The Great Peach Experiment 1 by Erin Downing (top 10 books to read TXT) 📗

“Can’t hurt,” Freddy agreed. “Remember Sample Stan, in Chicago?” he said, giggling. “Everyone loves samples.”

So Freddy and Herb filled trays with small slivers of pie and headed out to chat with and tempt the passersby. Lucy and Dad stayed inside the truck to handle any customers who stopped to purchase.

Late that morning, Freddy also came up with another idea for bringing in business. “If not a lot of people feel like eating pie today,” he told his family, “I’d be willing to sell a few slices that people could throw in my face if they want.” He grinned. “Sales are sales, right?”

But fortunately, by midday, the Peach Pie Truck finally had a small line. Soon business was brisk, and they were selling slice after slice to eager customers. Freddy studied each person who came to the window, trying to figure out who the mystery judges were. It could be anyone: the lady with a stroller, the grumpy old man who had taken almost five minutes to pick his flavor of pie, the couple who asked if they ever sold pie by the half slice, the bearded twentysomething guy who refused to smile (but bought a slice of turtle pie and hurriedly gobbled it down).

“We’re almost out of peach pie,” Lucy announced shortly after lunch. “I sure hope the judges come by soon.”

“Maybe they’ve already been here.” Freddy shrugged. “Maybe it’s this guy.” A man in a checkered shirt and khaki slacks whisked his slice of peach pie off the counter and stepped away from the truck. Moments later, he fumbled for the beeping phone in his pocket. As he pulled it out, he lost his grip on the plate, and the entire slab of peach pie landed on the sidewalk with a messy plop!

The man fumed. “This pie—” he began, turning and shrieking at the Peaches. “This pie has dirt in it!”

“Uh, sir?” Freddy began politely. “I’m—”

Lucy blurted out, “You dropped your pie. That’s why it has dirt in it.”

“This pie is covered in dirt!” the man repeated. “I demand a refund.”

The customers in line all stared at the unfolding action. Eager to diffuse the situation, Freddy thrust a five across the counter at him. Then he slid their very last slice of peach pie onto a fresh plate, along with a big scoop of ice cream. With a smile, he passed it to the man, and said, “Enjoy, okay? And I hope the rest of your day is just peachy.”

All the other customers in line applauded. Dad and Lucy joined in. Freddy waved and grinned. Through his smile and gritted teeth, Freddy said to his family, “Let’s hope that guy isn’t a judge.”

“But if he is,” Dad said with a huge laugh, wrapping his arm around Freddy’s shoulders, “thanks to your quick-thinking and good attitude, I think we may have just won.”

The third and final day of the festival passed quickly. Sales were brisk at the Peach Pie Truck, but business was hopping at all the food trucks. It was impossible to predict who might win.

At five minutes to four, the Peaches were nearly sold out. They had just one pie remaining: a lone, ooey-gooey turtle pie. They had sold out of peach pie early in the day, because Herb had done an excellent job advertising that one, and Key lime pie had proven much more popular than any of them would have predicted.

“Well,” Dad said, scanning the mess inside the food truck, “we done good.”

“Yeah, we did,” Freddy agreed. Everyone in the family had worked their butts off the past three days, and Freddy felt certain there was nothing more they could possibly have done to improve their outcome. “Even if we don’t win, we certainly tried our hardest. I think Mom would be proud of us.”

Dad nodded and pulled him in for a hug. “Son, I think you’re right. I’d say we can officially call this experiment a success.” He pulled back and studied Freddy’s face carefully. “You know, you remind me more and more of your mother every day.”

Freddy grinned. “Thanks.”

Dad’s face grew wistful, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Your mom used to say, ’When inspiration strikes, you have to let it hit you—full force—and see where that jolt will take you.’ ” He chuckled. “I certainly think we lived up to that advice this summer.”

“Speaking of stuff hitting you full force,” Lucy said, kindly cutting into Freddy and Dad’s awkward father-son moment. “It seems a shame to see this last pie go to waste. Remember Freddy’s idea from yesterday morning?”

Freddy grinned. “You want to throw the last pie in my face!” he said, obviously delighted. “Don’t you?”

But Lucy shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “I want you to throw it in my face. I’ve always wanted to know what it would feel like to get pied.” She grinned. “I have thirty dollars left from the fifty that Dad gave each of us to buy souvenirs this summer.” She dug into her jean shorts pocket and pulled out a crumpled ten and four five-dollar bills. “I’m pretty sure this is the perfect way to spend the rest of my summer fun money.”

Lucy hopped out the back door of the Peach Pie Truck and walked around to the service window, slapping her cash down on the counter. “Excuse me. I’d like to buy six full-price slices of turtle pie, please. No need to serve them up on plates; I’ll take it in the pan, thanks.”

Dad and Freddy exchanged a nervous look. This wasn’t like Lucy. She wasn’t usually a pie-in-the-face kind of girl. “Lucy,” Dad began. “I’m not so—”

But before Dad could say no, Herb stepped up to the window and slid the gooey, whipped-cream-topped turtle pie across the counter to his sister. “If Lucy’s willing to pay for this pie,” Herb said, sounding like a little businessman, “we can’t really tell her she can’t have it. Money is money, and