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  PRAISE FOR MIDSUMMER’S MAYHEM

  “A delectable treat for food and literary connoisseurs alike.”

  —Kirkus Reviews, STARRED REVIEW

  “What a wonderful, intriguing, and magical book. And wow, did it ever get my taste buds going! Each time I picked it up, I felt the urge to head to my kitchen. . . . What I loved most was the smartness of it. It never once doubted its young readers.”

  —Kathi Appelt, Newbery Honor- and National Book

  Award-nominated author

  “Midsummer’s Mayhem is an enchantment of a novel bursting with magic, mystery, and mouthwatering baked goods. Readers who have their own baking-show dreams will be cheering for Mimi until the very last page.”

  —Kate Messner, award-winning author of Breakout,

  The Seventh Wish, and All the Answers

  “Midsummer’s Mayhem is a delightful confection of a family story full of heart, magic, and a baking championship with mysteriously high stakes! LaRocca takes an almost-throwaway reference in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and reclaims it by having a multiracial Indian-American family at the center of her tale. Mimi’s pluck, gentle courage, and knack for combining flavors will capture readers’ hearts, imaginations, and undoubtedly, taste buds!”

  —Sayantani DasGupta, author of the New York Times-bestselling

  Kiranmala and the Kingdom Beyond series

  “Taking its inspiration from one of Shakespeare’s most popular comedies, Midsummer’s Mayhem is a sweet and fun story about mistaken identity, bumpy romance, and the everyday magic of baking.”

  —Barbara Dee, author of Star-Crossed and Halfway Normal

  “Laugh-out-loud funny one moment and mouthwateringly delicious the next, Midsummer’s Mayhem is an utter pleasure to consume from the very first page! LaRocca’s debut novel entices and bewitches—I dare you not to fall under its spell.”

  —Tara Dairman, author of The Great Hibernation and the

  award-winning All Four Stars series

  “Absolutely scrumptious! I fell in love with this book and devoured it in one day. LaRocca crafts a spell of tricky fairies, lovable mortals, and heartfelt magic. Mimi is determined, resourceful, and unfailingly kind. Perfect for aspiring bakers, younger siblings, or anyone with a passion.”

  —Anna Meriano, author of the Love Sugar Magic series

  “Rajani LaRocca has concocted a delectable story about family, friendship, baking, and magic that readers are sure to devour! Relatable, lovable Mimi is easy to root for, and LaRocca brings the whole cast of characters to life with her deft descriptions and realistic dialogue. Readers will delight in Midsummer’s Mayhem!”

  —Erin Dionne, author of Lights, Camera, Disaster

  “An absolute delight—LaRocca’s delectable debut is whimsical, frothy, and so much fun. An inventive take on a classic comedy, Midsummer’s Mayhem is a sweetly told tale of family, friendship, and following your passion. This is a book for the dreamers and doers alike; effervescent, full of heart, and ultimately joyful.”

  —Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich, author of

  Two Naomis and 8th Grade Superzero

  “This riff on A Midsummer Night’s Dream is heartfelt and ridiculously fun. Mimi, sweet as sugar with a heart of gold, creates as many problems as she solves, but readers will be cheering for her and her family the whole way.”

  —Booklist

  “An entertaining and epicurean retelling of A Midsummer Night’s Dream . . . Strikes a perfect balance between the pleasant and the melancholy, as sweet and savory as one of Mimi’s confections.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  New York, NY

  Text copyright © 2021 by Rajani LaRocca

  Illustrations copyright © 2021 by Little Bee Books

  Illustrations by Chloe Dijon and Ludovic Sallé

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Interior designed by Natalie Padberg Bartoo

  Yellow Jacket and associated colophon are trademarks of Little Bee Books.

  Manufactured in China RRD 0221

  First Edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

  Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-4998-1101-8

  yellowjacketreads.com

  For information about special discounts on bulk purchases, please contact Little Bee Books at [email protected].

  For everyone who’s ever wondered if they belong on the team

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: BASEBALL IS MAGIC

  CHAPTER 2: THE SIGN

  CHAPTER 3: PRIME

  CHAPTER 4: FIB’S ADVENTURE

  CHAPTER 5: THE PLAY

  CHAPTER 6: THE THIEF

  CHAPTER 7: TWIN TROUBLE

  CHAPTER 8: THE PUZZLE

  CHAPTER 9: THE SALT SHAKER

  CHAPTER 10: THE HOMER

  CHAPTER 11: THE TIES THAT BIND

  CHAPTER 12: THE SECOND PUZZLE

  CHAPTER 13: THE MOST IMPORTANT HEART

  CHAPTER 14: THIS IS A STICK

  CHAPTER 15: INTENSE

  CHAPTER 16: THE ECSTASY AND THE AGONY

  CHAPTER 17: STUMPED AND SLUMPED

  CHAPTER 18: NOWHERE GIRL

  CHAPTER 19: THE LAST GAME

  CHAPTER 20: THE GOLDEN RATIO

  CHAPTER 21: PLAYOFFS AND PUZZLES

  CHAPTER 22: LOST AND FOUND

  CHAPTER 23: SPORTSMANSHIP

  CHAPTER 24: THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME

  CHAPTER 25: THE ENDGAME

  CHAPTER 26: HURLING

  CHAPTER 27: MOTHS AND MAGIC

  CHAPTER 28: BASEBALL AND BROKEN HEARTS

  CHAPTER 29: THE FINAL PUZZLE

  CHAPTER 30: THE ULTIMATE ANSWER

  CHAPTER 31: THE FOUNTAIN

  CHAPTER 32: THE PRICE

  CHAPTER 33: THE HEART OF THE MATTER

  CHAPTER 34: GIFTS AND CONSEQUENCES

  CHAPTER 35: FORGIVENESS

  CHAPTER 36: CONFESSIONS

  CHAPTER 37: THE PICNIC

  CHAPTER ONE

  TRISH

  BASEBALL IS MAGIC

  Baseball is magic. Time stops between the instant the ball is released and when it makes it over the plate, between the whack of the bat and when the ball finally touches earth again. And this summer, I was holding on to that magic for dear life.

  The threads tying me to everything important had snapped, and I was a balloon, floating, flying away on the breeze with nothing to tether me. I was in a new town surrounded by new kids, yanked away from everyone who knew and accepted me.

  My brother Sanjay and I were playing catch on a stifling June afternoon in the backyard of our new home. “You’ll never be the strongest, so you need to play the smartest,” he said as he threw me a scorcher. Sanjay’s in high school, and he throws hard, but I got used to hand-stinging catches a long time ago. I’d already run my two miles and finished my push-ups and sit-ups for the day. Physically, I was ready.

  “What if no one wants me on the team?” I asked, tossing it back. I’d just left a town where the boys were used to seeing me on a baseball field, but I didn’t know what to expect here.

  Sanjay caught the ball and laughed. “You’re a great teammate, not to mention an amazing ballplayer,” he said. “You hit, you run, you deserve a Gold Glove for fielding, and you already throw four-seam and two-seam fastballs.
If you can make that circle changeup motion look exactly like your fastball, you’ll be a hero.” He tossed the ball high in the air, and I moved a few steps to get under it. Sanjay was my hero. And he believed in me, no matter what.

  The ball smacked into my glove. “I’m just so . . .”

  He waited for me to finish, but I didn’t want to say the word out loud. Lost.

  I supposed I could always quit. That might make Mom happy, at least.

  “Trish!” Dad called from the garage. “We need to leave now if you want to be early.” I tossed the ball back to Sanjay and waved goodbye.

  “Ready to meet your new team?” Dad smiled and squeezed my shoulder, but that didn’t stop my pulse from pounding in my throat.

  “Yeah.” I took a deep breath. I had to be the best. That’s the only way I’d ever be accepted. So that’s what I was going to do this summer.

  Mom was at work at the hospital, of course. When she’d landed the chief of cardiology job at Boston General Hospital, it was too good to pass up. Dad could run his graphic design business from anywhere. So we uprooted ourselves from our little town in New Hampshire and moved to Comity, Massachusetts. While Sanjay and I weren’t thrilled about changing schools, we didn’t have a choice. I knew my brother would be fine. He was so smart, and cute, and hilarious. I was already weird as a girl baseball player and a math kid—well, I used to be a math kid—and now I had to make friends with a team full of strangers.

  I’d missed travel team tryouts, but I was fine playing in a casual town league. No long trips to games for any of us. And the games were all on weekends, so I hoped that Mom could come to at least a few and not worry about taking too much time off work. Although I knew she’d bring her laptop and would need to keep asking what the score was.

  We pulled into the parking lot fifteen minutes before practice was supposed to start.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Dad asked.

  I shook my head. “I’ll be fine.” I needed to make an impression on my own. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” I smiled in what I hoped was a convincing way as I picked up my bag and climbed out of the car.

  I knew it was my last season playing ball. Twelve-year-olds like me play Little League on a sixty-foot diamond, with forty-six feet between the pitcher’s mound and the plate. But in the spring, we move up to the big diamond, which is the size of a Major League infield—ninety feet between bases, and sixty feet six inches from the pitcher’s mound to home plate. Lots of boys were already bigger than me. They were growing every second, becoming faster and stronger overnight without even trying. I had serious doubts I’d be able to compete in the spring on the big field. And that was so hard, even harder than moving.

  I stopped to survey the baseball fields at Bailey Park. There were two smaller fields and one full-sized diamond where some older players were warming up. The smell of fresh-cut grass and lilacs floated to me. I took a deep breath. There was something in the air. Something that hung like the moment when you take a breath to blow out your birthday candles, and you’re not sure what you want to wish for.

  I approached the big field where a boy wearing a remarkably sparkly green baseball cap stood at the plate taking practice swings. That hat was incredible. If a baseball cap married a glittery unicorn toy, this would be their baby. As the pitch came in, the boy swung gracefully and was rewarded with the crack of the ball meeting the sweet spot of the bat. The ball sailed over center field, over the fence, and dropped onto the street behind it. If this guy could hit like that—with a wooden bat, no less—he could wear a wizard hat and nobody would care.

  An outfielder hopped the fence to retrieve the ball, and everyone else turned back to the boy at the plate, who nodded for another pitch. The pitcher wound up and let go.

  Crack. Another perfect swing, and another perfect shot that sailed over left field and bounced off a parked car. It sounded like it left a mammoth dent.

  Then the kid switched to a lefty stance and nodded. The pitcher laughed and shook his head, but then wound up and threw again.

  This time, the ball sailed over right field and into a dog park, where a golden retriever grabbed it and ran, tail swinging.

  How in the world was that boy hitting home runs from both sides of the plate with every single swing? Statistically, that was impossible. If this was the level of talent here in Comity, I was in trouble. I hurried on my way before I lost my nerve completely, and soon arrived at one of the smaller fields, where a coach and a boy were setting up for practice.

  “Hello there,” said the coach, reaching out and shaking my hand. He was tiny and redheaded, like a slightly oversized elf. “I’m Coach Tom, and this is my son David.”

  “Nice to meet you, Coach. Hi, David,” I said. “I’m Trish.”

  “Happy to have you on the team this summer,” said the coach.

  My breathing eased up a little. Apparently, Coach Tom didn’t care that I was a girl.

  “You two can start warming up while we wait for everyone else,” he said.

  David, who was already half a foot taller than his dad, nodded and held up a baseball. I ran out onto the field and he started firing throws at me.

  After a few minutes, David lobbed a ball way over my head, and it landed on a dead patch and rolled into the woods. I went in after it, and saw a boy there, crouched behind a tree with his eyes squeezed shut. He looked as nervous as I felt.

  “Here for practice?” I asked.

  The boy opened his eyes and glanced at me, and I couldn’t believe it.

  I recognized him immediately. Ben. The brilliant math kid who challenged me to do better than ever at the New England Math Puzzler regionals a couple of months ago. He’d been the only sixth grader on his team, just like me. And the best kid on his team, just like me.

  I had seen the challenge in Ben’s eyes, and I was sure no one could beat him. Neither of our teams won the tournament, but I couldn’t believe it when they said I’d gotten the highest individual score. Ben had only missed two points in the final round. But to my surprise, I’d only missed one. Or so I thought.

  Standing there in the woods with sunlight filtering through the trees around us and the birds making a riotous racket, I could tell Ben didn’t recognize me. No surprise there, since I’d chopped off all my hair since I last saw him. He was dressed for baseball and carried a sports bag big enough to hold a bat. My mind whirled. I didn’t think I’d ever have to face him again. I pulled my cap lower over my eyes.

  Ben picked up the ball and tossed it to me underhand. It landed a couple feet in front of me.

  “Sorry,” Ben said, turning red.

  “C’mon,” I said, scooping the ball and trotting onto the field.

  My mouth went dry when Coach Tom called us all in. We stood in a circle while the coach handed out our uniforms. Ben stood next to another kid, and they put their heads together and whispered and laughed easily. I wondered if I’d ever have a friend like that here in Comity.

  “A new local business has donated our jerseys to support the league, so our team name is the Comity Salt Shakers,” said Coach Tom. I glanced down at the shirt he handed me: green, blue, and white with a salt shaker logo. Lucky number 7. Too bad I didn’t believe in luck. Hard work was the only way to success.

  Our team had thirteen eleven- and twelve-year-olds in total. Everyone took turns introducing themselves. Ben’s friend was named Abhi. The other players included David and the Mitchell twins, Mike and Garrett. Mike was almost as big as David, with blond hair that reached his shoulders, while Garrett was short, skinny, and dark-haired, with a ratlike nose and a bored expression.

  The other two seventh graders on the team were Campbell, a blond kid with braces who never stopped smiling, and Brad, who announced to everyone that he could ride a unicycle, like that had something to do with baseball. There were five tiny soon-to-be sixth graders—this included two boys named Aidan and a freckle-faced kid named George.

  And then it was my turn. I sw
allowed hard. “I’m Trish. I’ll be in seventh grade next year.”

  I looked around, hoping desperately that someone would say something, or smile, or nod. But no one did. Not David, who already knew who I was. Not Ben. He seemed stunned, like a line drive had clocked him in the forehead. Did I look that much like a boy? Or had he finally recognized me from the Math Puzzler tournament?

  I crossed my sweaty arms and stared each of them down in turn. “I just moved here from South Ridgefield, New Hampshire. I’ve been playing ball since I was three. I have three pitches, and I was first in my team’s rotation this spring.” I’d learned the hard way that you can’t show weakness on the field or in the classroom.

  Coach Tom smacked his fist into his glove. “Who’s ready to practice? Let’s start with grounders. Come with me and I’ll explain the first drill.” We all followed him onto the field.

  By the time practice ended, I’d caught every pop-up that came my way, hit line drives into the outfield, and shown off my two-seamer. When we gathered in the dugout, George the freckle-faced sixth grader tipped his cap at me, the mismatched twins studied me with interest, and Abhi gave me a crooked smirk.

  Ben stared at me with his bright blue eyes and I felt exhilarated, like I was back at the Math Puzzler tournament. He’d flubbed some easy catches, though, and most of his throws had been either too short or way too long. I guessed his nerves had gotten the best of him.

  As we packed up to leave, Garrett went up to Ben. “Cool shirt.”

  It was a cool shirt. I’d noticed it right away, and it had made me smile—on the inside, at least. It said, There are 10 kinds of people: Those who understand binary, and those who don’t.

  “Thanks,” said Ben.

  “Did you bring your calculator?” Garrett asked.

  Ben zipped his bag and looked at him. “Why would I—”

  “Maybe it’ll help you estimate where you need to stand to actually catch something,” said Garrett. He and his brother snickered and walked away.

  What a jerk!

  “Like the toad; ugly and venomous,” Abhi said to Ben. “Don’t worry about him. You’re just rusty because you haven’t played in a couple years.”