Potion Problems

by Cindy Callaghan

“Mom just finished ’em,” Tony added.

  He opened the box. Inside were three of Mrs. R’s amazing homemade cannoli.

  Darbie and Hannah each took one, and Tony handed one to me.

  “Thanks,” I said. I looked right into his blue eyes with long lashes. “I like your haircut, by the way.”

  He shrugged off the compliment.

  “Is your submission for the double-F RC ready?” Frankie asked.

  “Yup. I just finished it a little while ago after I was done with this report. It only took a few minutes”

  Hannah asked, “Did you find something amazing in your attic last night?”

  “No. The attic finding let me down. Turns out that they weren’t the best cooks. Actually, I got the idea this morning on the way here when we stopped at Mrs. Silvers’s to scoop poop. She has an herb garden that included one lesser-known herb that I’d sort of forgotten about. These days everything is about cilantro and rosemary.”

  My friends nodded like they knew about spice trends, but I knew they were just humoring me. They didn’t know rosemary from rose hips.

  I added, “And she was all decorated for Halloween. We’ve been so busy, we can’t forget that the best day of the year is right around the corner.”

  Frankie asked me, “So, are you gonna forget about fettuccine and fry bat wings or something?”

  “Ew, gross. No,” I said. “I’m sticking with the pasta, but adding the mystery spice and giving it a seasonal flare. How does Fettuccine Zombie Noodles in a cauldron sound?”

  Hannah said, “That’s the whole package, Kell. It will taste awesome, look great, and be fun!”

  “Exactly.” I slapped the Felice Foudini Recipe Challenge paper down on the grass to let them see my cauldron artwork and lay back in the grass to enjoy the sun.

  Tony looked at the paper. “I think you have—what is it you girls say? A problemo?”

  15

  Planjo Banjo

  Don’t say problemo,” Darbie said. “We don’t like problemos.”

  “What’s the deal?” Frankie asked Tony.

  “Um. Submissions are due today.”

  “Today!?” we girls yelled.

  I said, “That’s it. We’re too late. There’s no way it’ll get there on time. We’re going to lose F and CS, and Mr. Douglass will be out of a job.”

  “And LLJ will go back to prison,” Darbie said. “She was just starting to grow on me.”

  “This won’t affect her job,” Hannah said.

  “And she isn’t really on parole or even any kind of prisoner,” I added.

  “Who are you going to believe? Her or an honest-to-goodness school legend?” asked Darbie.

  Hannah blew her bangs out of her face.

  “Maybe LLJ and Coach can drive the submission up to Felice Foudini’s people in New York City on Monday. A personal delivery. You know, some of my mom’s cannoli. No one can turn that down,” Frankie said.

  I said, “We’re not going to bribe Felice Foudini. We’re just going to forget this whole stupid thing!” I stormed away and left the paper on the grass.

  Hannah and Darbie chased after me. “What about plan B?” Hannah asked.

  “There’s a plan B?” Darbie asked. “A planjo banjo?”

  “We go back to what’s been working for us,” Hannah said. “The Secret Recipe Book.”

  “We’re also not potioning Felice Foudini,” I said.

  “No. I wasn’t thinking we’d potion her,” Hannah said. “What’s standing in the way of F and CS?”

  “Ten thousand smackers,” Darbie said.

  “And the school board,” I said.

  “Bingo,” Hannah said.

  “Banjo,” Darbie corrected.

  “You want to potion the school board?” I asked.

  “Maybe just a few of them,” Hannah said. “For a while, until we find another way to get the money.”

  “I guess we could do that,” I agreed. “But we’re seriously low on Moon Honey drops, so there’s a chance we won’t be able to reverse the potions until Señora P gets back.”

  “And there’s no guessing when that will be,” Hannah said.

  16

  The Trophy Case

  It was just like any other Monday, except for the addition of Halloween decorations at Alfred Nobel School.

  “What are you gonna be?” Darbie asked us.

  “Don’t you think we’re getting a little old for trick or treat?” Hannah asked.

  “Bite your tongue right this minute, Hannah-Hiawatha-Haha. I overlook a lot of the things you say that make me feel dumb or immature, but I will not—I repeat—I will NOT let you make me feel bad about loving Halloween or talk me into skipping trick or treat.” Darbie stopped and looked at Hannah very seriously. “Got it?”

  I’d never heard Darbie talk like that to anyone before.

  Hannah had a straight face. “Okay, Darb. Sorry. We can totally trick-or-treat.”

  Darbie smiled again, instantly. “I’m so glad that’s behind us.” Then she looked into the trophy case as we walked past it. “What a cute pic of a young Señora P and those other ladies. They don’t look much older than us there.”

  “Picture?” I asked.

  We passed that trophy case everyday on our way into school, but we’d never noticed the picture Darbie was referring to. It was among yearly photos of Chili Festival winners. Front and center, from 1959, was one of a young Señora Perez with two other women.

  “The other two authors of the Book?” Hannah asked.

  “Recognize her?” I pointed to one.

  “Yup,” Hannah said.

  “I think I suddenly need to renew a library book,” I said.

  “Me too,” Hannah said.

  “Me too,” Darbie said. “Ha! Just kidding. I don’t take out any books that would need renewing. You should know that.”

  “Just come on,” I said.

  We walked into the library, and there she was, waiting for us.

  KE.

  17

  The Summer of 1959

  Mrs. Eagle, the school librarian with the rolling r’s and ultrasonic hearing, was waiting for us.

  “I knew you were coming,” she said. “Were” was like “werrre.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “I know everything around here,” Mrs. Eagle said. She pointed to her ears. “That’s the problem with potions. If you don’t take a Moon Honey drop, it doesn’t reverse. I like it. I’ve known what you’ve been up to all along.”

  “And you’re just telling us now?” Darbie asked. “You could have been helping us?”

  “Some things you need to learn for yourself,” she said.

  “You got the Book back for us? You sent it to me in science class in the envelope?” I said.

  Mrs. Eagle nodded.

  “Why?” Hannah asked.

  “You think that Charlotte Barney can handle it? I don’t.”

  “And the Cedronian agave?” Hannah asked. “You sent Ralphie French to the cafeteria to give it to us, didn’t you?”

  She nodded.

  Darbie had caught on. “You knew that Charlotte was going to expose us, and you wanted us to get her!”

  “Not ‘get her,’ but I knew there was a lollipop recipe, because I wrote it myself . . . so, so many summers ago.”

  “Tell us about it,” I said.

  “And also tell us why the apple didn’t work for Coach Richards,” Hannah said.

  “You have so many questions, and we don’t have much time,” Mrs. Eagle said. “The summer of 1959 was hot.”

  “All summers are hot,” Darbie said.

  “This was hotter than average. Look it up in The Old Farmers’ Almanac. You will find it in the reference section.”

  “Speaking of reference sections,” Hannah said, “we were at the public library recently—”

  “Did you know they had a change of address?” Darbie chimed in as though she knew all about the library. “Mrs. Sullivan and I are friends, by the way
. She lets me call her ‘Sully,’ so I’m practically part of the librarian community.”

  “Practically,” Mrs. Eagle agreed with her. “Sit down. I will tell you what I can.”

  We sat a table in the computer section.

  “I worked at the library that summer. Books were my best friends.”

  “Unpopular, huh?” Darbie asked.

  “Darb!” I nudged her to tell her she was being rude.

  “My only friends. Until, that is, a new girl came to town.”

  “Señora P,” Hannah said.

  “Yes. She worked at her parents’ produce market and told me so much about herbs and spices, the types of things that I could not find in books.”

  “Like the Isla de Cedros and the shaman?” I asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “One day another girl—I knew of her because she was very popular—overheard us and said there was no such thing as special spices. She was a lover of science, and she knew that a shaman couldn’t change the chemical components of an herb.”

  “She reminds me of you,” I said to Hannah.

  “This other girl also loved to cook,” Mrs. Eagle said.

  “Now she reminds me of you, Kell,” Hannah said.

  “So we decided to team up and experiment. And that’s what we did the whole summer. We used stationery that I got from the library, and we wrote it all down.”

  “But then things went bad?” Darbie asked, and then she frowned. “Señora P told us about the boy.”

  Mrs. Eagle sat up very straight. “The boy. Oh, that boy.” She looked like she was watching a flashback in her head. “He had been mean to us at the pool, so we hexed him, each of us adding a little bit of the ingredient so that we could equally share the Return. And the next day . . .”

  “He was gone,” I helped her finish the terrible memory, which we already knew from Señora P.

  “Yes.” A tear dripped from her eye. “The Return was the guilt we felt. We just wanted to teach him a bit of a lesson. We did countless good deeds to cancel the Return, but the guilt never faded. So instead, we made a sacrifice—”

  “Like you killed something?”

  “Dear me, no. We gave up something we loved. Cooking. And after a few days, he came back home. . . .”

  “But he couldn’t see,” I said. The words seemed too painful for Mrs. Eagle to mutter.

  “School started a few days later. We gave the boy Moon Honey every chance we could, and slowly he regained his eyesight. We vowed not to make any more recipes. And we hid them.”

  “You took Volume T from the library?” I asked.

  She nodded. “The new set had arrived, so I ripped out the middle pages of an old volume and pasted in the stationery.”

  “It was a smart way to hide it,” Hannah said.

  Mrs. Eagle smiled. “It is not the only thing we hid.”

  18

  Salem, Massachusetts

  I stood in front of my science class. “I learned that my family was originally from Massachusetts. The oldest relative I could find was born in 1669, and her name was Rebecca Kelly Smythe. Rebecca continues to be a family name; my mom goes by Becky. Some Smythe traits are that we all have dark blond hair and a crooked tooth right here.” I pointed to one of my canines. “Quinns are good at math, and Smythes love to cook. Thank you. The end.”

  Next was Charlotte’s turn. “I don’t remember much of my report. In fact, I can’t even remember what I did this weekend. Is it lunchtime yet?”

  “No playing around, Charlotte,” Coach said. “This is a big part of your grade.”

  I whispered to Hannah and Darbie, “You know that I can’t stand this girl, but this is painful to watch. We have to do something.”

  Darbie said, “I’m enjoying it.”

  Charlotte said, “I think we were circus people—” She patted her head and rubbed her stomach at the same time to prove that she had circus-performer genes.

  Hannah said, “Fine. We’ll help her. Darbie, make a distraction.”

  “My specialty,” Darbie said, and presto! She launched into a fit of uncontrollable sneezes.

  Totally made up, yet totally convincing.

  Hannah smashed our last Moon Honey drop with her science book, and, while everyone was counting Darbie’s tenth, eleventh, twelfth sneeze, Hannah blew the dust into Charlotte’s face.

  “Ugh. What the heck, Hannah Hernandez? Keep your dust away from me.” Charlotte turned to Darbie and asked, “Are you quite done?”

  Darbie sat down. “Yes. Thanks. I’m fine now.”

  Charlotte said, “The Barneys have had a significant place in history. General Barney crossed the Delaware River with George Washington, my great-great-aunt was one of the literary elite who sat at the Algonquin Round Table, and my second cousin was advisor to President Ford.” She continued, “The Barneys made their mark on Delaware as land developers. We are known for our beauty, brains, business acumen, natural sports abilities, and perfect blue eyes.”

  “Very nice, Charlotte,” Coach Richards said. “If you’re done, you can take your seat.”

  “There’s one more thing I would like to report,” she said. “Kelly Quinn has a magic book, and she’s been putting spells on everyone for weeks. Darbie O’Brien and Hannah Hernandez have been helping her.” She propped her hands on her hips, satisfied with herself, and stood in front of the silent, stunned classroom.

  Frankie Rusamano made the first sound.

  He laughed.

  At first it was a snicker that he was trying to hold in, but it slipped out. Then it grew until it was loud and from the gut. Then Tony joined in, equally as hearty.

  Soon the whole class was laughing at Charlotte.

  “Good one,” Frankie said.

  “I am not joking around, Frankie. Our own Kelly Quinn is a witch!”

  At that even Coach Richards laughed. “Thanks, Barney,” he said. “You’ll get a few extra points for being the geography wizard, like all the Barneys.” To the class he explained, “Kelly Quinn’s relatives, if born in 1669, would have been alive for the famous witch trials, which happened in Salem, Massachusetts.” He clapped. “Bravo, Barney. Now you can sit.”

  As Charlotte stomped back to her seat, she passed me on the way and muttered, “You’ll be sorry.”

  I looked at Charlotte Barney—my archnemesis, my next-door neighbor who ruined my surprise ninth birthday party by telling me about it, my classmate and teammate who has taunted me for years—with the most evil eyes I could make. And I said, “If you don’t keep your trap shut, I WILL turn you into a frog. And I will enjoy every minute of it.”

  “Did you hear that?” Charlotte asked the class. “Did everyone hear that? She just threatened to turn me into a frog.”

  I laughed.

  Frankie and Tony laughed.

  Coach and Misty laughed.

  Hannah and Darbie laughed.

  Charlotte didn’t.

  No one believed her.

  But she believed me.

  19

  A Famous TV Chef

  The next day, Tuesday, we sat in homeroom while our teacher took attendance. I doodled a jack-o’-lantern on my notebook, thinking about hexing the school board and wondering what to do about Charlotte. My gaze wandered out the window and widened as a motorcade pulled into the fire lane of Alfred Nobel School.

  There were three black SUVs with darkly tinted windows—the kind the FBI or secret agents use.

  I said, “Maybe Darb was right about LLJ. Do you think maybe she missed a meeting with her parole officer, and now they’re coming for her?”

  Then a white stretch limo pulled up and parked behind the SUVs. “You think they would take her to jail in a limo?” Hannah asked.

  I shook my head.

  A man dressed in a pinstripe suit popped out of the limo and entered the school.

  “Kelly? Kelly Quinn?” the teacher called.

  “Um. Yes?”

  “Attendance? Pay attention.”

  “Righ
t. I’m here.” It was impossible for anyone to pay attention. Now two large men in dark black suits with ear gadgets stood on either side of the limo.

  Our teacher lowered the blinds and twisted them tight.

  “Ohh man,” we cried.

  “We have work to do,” she said. “Let’s try attend—”

  The intercom chirped with static several times; then a voice said, “Greetings, glorious Alfred Nobel School student body.” It was Mr. Douglass. “I’m coming to you from the school office and all of its educational feng shui. Due to extraordinary circumstances, you are all being asked to report to the auditorium immediately.”

  “I bet it’s the school board,” I said to Hannah. “They’re going to announce the official closing of F and CS and maybe other programs.”

  “What about planjo banjo?” Darbie asked.

  “Just haven’t gotten to it yet,” I said.

  Moments later we were in the auditorium as Mr. Douglass bounded to the center of the stage. “I have news to share!” He clapped his hands together, too excitedly for someone who was losing his job.

  Kids were still taking their seats when he said, “Thanks to all of you who participated in last week’s cafeteria lunch voting event.”

  Was he going to announce the winning recipe, the Zombie Noodles?

  That was old news.

  “I have an amazing surprise for you all. I can barely believe it’s happening,” he continued.

  We all looked at one another. Maybe it wasn’t about those Zombie Noodles, after all.

  Mr. Douglass looked like he was about to bounce off the stage.

  “It’s an incredible honor to introduce the most amazing, fantabulous, lovely TV chef herself, Felice Foudini!”

  The auditorium burst into applause and hollers. We all went nuts.

  “Pinch me!” I yelled to Darbie.

  She did, and it hurt, so I knew I wasn’t dreaming. The stage lit up, and out she walked. My hero.

  Felice waved and said, “Hellooooooo, Alfred Nobel School!”

  More cheers.

  “I am so happy to be here to personally deliver the first place prize in my recipe challenge. Would the following students please step up? Hannah Hernandez, Darbie O’Brien, Frankie and Tony Rusamano . . .” She waited while they made their way up to the steps.