Matilda woke up feeling heavy inside. Her chest hurt, like something big was sitting on it.
The rooster outside was loud, crowing over and over, but she didn't really hear it. She just lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
It was her sixth day in Wattle Creek, this little town she didn't even want to be in. Yesterday's fight with Jack kept playing in her head, like a movie she couldn't turn off.
She'd yelled at him, loud and mean. She'd thrown a hammer—not at him, but close. She'd said she hated him, which wasn't all true.
He'd walked off after that, his shoulders stiff, and she hadn't seen him since. Now she felt bad, really bad, but she was still mad too.
Mad at him for being so dumb, mad at Lily for showing up and ruining everything, and mad at herself for caring way too much.
She stayed in bed a bit longer, not wanting to move. The room was darkish, with just a little light sneaking through the window.
The ceiling had cracks all over it, like spider webs. She didn't want to go to the barn today. She didn't want to see Jack's face.
But Uncle Ben wouldn't let her skip. That dumb wombat statue they were building wasn't finished, and he'd make her go no matter what.
She let out a big sigh, long and loud, and finally rolled out of bed. She rubbed her eyes hard, trying to wake up.
Her jeans were on the floor, stiff with old mud. She pulled them on anyway. They felt scratchy against her legs.
She didn't care. She grabbed a shirt from her bag, all wrinkled, and her sneakers, which were scuffed and dirty. Then she shuffled to the kitchen, her feet dragging.
Uncle Ben was there, standing by the stove. He was frying bacon, and the smell hit her nose fast. Her stomach growled, loud enough to hear, but she didn't feel like eating.
"Morning," he said, looking at her quick. "You look like a storm cloud."
"Feel like one," she mumbled. She plopped down at the table and poked at a tiny crumb with her finger.
"Still mad at Jack?" he asked, not even turning around.
"Yeah," she said. "He's dumb."
"You're both dumb," Uncle Ben said. He flipped the bacon with a fork. "Fighting over nothing."
"It's not nothing," she said, her voice sharp. "He let Lily hang all over him."
Uncle Ben laughed, a big rough sound. "Lily's a flirt. Always has been. Doesn't mean Jack's into it."
"He didn't stop her," Matilda said. She crossed her arms tight over her chest. "He's a jerk."
"Maybe," Uncle Ben said. "But you're stuck with him. Fix it or don't, but you're going to the barn." He slid a plate in front of her—bacon and eggs, steaming a little. "Eat."
Matilda stared at the food. The eggs were yellow and wobbly, the bacon crispy. She didn't want it, not really, but her stomach growled again, louder this time.
She picked up a piece of bacon and took a small bite. It was good, salty and warm on her tongue. She chewed slow, thinking hard.
She didn't know how to fix things with Jack. She didn't even know if she wanted to try. But sitting there, feeling mad and alone, was awful.
Worse than yelling, even. Maybe she could say sorry. Not because she was wrong—she didn't think she was—but because this heavy feeling was too much.
She took another bite, then another, eating slow while her brain spun. When she finished, she got up and washed her plate in the sink.
The water was cold, and soap bubbles stuck to her hands. Uncle Ben was outside now, messing with his truck, banging on something metal.
She looked around the kitchen. There was flour in a bag, sugar in a jar, some old apples on the counter, all wrinkled and spotty.
An idea popped into her head, small but clear. A pie. She could make a pie for Jack. Her mum used to do that—bake apple pies for her dad when they fought.
It always made things better, somehow. Maybe it could work for her too. It was a silly idea, but it was something to do.
She grabbed a bowl from the shelf and dumped some flour in it. She didn't know how much, just guessed.
She added sugar, a big handful, then cracked an egg over it. The yolk splashed on her hand, slimy and cold.
"Gross," she muttered, wiping it on her jeans. She mixed it with a spoon, but it got lumpy fast. She poured in some water, then more flour, hoping it would fix it.
It didn't. It turned into a sticky, gooey mess. She groaned loud. This was way harder than she thought.
She took a knife and started peeling the apples. Her hands were shaky, and she cut her finger once, a little slice.
"Ow!" she said, sticking it in her mouth. It stung. The apples came out all uneven—some chunks big, some tiny.
She didn't care anymore. She threw them in the bowl and stirred hard. The mix looked bad, grey and wet, like mud with bits in it.
She found a pan under the sink, rusty but okay, and dumped the whole mess in. Then she shoved it in the oven.
She didn't know how hot it should be or how long to cook it. She turned the knob to whatever and waited.
While it baked, she went outside and sat on the porch steps. The sun was getting higher, warm on her face. The air smelled like dry dirt and grass.
She pulled her knees up and rested her chin on them, thinking about Jack. She didn't hate him, not deep down.
She hated how Lily made her feel—small and stupid, like she didn't matter. She hated that Jack didn't notice.
The pie wouldn't fix all that, but maybe it would help a little. She hoped so, anyway.
The oven dinged, loud and sudden. She jumped up and ran inside. Smoke puffed out when she opened the door, stinging her eyes.
The pie was black on top, all crusty, and the middle sank like a hole. It smelled like burnt toast, sharp and bad.
"No way," she said, shaking her head.
She grabbed a towel and pulled it out, burning her hand a tiny bit. It looked awful. She poked it with a finger.
The crust cracked loud. Inside was mushy apple goo, not even close to a real pie. She sighed big. It was a total mess, but it was all she had to give.
She wrapped it in foil, the edges crinkling, and stuffed it in her backpack. Uncle Ben walked in just then. "What's that smell?" he asked, sniffing the air.
"Pie," she said. "For Jack."
He laughed, his eyes crinkling up. "You're brave. Good luck." He grabbed his keys off the hook. "Let's go."
They got in the truck and drove to the barn. Matilda's stomach flipped over and over the whole way.
What if Jack laughed at her? What if he threw the pie back in her face?
She held her backpack tight, her fingers digging in. When they got there, Jack was already working, standing by the wombat frame, hammering nails.
He didn't look up, not once. Uncle Ben parked and said, "See you later." Then he drove off, leaving her there.
Matilda stood still, just watching Jack. He was focused, his cap pulled low over his eyes.
His shirt had sweat stains on it. She took a deep breath, slow and shaky, and walked over. "Hey," she said, her voice quiet.
He glanced at her, quick. "Hey," he said. His voice was flat, like he didn't care. He kept hammering, bang bang bang.
She shifted on her feet, feeling dumb. "I made something," she said. She pulled the pie out of her backpack, the foil all wrinkled, and held it out. "For you."
Jack stopped hammering. He looked at it, then at her, his eyebrows up. "What is it?" he asked.
"Pie," she said. "Apple."
He took it from her hands and peeled back the foil slow. His nose wrinkled up right away. "Smells burnt," he said.
"It's not that bad," she lied, her face getting warm. "Just try it."
He poked it with a finger. The crust fell apart, crumbling everywhere. He scooped a little bit and put it in his mouth. His face twisted up, like he ate something sour.
"Tastes like dirt," he said.
Matilda's cheeks burned hot. "I tried, okay? It's an apology."
"For what?" he asked, putting the pie down on a crate.
"For yesterday," she said. "I was mad. I didn't mean all of it."
Jack wiped his hand on his jeans, leaving a smear. "You said you hate me," he said, looking at her straight.
"I don't," she said quick. "I was just… mad about Lily."
He kept looking at her. "Why?"
"She's annoying," Matilda said. "And you didn't stop her."
"I told you, she's just Lily," he said. "I don't like her like that."
"Then why'd you hug her?" Matilda asked, her voice loud again.
"She hugged me," he said. "I didn't want to be mean."
"You could've," she said. "She deserves it."
Jack laughed, short and soft. "Maybe." He picked up the pie again and took another bite, a tiny one. He chewed slow, his face scrunching. "This is awful," he said.
"I know," she said. She smiled a little, just a bit. "I'm bad at baking."
"Yeah," he said. "But it's funny." He smiled too, small but real. "Thanks."
"For the pie?" she asked.
"For saying sorry," he said. "I don't hate you either."
"Good," she said. She felt lighter now, like that heavy thing on her chest was gone. "Can we work now?"
"Yeah," he said. He put the pie on an old tire nearby. "No more fighting?"
"No promises," she said.
He laughed again, louder this time, a nice sound. They grabbed their tools—her a hammer, him a saw—and started on the wombat.
It wasn't perfect. The pie was gross, and they were still kind of awkward, not talking much. But it was better than before.
Matilda didn't mind the barn so much right then. Jack wasn't the worst. Not today, at least.