brooklyn laughed. “Speaking of apples, did you get pie crust?”
“Whoops. With all the excitement, we forgot to buy the other ingredi-
ents,” Ms. DeRose apologized. “I’ll run to the store now. We can start peeling
and baking as soon as I get back. In the meantime, you girls wash the apples.”
Brooklyn hoisted the bags onto Alex’s kitchen counter and began remov-
ing the fruit. “Why’d you get three kinds?” she asked.
“One’s good for pies. Another is for applesauce,” Alex explained.
“The third kind is for snacks.”
“Cool,” said Brooklyn. “Which one’s which?”
“Um . . .,” Alex hesitated. “I guess ingredients
aren’t the only thing we forgot.”
“The red ones are not for applesauce,” said
Charlotte. “That’s all I remember.”
How can the girls figure
out which apple is best
for which purpose?
How to Scare
a Zombie
“WANT . . . BRAINS,” moaned Charlotte in her zombie voice, stomping
stiff-legged across Brooklyn’s bedroom.
“People don’t usually give those to trick-or-treaters around here,” quipped
Alex, who was dressed as a mermaid and painting elaborate tiger stripes on
Brooklyn’s face.
“BRAAAAINS!” repeated Charlotte.
“I’d give you Dale’s brain, but he hasn’t got one,” said Brooklyn, inspecting
her reflection approvingly. “I can’t believe he planned a sleepover for the same
night I did!”
“Dale’s not that bad,” laughed Charlotte, resuming her normal voice.
“Yep. He’s worse,” Brooklyn replied.
“We’re still going to have an amazing night!” Charlotte assured her. In two
years of living abroad, she’d missed Halloween a lot. And the Patricks’ house