Burned again: things heat up when you stick your nose where it doesn't belong. And that's why Maggie got herself a big ol' slice of humble pie.

My mom is an ultra-feminist; I love to bake. This "habit" of mine, as she calls it, drives her sane. She thinks it means I have subservient tendencies. I think it means I am genius because I spend my time creating mouth-watering desserts that make people happy. Mom disagrees. Every time she comes in the kitchen when I am mixing the batter for my famous cherry chocolate-chunk cookies or rolling out the pie crust I made from scratch (lightly sprinkled with cinnamon), she might casually mention that, despite the 1963 Equal Pay Act, women still earn only 75.5 cents to every man's dollar. I reply that sifting is the key to a delicate crust.

Tonight, when Mom walks in on me, I am testing a huckleberry pie recipe for the bake sale in two weeks. Our town has the sale every other week in the summer to raise money for our fire department. So far, only blood relatives have bought my goods. Competition is stiff, what with the Honeywell Methodist Ladies Auxiliary and their combined 1,000 years' baking experience. Now that school is almost out, I've put mad dedication into finding just the right recipe. I'm convinced that my huckleberry pie will get people to take me seriously as a bona fide pastry chef.

"Last chance," Mom chimes, as she grabs her purse from the counter. "It's a great way to make a real difference."

I dust the crust with flour and ask, "What's happening tonight?"

"We're phoning women to help us uphold Title IX. We could use some young voices to help people understand the significance of this."

Every night, it's something different. Truth be told, I admire her energy and determination--and I've decided to put the same focus into my baking venture.

"Cant," I answer her. "Gotta work out a new recipe. I really think people are going to like this pie."

"Maggie, we love all your pies," she says over the ringing of the house phone. She's out the door before I can tell her that extended family doesn't count--they're practically legally obligated to cheer me on.

I answer the phone. It's Amber. She's crying ... again. And, as usual, the source of her misery is Aaron, her boyfriend of two years.

Here we go again.

Amber and Aaron are the quintessential on-again/off-again couple. They began dating in eighth grade and, that year alone, they broke up six times. Halfway through their freshman year, they decided to see other people ("they" actually means "he," a fact Amber still refuses to acknowledge); over the winter, Aaron had briefly dated two girls for a combined total of seven weeks, while Amber had gone on one date with one boy. They agreed they should get back together and, this time around, have been dating for another six months.

Her relationship with Aaron exhausts me. They're always getting into these stupid spats, and she always vents to me. I used to not mind so much--I'd go on auto-pilot and, instead of telling her she's better off without him (which she is), I would diplomatically say, "Well, whatever you decide, I'll stick by you." But now, it's getting old. They should either be together and like it, or just forget the whole thing.

Amber comes over as I'm mixing the filling, this time using tapioca and cider vinegar. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her chin is quivering. It's worse than usual.

"It's official," she states, her fists clenched at her sides. "We're totally over." I pull a stool out for her at the kitchen island, then lean on the counter across from her.

"What happened?"

"He went," she slowly says, "to the Rangers game."

A lesser friend wouldn't have understood, but I did. Aaron is obsessed with the Texas Rangers and goes to every single home game--even the pre-season exhibition ones. This has totally annoyed Amber in the past, but I knew that tonight was different. They were supposed to celebrate their two-year anniversary, quietly ignoring the fact that they've spent more time apart than together. But Amber had been adamant--they were going to celebrate, with no talk of any of their "breaks." I had thought the night was something even Aaron wouldn't blow off. Amber had prepared his all-time favorite foods for the occasion: fresh green-bean casserole, au gratin potatoes, and a steak she marinated overnight. But this afternoon, Aaron scored tickets for the game and, even though he apologized and swore he'd make it up to her, he told her he wasn't coming for dinner.

"Maggie, I swear, it's like our relationship means nothing to him," Amber says, through snotty gulps of air.

I pour the filling into the unbaked pie crust and gently fold the top pastry over my concoction. While I wonder to myself if this will be the winning recipe, I'm really just trying to avoid saying what's on my mind: that Amber and Aaron's relationship doesn't mean anything to him, and I wish she'd hurry up and learn that for herself.

To be honest, I figured they would be making up within a week. He'd call and apologize, maybe promise to take her to Olive Garden. She'd resist for one to three days, and then they'd be back on just like always. But it's five days and counting and, as I try yet another version of my recipe to make the pie a little sweeter, Amber is still a single girl. As I lightly sprinkle sugar over the huckleberries, the phone rings.

"You are not going to believe this," says Miranda, who is in world history with me and Amber. "Aaron is actually dating someone else."

My hand drops to the flour-dusted counter like a brick. "You're kidding." An unfamiliar rage and sense of protection builds inside me. "Please, tell me you're kidding."

"I wish. Amber wishes. Actually, she doesn't even know yet--and I don't want to be the one to tell her." Miranda fills me in: Aaron went out with this girl Megan when he and Amber were on a break, and he even called and e-mailed her while he was with Amber. "Not technically cheating," Miranda says. "But, still."

We talk about what we should do and if I should tell Amber. We hang up and, before I can get the nerve to dial Amber's number, the smoke detector goes off--I've burnt my new-and-improved huckleberry pie.

The bake sale is this afternoon and, if I don't sell a pie, I might consider early retirement. I'm bringing along two huckleberry pies to sell--I'm going for the whole quality, not quantity angle. I've made a third, which I will slice up and give out as free samples.

Mom comes into the kitchen. I don't see her--I hear her. She sighs loudly, at me and my domesticity or something else, I'm not sure. I continue wiping down the counter, making sure every spec of flour and grain of sugar is gone from my workspace. I find comfort in cleaning. It helps clear my head.

Mom pours herself a cup of coffee. She's always drinking coffee, even today, a Saturday, when you don't really have to be all that alert. But, evidently, a feminist crusader wastes not a waking moment.

"Are you still giving me a ride today?" I ask. "I want to get there early to get good positioning."

"Sorry?" Mom pulls her gaze away from the kitchen window. It looks out onto our backyard where Dad is mowing the lawn. Mom usually does it to show that it isn't a gender-based household job, but she is dressed in clean clothes.

"The bake sale is today." I gesture toward the pies on the wire rack. "You don't have to stay. I can call after I sell my pies." Despite my hopes, I add, "If I sell them."

"Oh, honey," Mom says, setting down her coffee cup. "Don't talk like that. When have you not sold a pie?"

"It doesn't count when you or Dad buys them. I don't want charity. I want business. This isn't a hobby, you know." I stick out my chin and say, "Maybe some day I'll have my own bakery."

This seems to satisfy her: "It's true that male-owned businesses still outnumber women-owned."

With that, Mom carries one huckleberry pie while I take the others out to her Prius and we set off.

It's three hours later, and I haven't made a sale. I'm thinking about slashing the prices, but that just feels desperate. I've been standing all morning, staring across at the raisin date-nut bread my sixth-grade math teacher is selling. She's doing brisk business. I've given four samples of my pie, and each person said something like, "Mmm ... well done, young lady!" Then, three out of four promptly bought a cherry pie from Honeywell Methodist.

"It takes time to build your customer base, dear," says Mrs. Lancaster, my next-door neighbor and queen of the Honeywell Methodist bakers. She looks like she feels sorry for me. I want to say, "It's just a community bake sale. If I can't make it here, I can't make it anywhere!" Instead, I smile confidently and tell her my time will come.

I gaze wearily across the church parking lot and spot Aaron. He's alone, standing at the fresh lemonade table, his hands buried in his jean pockets and, suddenly, I feel like nothing is fair. I work my butt off baking these dumb pies, testing again and again to get the recipe right, and I still can't sell a single one. And there's Aaron, just strolling through the bake sale, with not a single worry on a sunny Saturday afternoon while my best friend suffers.

"Mrs. Lancaster, could you watch my pies for a few minutes?"

With a determined bounce to my step, I head toward him. I'm standing right beside him before he even sees me.

"Oh, hey," he says. "What's up?"

I want to deck him. Instead, I say, "Oh, nothing. You know, the usual. Selling my pies, trying to console my best friend who has been devastated--yet again--by her loser boyfriend." My heart is banging in my chest, and I know that if I don't concentrate, my voice will quiver, which will undermine the authority I'm trying to convey.

Aaron looks at me like I've sucker-punched him. "What's with you?"

"I hope this is the last time," I say, ignoring his question. "I'm sick of picking up after you dump all over Amber. Why don't you just leave her alone? She's better off without you anyway." The truth is, I wasn't 100-percent sure of anything I was saying, but it was definitely the way I felt. Mom always says that if you're going to speak up for someone, you'd better speak loudly.

"What business is it of yours?" he snaps at me.

"When she comes crying to me, it becomes my business. I can't believe you just broke up with her and you're already with someone else. That's low."

His cheeks are turning red, which Amber says it's what happens when he gets mad. "I used to think you were cool," he says. "Just mind your own business." He turns on his heel and walks off toward the street.

As I head back to my pie table, I feel like I have finally done for Amber what Amber hasn't been able to do for herself. She does deserve someone better--someone who isn't just there whenever he feels like it, but is committed to her at all times. Aaron is a nice guy, but he's also a jerk of a boyfriend.

Back at my table, there's something missing. "Hey, where's my pie?" I ask Mrs. Lancaster.

She smiles and says, "Sold, honey."

"Sold? To who?"

She shrugs and casually takes a sip from her iced tea.

"It wasn't my dad or anyone else related to me, was it?"

She presses her thin lips together and says, "No, Maggie. You just sold a pie. That's all. Congratulations." She hands me the crumbled bills--a five and three ones--and I stare at them in my palm.

"Today," I announce, "is the first day of my career."

I've told everyone about my big pie sale. Dad said he always knew I could do it, that it would just take time for me to get the recipe right. Mom, I think, is secretly pleased with me, even though she thinks I strive to be a Betty Crocker housewife, cooking for my man all day. When she met me at my booth later that day, she gave me a maternal-proud smile and congratulated me.

Monday at school, I'm still high on my success. I've already begun planning for future bake sales--I'm thinking banana-split cheesecake, cream-filled cupcakes, chocolate-mint cookies. I can hardly wait to get cooking.

I walk down the halls on my way to sociology, wondering if I can handle two new recipes for the next sale, when I nearly collide with Amber. Her eyes are truly blazing, and they're burning a hole right into my skull. "What were you thinking?" she hisses.

We haven't spoken since yesterday when I called to share my great news. She was still bummed over Aaron but expressed some enthusiasm for me. I didn't tell her I'd talked to him--I figured it'd just make her dwell on him.

Now I'm wondering what could have possibly happened within the last 18 hours. "What are you talking about?" I ask back.

"I heard what you said to Aaron. God, I can't believe you did that!"

"What?" I ask, a little offended that she isn't thanking me for standing up for her. "That I told him the truth and that you're way better off without him?"

"It's none of your business," Amber says through clenched teeth. "Just because he didn't come over for some dinner doesn't mean he's the world's biggest jerk. And for the record, he was not seeing Megan--I know that's what you and Miranda think. They were taking a CPR class together for their new job at the pool." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then says, "Just do us all a favor--mind your own business."

She brushes past me and is off down the hall. I'm shaking from the embarrassment of being bawled out in public and from shame. I only tried to stand up for her--I never thought to ask whether she wanted me to.

At home, the house is quiet. There's a note from Mom saying she'll be back from an honor crimes meeting by 4:30. I call Miranda for some moral support.

When her mom answers the phone, she says, "She went with her brother to the market. But I want to thank you," she continues, phony adult sincerity creeping into her voice. "We had your pie for dessert last night, and it was wonderful. Tell your mom thanks again for giving it to us."

I sit in the living room, facing the front door. I drum my fingers on the chair and wait.

"Good God!" Mom gasps when she sees me lurking. "What are you doing?" "Thanks a lot," I snap. "I'm not some Afghan refugee, you know."

"Just what does that mean?"

"It means I don't need your help. I can sell pies on my own. And if I can't, then that's my problem. Not yours."

She sighs and puts her keys on the end table. "First of all, I don't think your comparison is at all funny. In fact, it's offensive. Second, the point should be that you sold a delicious pie ..."

"That you had to pawn off on someone else. And the point isn't that I sold a pie. I told you I didn't want any family members buying from me anymore. If you want to give someone a huckleberry pie, I'll bake you one. You don't have to sneak behind my back and buy it."

"I'm sorry, honey. I wanted to help ..."

"But I didn't ask for your help!" I wail. But then I stop. I suddenly hear what I'm saying. I sigh. "Mom, you have to understand how important this is for me to do on my own. No interference." She considers this. "I understand."

She smooths back my hair. "You want to make it on your own. And, well, that's exactly how I raised you."

"Please don't hang up on me!" I say when Amber answers the phone. She says nothing, but I can hear her breathing. "Look, I'm really sorry I meddled. I should have never stuck my nose in your relationship with Aaron." I wait for her to forgive me, but she keeps quiet. "It's just that, I never know whether to like him or not--you two are always breaking up and getting back together. It's truly exhausting."

"I know," Amber finally says. "And I know I always put you in the middle of it since I tell you everything. I won't do that anymore."

"No!" I say. "You can tell me anything, always! It's me--I'll support you, no matter what. No matter what crappy relationship you're in." I cringe--that sounded better in my head.

"Aaron isn't a crappy boyfriend, OK?" I have to bite my tongue when she says this. "I've been thinking about it since our last split. But maybe it's better this way. I mean, it's not like I'm marrying him. Dating around is good."

"Yes," I agree. "Dating is good. But so are relationships. Whatever you want, Amber. I'm here for ya."

After we both apologize about 10,000 more times, we're back to gabbing like normal. Amber is going to try to free herself of Aaron once and for all, and I tell her the perfect way to do it is to pick up a hobby. "Like baking!" I add. "You can join me at the next sale. What do you think of butterscotch fudge?"

"Yum. Sounds like a winner."

Taylor Morris is the author of Original Divas: All-True Tales From the World's Most Fabulous Stage & Screen Divas (Girl Press/Alloy Books).