“All right, O’Brien! That’s what I’m talking about. Good job!” Coach clapped his hands.
I saw my mom arrive. She sat on the sideline talking to Mrs. Barney. I had a bad feeling about that.
At the end of practice we gathered our stuff by the bench. “How’re those stomach muscles feeling?” Darbie asked Charlotte.
“My abs are like a rock.” Charlotte patted her tummy. “Unlike yours. You know, you’re going to set a record as the fastest kid Coach has ever cut. Face it Darbie, you’re going to be the first one cut from this team, and Kelly is going to lose the chili contest.”
“No way.” Darbie got in Charlotte’s face. “Wanna take things up a notch?”
“Bring. It. On,” Charlotte said.
“All right. If Kelly loses the chili contest, she has to rake your yard wearing whatever you choose. If she wins, you have to rake her yard wearing whatever she chooses.”
Charlotte said, “You’re. So. On.” She and Misty walked off giggling.
I couldn’t move my feet. I couldn’t move my mouth. And thankfully, I couldn’t move my arms. Because if I could, I would’ve run after Charlotte and taken back the bet. And I’d have whacked Darbie in the head for upping the ante on my behalf!
That’s just wrong.
I managed to heave myself and all of my belongings into the minivan. Darbie and Hannah did the same.
Mom said, “You girls don’t look so good.”
We just sort of grunted.
“If you girls promise you’ll still eat your dinners, you could talk me into buying you a little somethin’ somethin’ at Sam’s,” she said. She was trying too hard to be cool, but I was too tired to be embarrassed by her and I really needed the Swirley she was referring to. (I’m talking extra-thick.)
We nodded. Normally we would’ve whooped, but we were too beat.
She put the car in gear and drove toward Sam’s. “By the way, Kelly, your father’s and brother’s voices came back. A little tea with my special honey drops did the trick. Mrs. Barney was telling me there’s a virus going around. Oh, and Kell, when I was talking to her . . .”
Oh, no. Here it comes.
“. . . She was telling me how badly Charlotte’s feet hurt.”
Yes!
“So, I offered for you to help take her books to school tomorrow.”
And there it was. Jab to the stomach, as my father would say, and he knows what he’s talking about, because he watches a lot of boxing.
“You’ve got to be kidding. Why? Oh, why, why?”
“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s only for a few days. And you’re going to the same place as Charlotte. It’s not a big deal.”
I had really enjoyed the hex and seeing Charlotte do sit-ups for an hour. But now I had to help her? Maybe it was the curse—maybe that’s what I deserved for hexing her legs and enjoying it so much: Death by Humiliation.
Sam delivered Swirleys to our table because we were too tired to walk over to the counter to get them. He even opened the straw for Darbie and bent it to her lips. She slurped, swallowed, and sighed. “Good stuff. Thanks, Sam.”
When Mom went to Cup O’ Joes, I said, “With the exception of having to help Charlotte with her books, the whole blister thing is exciting, doncha think?”
Darbie held a blank expression. “This is my excited face today,” she said.
Hannah said, “I know what you’re thinking, that somehow with that book, we caused Bud to lose his voice and Charlotte to get terrible blisters, but there are rational explanations for why those things happened. I don’t think our Charlotte experiment proved anything. It could still be coincidental.”
“If you ask me,” I said, “two coincidences are two coincidences too many.”
“We need more data,” Hannah said.
“I’m game,” I said.
Darbie couldn’t pry her lips from around her straw. She just gave the “okay” sign.
My Swirley was so thick I couldn’t suck it through the straw. I had to eat it with a spoon—but it totally hit the spot.
Hannah’s Swirley was almost gone. She pushed all ten fingertips on her forehead so hard that they turned white.
“You did it again,” I said.
She nodded. “Brain freeze. I can’t help it, it’s just so good.”
12
Strife
Later that evening Mom called upstairs interrupting my homework. “That was Mrs. Silvers on the answering machine. Can you—”
“Let me guess. Scoop the poop,” I said. I opened the Secret Recipe Book. That grouchy old dog-hater across the street was going to drive me to Crazytown if I didn’t do something soon.
“Oh, and Kelly,” Mom said, “when you go over can you—”
“Yes, I’ll take her mail too. I’ll go over in a few minutes.” I remembered seeing something in the Book that I thought would be good for just such a situation. Ah, there it was, the FCS: Fresh Citrus Squeeze/For Causing Strife. This recipe had only four ingredients, so I could make it fast for a quick delivery. It called for crushed menta. I knew that was mint. We always had mint leaves in the spice cabinet. Mom and I use it in lots of different recipes.
Downstairs Mom was singing jazz and folding clean sheets in the laundry room, which was right next to the kitchen. “I’m going to squeeze an orange for the hag—err, I mean, Mrs. Silvers.”
My mom looked at me through the doorway, a smile covering her face, “You’re squeezing orange juice for Mrs. Silvers?” she confirmed in disbelief.
“Yeah. I started thinking that maybe if I’m nice to her, she won’t bother me so much. Maybe she’ll call Charlotte to clean her yard.”
Mom said, “That would make more sense if Charlotte had a dog.”
In the kitchen I squeezed the juice of an orange into a glass. “Not really. We both know that Rosey isn’t the dog pooping in her yard. She only did once and that was a long time ago. But because of that, I’m singlehandedly scooping poop for any random dog who comes by and squats. It’s only fair Charlotte should have the same opportunity.”
“Speaking of Charlotte, since you’re in a forgiving mood, why don’t you kiss and make up with her, too?”
Let’s not get carried away. “Mom, I can name that tune in one note . . . NOT!”
Mom snapped a pillowcase as she shook it out.
I crushed a mint leaf under the base of a metal spoon.
Mom’s head was halfway in the dryer. “What you’re doing is nice. Maybe when you’re old, someone nice will help you.”
I sprinkled in a half pinch of crushed mint into the pulpy juice as I stirred.
I plopped a few ice cubes into the fresh citrus orange-mint-squeeze, grabbed the scooper, and headed across the street.
Knock-knock.
“Hi,” I said cheerfully as the door opened a crack. “I’m going to clean up your yard. I also brought over your mail and some fresh juice for you.”
A wrinkled hand came out and took the glass, and the door banged shut in my face. Not a word from that mean old woman.
Mission complete, as my dad says.
While I scooped poop for what I hoped was the last time, Darbie’s words dangled in the back of my brain, “BEEEEWAAARRRREEE, MooHaHaHah!”
* * *
During my hot shower, I thought about Bud’s voice and Charlotte’s blisters and Hannah’s need for additional experimentation. Back in my bedroom, I looked through the Book. There was one recipe that continually captured my attention. I e-mailed Darbie.
To: DarbieSk8s
From: KellyQCooker
>> D, I was thinking about another
experiment . . . a love potion. —K
To: KellyQCooker
From: DarbieSk8s
>> K, Who and who? —D
To: DarbieSk8s
From: KellyQCooker
>> D, HH and FR. —K
To: KellyQCooker
From: DarbieSk8s
>> K, Darbie likey. —D
To: DarbieSk8s
From: KellyQCooker
>> D, Me 2. C U 2morrow. —KQ out
On my way to bed, I sniffed. I couldn’t believe it. It was nine thirty and I smelled chili. I went downstairs. “Mom, what are you doing?”
Next to her was the Mammoth. The Mammoth was the biggest cup of the strongest coffee Cup O’ Joe makes. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said frantically. “I made several small batches of chili to try out some different spice combos. I’d like you to test each one and tell me what you think. I have my favorite, but let’s see what you think.” She slid a spoon in front of me. “Try this.”
I tasted it. “Water!” I yelled. OMG, it was so spicy!
She got me a glass. “Too hot? Is it too hot? I thought it might be too hot.”
I nodded.
“Try this one.” Mom shoved another spoonful of chili under my nose.
After the last one, I wasn’t too psyched, but I took an itty-bitty taste. It was so smoky it made me cough. I drank the water again, choking on it as it struggled to get down my throat.
“Too much BBQ? I thought there might be too much BBQ,” she said.
I nodded as I chugged more water.
Then she gave me a third spoonful. She looked at me like she was simply dying to hear what I thought. Reluctantly, I tasted it.
It was not immediately offensive, which was good. It was chunky with both meat and beans. I liked the balance of hot red pepper and cumin. There was a little sweetness that was interesting. But then there was a kicker that I couldn’t identify. It was very pleasing, and while I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, it reminded me of Thanksgiving and Christmas, and it made me feel happy. I tilted my head and thought about it. I still didn’t know what it was. “Mom, this is so, so, so good. What is that flavor?”
“AHA!” she yelled. “I knew it. I knew you’d love it. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.”
“What’s in it?”
She held up a regular old ordinary spice bottle that had been in our cabinet forever. Who would’ve ever thought that the spice of homemade apple sauce and pumpkin pie would go so well in chili?
Our annual Alfred Nobel School Chili Cook-Off secret weapon? Nutmeg.
13
Shade-Grown Ginseng
Question: What weighs more, one hundred
pounds of flour, or one hundred pounds of nutmeg?
Answer: Charlotte’s red canvas LL Bean backpack on the
morning I’m carrying it to school.
The next morning there was a knock at the back door. I saw blond hair.
Let the humiliation begin. I hoisted her backpack over my shoulders and carried mine in front of my body.
On the bus in front of everyone, including Frankie and Tony, Charlotte made a big deal about me carrying her stuff.
She said, “Oh, Kelly, can you put it there?” She turned to Misty. “It’s just like having a butler.”
Misty asked, “Do you tip her?”
“Do you tip a butler?” Charlotte asked.
I tuned out the rest of the conversation, which was peppered with giggles.
It was the ultimate humiliation that blurred the rest of my day like chocolate fudge in a Swirley. I didn’t pay attention in any of my classes and I didn’t eat my lunch. I did notice, however, that Darbie still had trouble with her foot coordination, holding her pencil in her hand, and keeping her books in her arms. She had an überbad case of the clumsies.
The backpack thing had me so livid, I only spoke to the girls long enough to tell them that I’d “dealt with” Mrs. Silvers, and arranged for them to come over after school. I told them not to come over right away, because I needed to run an errand. They agreed, and by the end of seventh period they stopped trying to make me feel better.
Charlotte didn’t say anything, not even “thank you,” when I delivered her backpack filled with cement at her back door. “If you think this is bad, just wait until you’re raking my yard,” the voice of genuine wickedness called to me as I walked off in a huff.
When I got home, Mom was working on a jigsaw puzzle on the dining room table. She looked at my expression. “Bad day?” she asked.
I nodded.
“What happened?”
“Charlotte happened.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
I ignored her because “you should be” was the only thing I could think of to say.
“Mom, the club is coming over and I need something for the recipe we’re going to make. I don’t feel like walking down to La Cocina. Can you take me?”
She glanced at her watch. “Sure, sweetheart. Hey, how about staying up late with me to mass produce our chili?”
Staying up late cooking with Mom? That changed my mood and put a smile on my face. It reminded me of the reasons I loved cooking. She and I alone in the kitchen, just talking and stirring.
“Maybe I’ll get myself a Mammoth.” She snatched her purse. “And I’m thinking of pizza for dinner so we can start early on the chili.”
“That sounds good,” I said.
Cup O’ Joe was noisy and crowded. “How about a hot chocolate?” she asked, ruffling my hair.
“That would be great.” I pulled an ANtS sweatshirt over my head. “I’m going next door to get the stuff for the club.”
“Don’t you mean secret cooking club?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, that’s the one.” After I turned around, the corners of my lips curled up. I would’ve never admitted it to her, but sometimes she was actually funny.
I pushed open the door of Cup O’ Joe and found the target of the love potion on the other side.
Enter Frankie Rusamano: “Whoa, where’s the fire?” I was so close to him that I could smell his soap.
“Oops, sorry Frankie.”
“You don’t know your own strength. Maybe you should go out for the football team.” He gently punched my arm.
My mom waved to Frankie. “Hi, Frankie, how’s your family?” She inched up in line.
“Everyone’s good. Tony and my dad are working on a landscaping project at the Rossis’. I’m heading there now. My mom’s at home making sauce,” Frankie replied over the bustle.
Mom asked, “Is she entering the Chili Cook-Off?”
“She wouldn’t miss it,” Frankie said. “She wants that chili pepper necklace for another year.”
“Well, tell her I said hello and that we need to get together one of these days.”
“Will do, Mrs. Q.”
My mom was almost to the front of the line. “Frankie, do you want hot chocolate too?”
“That’d be great, Mrs. Q.” He gave her a big grin that revealed his dimples.
He turned to me. “Sweet! That’s what I came in for.”
“I was about to go next door,” I said to him.
He held the door for me and, to my surprise, Frankie followed me to La Cocina.
The shells hanging on the door knocked together as we entered the Mexican cooking store. It felt like a museum that was closed for the night, or maybe one that had been deserted for years. Animals stared at each other. Sunlight was scarce. The smell of stale nachos floated in the air. Stacks of burlap-style cloth with colored zigzag patterns were piled on tables and stools.
Standing on a faded braided rug, Frankie mumbled, “Creeeeeepy.” He examined each animal head. “I’ve been to Sam’s and Cup O’ Joe a zillion times and I can honestly say I’ve never been in here. Now I know why.”
I found the spice rack holding corked bottles of various shapes, shades, and sizes, and using the alphabetical organizing system, I found the one I wanted filed under G: shade-grown Mexican ginseng. Scratchy black writing on a price tag read $10.95.
Frankie saw the tag over my shoulder. “Holy Stromboli, that’s expensive for some dust.”
“It’s a spice that’s hard to find, not dust. But it is expensive. I don’t think I have enough money to pay for it.”
“I have the money I was going to use for the hot chocolate, if you need it.”
He reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and found a crumpled five-dollar bill.
“Thanks, I’ll pay you back,” I said gratefully.
Frankie was a nice guy. I felt kind of bad borrowing money to buy something to use in a potion intended for him.
“It must be nice having a job,” I said, counting the money in my hand. When I looked up, I suddenly saw that Señora Perez was inches from my face.
“Buenos días,” she said slowly with her arms crossed over her chest. Wearing a thin bathrobe and slippers, she looked like she had just rolled out of bed. She checked Frankie out from head to toe, expressionless.
I felt the need to fill the quietness. “Ahhh . . . I . . . I’d like to buy this.”
Señora Perez finished her visual examination of Frankie, took the bottle without looking at it, and walked to the back of the store. She disappeared through the curtain of colorful beads—red, gold, and green. I waited at an ancient cash register.
Frankie walked up behind me. “Maybe you were supposed to follow her back there?” He nodded toward the beaded doorway.
“I hope not,” I said hesitantly.
“What? You look scared. Kelly Quinn is afraid of an old lady? She’s shorter than my eight-year-old cousin.”
“Shhh,” I said. “I am not scared.”
I gazed at the artwork while we waited. There were lots of dusty, framed photos of a beach that went on for miles before melting into choppy mountains rich with green plants. If I squinted, I could make out little homes, or huts or something, on the tops of the mountains.
Señora Perez emerged from the waterfall of shiny beads with her glasses hanging on an elaborate strand of jewels. She lifted the chain over her messy bun that reminded me of a Black and White Super Swirley. The hairdo gave the illusion that she was taller than she really was.
She perched the glasses on the tip of her nose. “Diez, niña,” she said, and turned the bottle in her hand to look at the name of the spice. Her eyes peeped over the rims of her glasses. She gave me a quizzical look. Then she looked at Frankie Rusamano, and back to me. Why is she smirking?
Just Add Magic Page 7