The Perfect Pie

"Mmmorninggggg."

I know it is Pink that begins to hum… my sweet pink pillows, my soft pink sheets, my French pink nails. Even the sunlight filtering through my curtains is precious, pretty pink.

I rise and start toward my vanity, hearing sharper morning greetings from Black.

"Wear more of me today," Black murmured. "There is a new color close by."

Black was always right; the smartest of all the colors.

I wink, then shadow my eyelids, lips, and lashes with all my blackest makeup. I slide my large black hoops through my ears, and load my wrists with my darkest bangles.

I don't want to appear too stuck-up; too much black always risks that.

Pink assures me I am not stuck-up as I spray glitter on my shoulders and neck. Oh, I would never trade my sweet pink spray for any color in the world. Pink smelt most delicious—and I will die on my pink hill.

No one has threatened me, but Black always tells me never to close all the doors. Whatever that means.

"Perhaps the zebra dress?" Black knows me best.

I dress accordingly, even clipping little black bows into my pinned-up pink hair, and swapping my pink spotted stockings for black spotted ones.

Going out, I never could help but laugh each morning as I walked down the yellow path toward the breakfast bar. I always thought how silly people were for their choice of colors. My poor neighbor Tilly next door had painted her house entirely blue. I knew she had black inside—or at least enough of it from the two times I had almost died staying too long. So I wasn't sure why Black couldn't tell her blue was the one making her weep each night.

My guess is she couldn't hear too well, crying all the time.

I'll bring her one of my new-fashioned breakfast pies after—

In my throat, every sweet thought huddled into a tight ball; I had to cover my mouth so it and bile wouldn’t projectile out.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing across the street—couldn't hear the comforting words of Pink or Black’s told-you-so's.

I whirled away, unable to look another second.

My legs trembled, and my knees would buckle if I didn't do something—run!

I did. First toward the breakfast bar. Colors—all sorts. I couldn't face them, even if there wasn't any...

I ran back home.

Inside, I stripped, scrubbed my face, and flung every black piece of jewelry into the drawer at my vanity. I pulled every scrap of black fabric from their hangers, shoving them away, deep into baskets; threw every book with black spines or letters out the window—every particle of Black needed to be out of my sight and out of range to hear.

When Black, after hearing my hyperventilating ease, tried to murmur something, I doused my room in my pink spray, and buried myself into all the pink layers of my bed.

"Midddddnighhtttt," Pink sang, waking me up from whatever state I had lulled into for the entire day.

It would not be midnight for me.

I couldn't let the night colors come into my room; but untangling myself from my blankets, I realized it was already too late.

I heard Black chastising me—how I was overreacting and behaving bluntly appalling—but I lit all my pink lights: my candles, my glass lamps, my sparkling fairy lights—until only sweet Pink sang to me.

"Across the street is sweet. Just take a peek!"

Pink never lied, as far as I knew, so I felt a little soothed.

Maybe—if I hadn't just imagined it all—it could be gone now, or covered away.

I peeked through my pink curtains.

Wrong.

I gagged on air and turned away.

Then, I wasn't sure what I was doing, but I dressed somewhat for war: pink shirt, pink pants; wrapped my pink blanket around my shoulders for extra puffy armor; slid my largest pink shades over my eyes, and found my thickest, pink cowboy boots.

I headed outside, scoffing as I marched over the yellow path toward it.

I felt buoyant. Perhaps I was manic—or at least that’s what the night colors began whispering.

Just before reaching it, I stopped, surprised: not because I needed to hurl or scream, but because I smelled something.

Something familiar… like morning.

I ducked low, going stealthy toward the nearest window, where the smell grew stronger.

The window was wide open and inside, someone was whistling, along with the creak of an oven opening and closing.

I couldn't quite see, so I stepped onto the brim of a flower pot to better look.

Someone was baking, and there on the counter sat the smell of sweet morning.

Ten copies of my breakfast pie.

I yelped—not because of my pies, but because of the pot. It tipped—or maybe it was me, my hand slipping on the windowsill, sending half my body crashing into the inferno of blasphemy!

Another yelp rang out, followed by the clatter of many things—including, most terrifyingly, my pink glasses flying from my eyes.

I was blinded by horror, burrowing myself into my blanket while still trying to find solid ground. I thought I could feel a hand trying to grab me, and something like a pie plopping onto my leg, and squishing into my boot, before, finally, I curled into a ball on my side and began to cry.

It was a strangely soothing cry, mostly because my face had landed on something soft. I had to check it wasn't a pie, but it was nothing, nothing but—

"Are you alright?" a boy asked—the one who had been baking, replicating all my pies.

I turned to show him my teeth and anguish.

He was entirely everything so vile: orange eyes, orange hair, no shirt, orange trousers, orange socks, in his entirely orange house.

I thought I would perish now.

"Where is Black?" I demanded, rolling, searching—smearing pie everywhere.

"Woah, woah, now! Here, miss! Put these back on."

My pink shades appeared before me. I snatched them feverishly and forced them onto my face so rapidly that one side missed my ear, slanting dramatically down my face: leaving one eye completely exposed to...

Orange.

All I did was stare.

Maybe I was worn out from any more proper reactions.

"You don't have any Black?" I whispered, mortified.

"I do, well.—I did. But right now, you see, I’ve just moved in and I'm sort of in the middle of a project, so I'm... I'm avoiding Black."

"Avoiding Black?" I scoffed, actually offended that someone could purposely avoid Black—but, oh... technically, so was I.

All I did then was avert my gaze in disgust.

The boy grew nervous, fidgeting around his kitchen as he tried to explain:

"Yes, well, not like I dislike Black.—No. Black is wonderful, really. But my project, it’s… I like to discover for myself. To learn anew. Black is a wonderful guide but sometimes, well, it becomes stale when crafting new things. See, let me just show you."

He turned with a plate in his hands; a plate with a fine pink slice of pie. "This is a recipe I've derived from your own. You see, I've come to this path inspired by your new breakfast pie. I was meant to bring this—well, one of them—to your home, but… I'm not quite sure I've perfected it yet. It's also a breakfast pie, with your fashions, and… well, I'd love to be your baker!—Please try what is entirely yours."

I really couldn't ignore the absolute foolishness of my behavior any longer.

Orange aside, I was in his home, and now faced with such an honorable presentation I thought to cry: in what way exactly, I didn't know.

"I've... never... I've never worked with Orange before!" was all I could spit out. Then I, too, became fidgety; debating whether to jump out the window and run back home.

"What?" The boy was genuinely confused. "Sure you have, it's... it's in all your recipes."

Now I was confused. "Are you fooling me?”

"What?—No, no! Certainly not, hold on, please." He went to the counter, cutting into one of my replicated pies. "It's in the crust, in every recipe back to your very first."

He returned, kneeling and pointing to the bottom layer. "There—you see it? It isn't quite orange after baking but I am certain. Bee pollen—it is certainly orange."

Sometimes, most times, I really didn't look at all the ingredients of my recipes. Sure, I listened to the bakers for the taste, but more importantly, I focused on what made the final product prettiest.

"Cutie, sweetie-pie."

I knew Pink wasn't chirping about my pie.

Could I have been so naive?

Where my hands touched, the answer was most definitely certain.

"Orange bee pollen," I mumbled, feeling the carpet. "It's what makes the recipes… divine."

The boy began to smile, and I couldn't help but laugh: he had a bit of yellow in his teeth. Before he turned too mortified, I told him, and he quickly set the pie down to rush and clean his teeth at the sink.

Then, finally, I laid down on the orange carpet.

My skin began to numb from the sensation—making angels as though it was freshly fallen snow.

“Would you like to try some now?” the boy asked, holding the plate with the fine pink pie.

I frowned—mostly because I had to sit up, away from the lovely carpet.

“It’s not right,” I said, staring at the pie.

The plate began to tremble in his hands; the pie sliding down one side. I grabbed the plate before it could fall, stood, and set it aside, looking back to the orange, pie-smeared room.

“Let me clean this mess I’ve made. Then…” I turned to him.

He watched me as though my next words would decide his destiny. So I was glad to say: “Be my baker, and let us perfect this pie!”

Together we cleaned the mess, then tested, tasted, and decorated.

I apologized, too, telling him about my morning and how I had spent my entire day in misery, all because I was mortified of what I had never known before. He grew even more excited then, telling me of all the wonders of Orange, and I of Pink.

When the morning colors sang into his home, orange and heavenly, we began to pack the final product into pretty pink boxes. And before heading to the breakfast bar, we crossed the yellow path, snickering happily to Tilly’s house.

I had never seen Tilly smile and cheer so pleasantly before, after filling her belly, too.

We were certain we had made the most perfect pie of all—Pink and Black and oh… so much Orange.