Who Sat on the Tart?

Who Sat on the Tart?

Mama made a purple berry tart. It was round and shiny, and it smelled like jam and warm butter. She set it on the kitchen table to cool. "Look, but don't touch," she said. "It's for supper with Grandma's friends."

Mama went to the porch to shake out the rug. Rosy carried Fish in the Fishbowl to the table. "Want to see?" she whispered. Fish swished his tail. Rosy leaned in close, and the bowl wobbled in her arms.

Rosy tried to climb up on her chair for a better view. Her elbow bumped the plate. The tart slid, tipped, and Rosy's hand landed right on it. Squish! Purple goo squeezed between her fingers.

The tart had a big dent now, like a purple crater. Rosy's tummy felt tight. Fish pressed his nose to the glass. "Mama will be sad," Rosy told him. Then she heard the porch door creak.

Quick as a rabbit, Rosy grabbed the plate with both hands. Fish bubbled at her. She could hide the tart, or she could cover it up. Mama's steps came closer. Rosy had to pick right now.

Rosy tiptoed out to the Back Garden with the plate and Fish's bowl. She tucked the tart behind the sunflowers. Purple smudges dotted the stone path behind her like tiny footprints.

A fat bee buzzed near the tart. Rosy's tummy still felt tight, even with the tart hidden. Fish stared at her through the glass. Hiding hadn't fixed a thing. It only felt heavier.

Mama came back to the kitchen, wiping her hands. She looked at Rosy's purple fingers. She looked at the lumpy spot on the table. "Rosy," she said gently, "do you know what happened to my tart?"

Rosy looked at Fish. Fish looked at Rosy. His mouth opened and closed, round as a button. Her heart thumped like a drum. The kitchen was very quiet, and Mama waited.

"It was the wind," Rosy said in a very small voice. Mama glanced at the closed window over the sink. She raised one eyebrow. The words felt funny in Rosy's mouth, like a cold pebble.

"The window is shut, sweetheart," said Mama softly. Rosy's cheeks went hot. The pebble in her mouth got bigger. She shook her head. "No. That wasn't true," she whispered, and her shoulders sank.

Mama knelt down and tucked Rosy's hands into hers. "Thank you for telling me. The tart is only a tart. We can bake another, and you can pick the berries." They stirred the purple jam together, and Fish circled his bowl twice.