“Shade-grown ginseng, ah?” she asked.
I nodded and slid the wad of dollars and change across the counter. “Yes, it’s for . . . for . . . a lemon smoothie.” I think I started sweating.
She slid the money toward her very slowly. “A smoothie?” She looked at me as though she could read my thoughts. I swear that the look on her face said, I know you’re making a love potion for the kid standing right next to you, and are you sure you want to do that?
Maybe I was being paranoid, but it was definitely getting hot in there.
Señora Perez pushed the buttons on the antique cash register. As though the sound of the keys dinging summoned a mythical flying creature, a black bird with a long beak shot through the beaded curtain and landed on the woman’s shoulder.
I gasped in surprise and fear. But then I tilted my head, noticing something peculiar. Señora Perez had a wide, warped nose. The bird had a wide, warped beak. Señora Perez had disheveled hair. The bird had unkempt, mangy feathers. Looking at the bird and Señora Perez, I had a bizarre thought. Those two looked alike. Well, as much as a bird and a person could look alike.
Either Frankie was afraid of them, or shocked by the weirdness of their appearance, because the color drained from his face.
Señora Perez took my money and put the bottle in a small paper bag. I couldn’t wait to get that bag and get out of there. Part of me feared that when I turned around, the door would be blocked by a dragon, and the animals on the wall would come to life and try to eat me. Or this creepy woman would trap me in a cage with her bird before feeding me to her pet iguana that lived in the basement.
Señora Perez didn’t seem to notice the bird. She seemed more interested in staring at us.
“Gracias,” I said. I saw my mother outside thumbing through the newspaper. No dragons, no iguanas, and no wall animals came to life.
When I was just two feet from the door, Señora Perez called to me. “You remember what I tell you, Quien siembra vientos recoge temtestades?”
There it was again.
* * *
Darbie and Hannah had already made themselves at home in my kitchen.
“What’s with the sneakers?” I asked Darbie, who was without her signature blades.
“My mom took my skates away until I can stop being klutzy.”
“That could take years,” Hannah teased.
“Very funny, Hannah Haha,” Darbie replied. “So, what are we making today?”
“I found a recipe for Bug Juice.”
“Oh, no,” Hannah said. “I can name that tune in two notes . . . no way! You’re getting carried away, Kelly Quinn. I’m not drinking bugs. I’m not eating bugs.”
“I have no problems with bugs, but we’re not actually drinking them, are we, Kelly?” Darbie asked. “Because I’m with Hannah on this one. No. Eating. Bugs.”
“Yes, I collected them last night after midnight. We need to squeeze their blood out—or we can put them in the blender.”
Hannah said, “Seriously, I draw the line at eating or drinking any form of insect.”
I tisked with my tongue. “Oh, I’m just joking with you guys. Do you really think I would drink bugs?”
We all chuckled.
“Really, what are we making today?” Hannah asked.
I said, “I want to know for sure whether the recipes in this book are special potions. It’s time to put the Secret Recipe Book to the test with a serious experiment.”
“What experiment?” Hannah asked.
“Go ahead, Kelly-Belly, tell her,” Darbie said.
I hesitated. I was not sure how Hannah would react to being part of the experiment.
“WHAT experiment?” Hannah asked again.
“Hannah, don’t say no right away.” I opened my arms to my sides. “Open your mind, and let’s just suppose for a minute that the secret recipes can make things happen.”
“All right, I’m supposing,” she said, but she blew her bangs out of her face.
I glanced at Darbie, indicating she and I were in this scheme together. “Do you still like Frankie Rusamano?”
“Duh. Of course.” Hannah blushed.
My lips began to twist up. “Well, I was thinking . . .”
“About what?”
I enthusiastically spat it out. “A love potion.”
“You can’t be serious,” Hannah said.
Darbie chimed in, as excited as me. “Totally, Shoobedoobedoowhop.”
Hannah said, “I thought you were worried about a curse.”
“It’s worth the risk,” Darbie said.
“I agree,” I said. “I was thinking we could make this Bug Juice—actually it’s called Love Bug Juice—for Frankie and take it to him at work,” I said. “He’s working at the Rossis’ house today.”
Hannah tilted her head and considered this.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked. “If the potion isn’t real, what do you have to lose?”
Hannah thought for another second. “And I could prove to you guys that this is all a bunch of baloney and we can start cooking regular stuff?”
Darbie and I nodded.
“Okay, my mind is certainly open to scientific experiment. Let’s give it a try,” said Hannah.
14
Hubba, Hubba
Darbie, Hannah, and I made a love potion for Frankie Rusamano.
Although we’d been an official secret cooking club for only a few days, we worked like an experienced team of TV chefs.
I got a tall pitcher from my cabinet and poured in chilled cranberry juice.
Hannah peeled and diced green grapes. Darbie sliced a kiwi fruit. I mashed a jar of maraschino cherries. Each fruit got plunked into the pitcher. Gradually the liquid became a blend of rich colors.
I took the shade-grown Mexican ginseng out of my pocket and gave the petite green-tinted bottle to Hannah. She showered contents of the pitcher with the spice.
After plopping in generous amounts of ice cubes, it was done.
“It’s beautiful,” Darbie said, staring at the swirling juice.
“Should we go to the Rossis’?” I asked.
“I want to fix my hair,” Hannah said.
Darbie said, “And I need to borrow something in your garage.”
“Okay. I’ll look for a Thermos.” We all went in our own directions.
When I returned to the kitchen with the Thermos, I found droplets of Love Bug Juice on the kitchen counter and the floor.
BUD!
Thankfully, I saw there was still plenty of juice left for Frankie. In fact, it didn’t all fit in the Thermos. So I resisted the urge to flatten Bud like an ant.
A second later Hannah called, “You ready?”
Through the front window I saw Darbie at the end of my driveway standing on my skateboard, which she’d borrowed from my garage. For some reason, I didn’t have a good feeling about Darbie on my skateboard. I didn’t want her to get hurt on my watch. But I didn’t think she’d like me to suggest that she walk, so I went with it. “Ready,” I said.
* * *
In lieu of falling, Darbie quick-stepped off the skateboard several times. I held the Thermos and told her she couldn’t fall into me. She grabbed on to Hannah a few times to steady herself.
It didn’t take long for us to spy the Rusamano Landscaping truck a few streets down. Frankie was spreading mulch. The back of his shirt was wet with sweat.
He lifted his head and staggered over to us. “Hi guys, I mean, girls. What up?”
For once, Hannah was at a loss for words.
I said, “We were just going for a walk.”
“Hot today, huh?” Darbie asked, one foot on the skateboard.
“Sure is,” Frankie looked at her strangely. “No soccer tryouts?” His face was flushed and it looked like he was getting sunburned.
I said, “Not today.” I gently nudged Hannah with my elbow.
She managed to ask, “Uhh . . . are you thirsty?”
Frankie wipe
d sweat off his forehead. “Do I look thirsty?”
“Yeah . . . ,” Hannah said. Her mouth clearly wasn’t working right.
“We made Bug Juice,” I said.
He hesitated. “Whoa, I’m not thirsty enough to drink bugs.”
This made Hannah smile, but she was still too nervous to talk.
Darbie filled in the conversation. “It’s not actually insects. It’s cold and sweet, very yum-o-licious.”
“Well, in that case.”
Hannah still held the Thermos close to her. I gently bumped her arm, guiding the Thermos closer to Frankie’s hand. Just then Tony, Frankie’s twin brother, walked over, iPod buds buried in his ears.
It was odd how Frankie and Tony could look so much alike and so different at the same time. In a word, Tony was sloppy. His hair was mussed and needed a cut. And he slouched, hiding the fact that he was about a head taller than Frankie. Teachers always told him to pull up his pants. Frankie, on the other hand, kept his hair buzzed short and even now, working outside, it seemed he’d made some effort to tuck in his dirty T-shirt.
Frankie was the life of the party, whereas Tony kept to himself. I didn’t really even know him. But here he came. He reached over Frankie’s shoulder, took the Thermos, and chugged a big gulp before Frankie playfully elbowed him in the stomach. “Get your own, dude.”
Tony returned the affection by making an armpit fart in Frankie’s ear before jogging over to the landscaping truck.
“Real mature!” Frankie called, but Tony didn’t seem to hear him.
At the truck, Tony ducked his head under the spigot of a cooler, letting water flow into his mouth, onto his face, and into his hair.
Meanwhile, Frankie put the silver rim of my dad’s camping Thermos to his lips. He drank. “Wow. You were right, it’s sweet.” He looked right at Hannah and took another sip. “Why do you call it Bug Juice?”
Her mouth decided to work. “Ahh, umm, it’s an opposite thing. You know, like the baseball player who pitches with his right hand and they call him ‘Lefty,’” she said. “Or the shortest kid that people call ‘Stretch,’ or you call the chubby guy ‘Slim,’ or—”
Now maybe her mouth was working a little too much. I discreetly stepped on her foot and she closed her lips.
Frankie finished her thought. “So, you call the sweetest drink Bug Juice. It’s weird, but I get it.”
“FRANKIE!” His dad called over the growl of a chain saw. “Coffee hour is finito, back to work!”
“The boss,” Frankie said with a nod. “Gotta go.” He handed the Thermos back to Hannah. “Thanks, guys, I mean, girls.”
“Honey! Dinner’s getting cold!” Mom called out the back door to my dad, who was examining the tree in the Barneys’ yard.
“It’s a nice night, huh?” Dad asked when he came in.
I took my seat next to Bud and put my napkin on my lap. When I looked up, I saw my dad had poured the rest of the Bug Juice out of the Thermos and into a glass. He took a sip.
Ruh-roh.
My mom pulled the pizza slices onto plates. Dad hugged her. “That drink was scrumptious,” he said.
“Oh, I didn’t make that, Kelly and her friends did.” Mom took a drink of the juice too.
Double ruh-roh.
“Well, it’s yum-o-licious, as Darbie would say.” He sat down, smacking his lips. “Looks like the cooking club is rockin’ and rollin’.”
Mom laughed. “Secret cooking club,” she corrected.
I ignored her. “It’s going well,” I said cautiously, watching for my parents’ reaction to the love potion. Actually, I’d forgotten that Bud drank some too. It seemed like I was the only one at the table who hadn’t tried the Love Bug Juice.
I carefully surveyed the three of them. They looked normal. Well, as normal as my family could look.
“Remind me, who’s in this club? Dad asked.
“Darbie and Hannah,” I said.
Bud lifted his eyebrows up and down. “Hannah. Hubba, hubba!”
Hubba hubba? Okay, totally scratch what I said about normal. As creepy as my little brother usually was, I’d never heard him use the phrase “Hubba, hubba.”
I was not the only one surprised by this comment. “What was that, mister?” Mom asked.
Bud took a big bite of the top triangle of his pizza. “Sthee thure is perrtie,” he said with a mouth full of food.
I caught my dad trying to hide a laugh.
“You leave your sister’s friends alone.” Mom wiped Bud’s mouth with a napkin.
“But she is pretty. And have you seen her play soccer? She’s, like, the best one on the team,” he added.
When Dad thought no one was looking, he winked at Bud.
After dinner my dad unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves. He placed dirty dishes in the sink. Mom watched him. “Since when do you help in the kitchen?”
“You go relax,” Dad said. “I’ll clean up in here.” But Mom didn’t relax, she sang along with the jazz on the radio.
Confirmed. Things were definitely NOT normal.
I retrieved my backpack and observed my dad with his soapy hands. He wiggled his body to the music and sang, “Hubba, hubba.”
I left the kitchen, then turned back. “Mom, did Mrs. Silvers call today?”
Mom giggled at Dad’s horrible dancing. “No, she didn’t. Maybe that orange juice did the trick.”
“Maybe.” I thought maybe I had more positive data with Mrs. Silvers.
Then she added, “Do you have some homework to do?”
I fled Crazytown and hid in the safety of my room, where I called Darbie.
I told her what happened with my family at dinner after they drank the Love Bug Juice.
“Your family has always been a little strange,” Darbie said. “Let’s wait and see what happens with Frank—oh crap! Ouch!” I heard the phone tumbling.
“What happened?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
Darbie came back on the line. “I fell off the side of my bed and hit my funny bone on the dresser. There’s nothing funny about it.”
“What’s with you lately? You’re like a falling disaster.”
“I don’t know, but it sucks.”
“Try to be more careful, Shoobedoo,” I said before we hung up.
Then I jumped on my bed to get my journal out of the ceiling tile. I turned back a few pages and reviewed the past couple of days. I studied the warnings and called 1-800-Hannah. “Hey, pal, it’s me.”
Hannah said, “Hey, Kell, what’s up?”
“I wanted to double-check the translation of Quien siembra vientos recoge temtestades.”
“Like I said, it’s some kind of old Spanish saying. Just a sec.” I heard her flip through a book. “This year instead of getting you a cookbook for your birthday I’m getting you a Spanish/English dictionary. Then you won’t have to call me every time you need to know a word,” Hannah said.
“Sure, but I really like calling you,” I said. “Besides, sayings like this are hard to find in a dictionary.”
“I know. I have a list of phrases in this book. It means ‘You reap what you sow.’ That’s what this book says.”
“Great, only now I need a translator for the English version, too. What does that mean?”
“It’s what I told you before, you get what you deserve,” Hannah said. “Kind of like ‘what you do comes back to you’ or ‘what comes around goes around.’”
Slowly, I said, “Or it returns to you.” Maybe I was onto something. “Hold on.” I set the phone down and flipped through the heavy pages pasted into the encyclopedia and looked for the slip of paper that had fallen out. “Hannah, remember the scrap of faded paper that flew out of the Book? It said, ‘Remember to Beware of the Law of Returns.’”
“So what?”
I said, “Señora Perez said practically the same thing as what was written on that old note!”
“I guess,” Hannah said. “That’s weird.”
“It’s more than weird. It’s an
other freaky coincidence. And you know my theory?”
“Don’t remind me. ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence.’ Look, I gotta go. I’m pooped—oops, sorry. I know poop is a touchy subject for you lately.” There was a giggle in her voice.
Everybody wants to be a comedian, as my father would say. In Hannah’s case, I liked it when she joked. It reminded me of the good ol’ days when she used to be a lot more fun. Before she was so worried about how she looked, what she wore, or what she ate. I can’t imagine worrying about so much stuff.
“Actually, I think the poop issue might be solved,” I said. “No call from Silvers today.”
I set my Spanish translating aside, went to the kitchen, and did some schoolwork, but it didn’t take long for the sound of sizzling ground beef to fill the room. Little dots of hot grease jumped out and onto the stove top. I took my position and used a spatula to move the bits of meat around. When the meat was all brown, I drained off the fat and carefully scooped the beef into the pot with the rest of the chili ingredients.
Now that Mom and I had nailed down the recipe we were using for this year’s chili contest, we moved into mass production mode. We needed to manufacture enough fantastic chili for everyone in town to have a taste.
Mom zipped around the kitchen, chopping onions faster than a food processor. “Maybe you can bring a little pot of this over to Mrs. Silvers,” Mom said. “Since you and she are, like, buddies now.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far, Mom.”
“Well, there’s no such thing as too much good karma.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“What?”
“Good karma?”
Mom explained. “Karma is when you get what you give. So, if you do nice things for people, nice things happen to you. Likewise—”
“If you do something bad, something bad will come back to you?”
Mom said, “You said it.”
Karma? Sounded like the Law of Returns and the Quien siembra-thingamabob.
I stirred and let out a mammoth yawn.
“I’ll finish up here,” Mom said. “Why don’t you go to bed, honey.”
I didn’t argue.
Lying in bed with Rosey wrapped around my legs, I couldn’t stop thinking. If you do bad things, bad things will happen to you.
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