Just Add Magic (6 page)

We looked closely at the bottle. The glass was so thick, it distorted the contents. They looked wavy, like they were
under water. I pulled hard at the cork in the top. It made a distinctive popping sound when it was freed from the bottle. I took out a few stems. I smelled them, but they were odorless.

“What do you think it is?” Kelly asked.

“Looks like plant stems,” Hannah offered.

“Maybe we should look it up before we try to feed it to my little brother. He's a pain in the rumpus, but we don't want to kill him.”

Darbie, the Queen of Google, clicked on my desktop until she found “vetivert.” “It says here that it's a tall grass whose roots and leaves are often used in alternative healing. What's alternative healing?”

I said, “That's like when you don't go to the doctor or use regular medicine. Instead you take vitamins and use natural stuff to help you feel better or to prevent getting sick.”

Hannah looked at me, puzzled. “How do you know that?”

“My aunt is into some of that stuff,” I explained. “She's a vegetarian, she does yoga every day, and she doesn't shave her legs. When we go to her house she makes my family meditate. My dad falls asleep. Worst of all, she doesn't have a TV. Could you imagine life without
The Pastry Quartet
,
Don't Let This Happen to Your Kitchen
, or
Fab Food with Felice Foudini
?”

“And now back to reality,” Hannah said. “From that description, it doesn't look like this spice will kill your
brother. But if it does, and we're accused of murder, I was never here. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said.

“Got it,” said Darbie. “Kell, if we go to juvie, will you be my roommate?”

“You know it!”

“Cool.”

“All right,” I said. “Cobbler it is. We just got some apples from Mrs. Silvers. I had one for lunch and it was really awesome.”

“You got them from Mrs. Silvers, the witch?” Darbie asked.

“Yes. But seriously, they're delish. So I guess we're all set,” I said, heading out the door. “Come on Shoobedoobedoowhops. Let's go cook.”

Question:
What do you get when you combine an annoying little brother with a secret cooking club?

Answer:
A taste-tester.

Outfitted in our new aprons, we spread out the kitchen tools and started peeling apples.

BANG! CRASH! CLANG!
Pots and pans clanged outside the kitchen. Bud was marching around, in and out of the kitchen, banging on pots like drums. He yelled as loud as he could, “Kelly is smelly and so are her friends!”

CLANG! CLINK! CRASH!

Darbie picked up a banana, peeled it, and took a bite. “Kelly Quinn, I might stick this up his nose if he doesn't zip his pie hole.”

CRASH!
“Kelly is smelly! And her friends stink too!”

“Let's get to work and see if this cobbler really does keep 'em quiet,” I said. Then I yelled, “MOOOOooom!”

My mom called into the kitchen. “Mister, you're going to Time Out!” We heard Bud drag the pans across the hard wood floor to the Time-Out chair.

Hannah took her hands off her ears. “Thank goodness.”

I pushed preheat on the oven and cracked open the
World Book Encyclopedia, Volume T
. Carefully, I turned each worn page until I got to the cobbler. I dragged my finger over the handwritten recipe. “I wonder who wrote this,” I said.

Neither of the girls answered, giving me a minute to wonder about the recipe book's writer. The windows steamed up from the heat growing in the kitchen. I cracked one open. I felt a cool breeze and noticed dark clouds rolling in. Suddenly I felt like Darbie, Hannah, and I weren't the only ones in my kitchen—I had the bizarre feeling that whoever wrote the Book was there with us. The thought gave me a chill.

“What do we need, Kell?” Darbie asked.

Hannah's pink-nail-polished index finger brushed along the ingredient list. She called out the items while Darbie pulled them out of the pantry and set them on the countertop. Hannah concluded with, “And aged vetivert stems.”

I took the little bottle from my apron pocket and set it on the countertop.

The girls sliced apples, measured, and stirred. I fluffed
together the flour, sugar, and softened butter with a fork.

Darbie added the vetivert. I thought maybe the mixture would bubble over or explode or turn a psychedelic color, but it looked like ordinary apple goop. Actually, it looked like rich, delectable apple goop. It was cinnamonny brown and looked delicious next to the creamy flour-sugar-butter mixture. I imagined what it was going to look like hot and bubbly from the oven.

Darbie poured the apple goop into a pan.

Hannah sprinkled the flour-sugar-butter mixture I'd made atop the goop. “This looks awesome,” she said.

I slid the pan into the oven, wearing huge heat-resistant gloves. Soon the kitchen filled with wonderful apple smells. At the same time, the skyline became covered with gray clouds. We turned on the oven's interior light and watched the cobbler bake, like we were watching TV.

“I'm freaking out a little about soccer tryouts this year,” Darbie said, staring at the oven.

“You'll be fine,” Hannah said.

“That's easy for you to say. You're in great shape from swimming all summer and you were one of the best players on the team last year,” Darbie said. “If you haven't noticed,” she added, “I'm not the most coordinated person in the world.”

“Just try your best and work really hard. Coach Richards likes that,” Hannah said.

My mind was in the hot oven, in the sizzling pan, in the sugary mixture gurgling over the rim, and in the drops that dropped onto the bottom of the oven. “Who do you think wrote it?” I asked.

“What?” Hannah asked.

“The Book.”

The girls didn't have an answer. I was deep in thought about it when there was a knock at the back door. I looked out and saw a blond head. If I looked a little closer, I might have found little red horns under the curly locks.

“Argh,” Darbie groaned when she saw Charlotte. When we didn't move toward the door, Hannah opened it. Charlotte pushed past her and into the kitchen. I subtly took a dishcloth and tossed it over the encyclopedia.

“What do you want?” I asked.

Charlotte scanned the kitchen. Her nose lifted slightly. “Wait a minute. Is this is your silly little secret club?” she asked with a laugh and a snort.

“WHAT do you want?” I asked again impatiently.

“I brought this letter. It came to our house. It's for your mom, from a reunion company in Massachusetts. Probably her high school reunion.”

“Thanks for bringing it,” I said as I escorted her to the back door. “I'll make sure my mom gets it.” I practically shoved her onto the driveway.

“You're so rude, Kelly Quinn.”

Darbie said, real sarcastically, “Thanks for coming. Been great seeing you. Have a super night. Always a pleasure.”

Charlotte snapped, “This club is so stupid, and I don't know what you're making, but it smells terrible because you're a terrible cook, Kelly Quinn. And I hope you and your mom lose the chili contest
again
this year.”

I slammed the door.

“Grrr. She is so MEAN,” I said.

“Just ignore her,” Hannah said. “She's probably jealous that we didn't invite her.”

I said, “Why would she want—”
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The oven timer went off.

“Woot! Woot! Shoobedoobedoowhop!” Darbie called. “My ribs are showing, let me at that bad boy.”

I slid the pan out of the oven and set it on a trivet. We all leaned over the dessert and inhaled. It smelled
delicioso
!

A pile of leaves rustled in a strange way, drawing our attention outside, where Charlotte was standing in the light rain, watching us. When she saw that we'd caught her little spy thing, she headed home.

“She's unbelievable,” I said.

Darbie pulled the blinds down. “What's the hold-up?” she asked. “Fork, please.”

“Well,” I said. “I'm dying to taste it too. But, if it's meant to ‘keep 'em quiet,' I don't know if we should. I mean, what would happen to us?”

Darbie said, “You could've mentioned that earlier, before I became so weak with hunger that I can hardly rip open a package of Twinkies.”

Suddenly, a crack of thunder shook the house.
BOOM!

I asked, “What was that?”

“Just thunder,” Hannah said.

Darbie said, “It's the warning. I told you that book was cursed. We were warned!”

KABOOM!

We shrieked and Mom came in. “Everything okay?” she asked, shutting the oven door.

“Yeah. The thunder scared us,” I said.

“Me too.” She inspected the dish. “Oh, girls, this looks so good.”

Headlights glided into our driveway. “That looks like my mom's car,” Darbie said. Even though she lives just a block away, Darbie isn't allowed to skate home in the dark or the rain. “I'm outta here. Barb is making stuffed meatloaf tonight.” (Darbie was the only kid I knew who called her mom by her first name.)

“Why don't you grab your books. I'll get some containers and you can all take some of this scrumptious-looking cobbler home,” Mom offered.

“Ummm.” Darbie looked at Hannah and me. “No. No thanks, Mrs. Q. I'm stuffed.”

“No?” Mom asked, confused.

“No,” Darbie said. “We were thinking . . . thinking, umm—”

“Thinking that you would have it with dinner tonight,” Hannah helped.

“That's a wonderful idea,” Mom said. “Thanks, girls.”

We saw another set of headlights pull into the driveway. “That looks like my dad's car.” Hannah said. She joined Darbie in getting her things and the two dashed into the rain.

It was just Mom and me. She said, “Mrs. Silvers called. She wanted to know if you—”

“I know, I know. I'm going.” I went across the street with an umbrella and a pooper-scooper.

That night's Quinn Family Dinner was typical, except for the addition of a dish made from a Secret Recipe Book for the purpose of shutting up my little brother.

Rosey ate dry food out of her bowl on the floor next to the table while Mom served dessert. She dished out the cobbler, starting with my brother, who sniffed in a huge breath and let out a huge, spitty sneeze all over the rest of the pan.

Presto! Cobbler a la snot.

“Bud! Cover your mouth!” Mom scolded. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

I passed on eating the germ-infested cobbler. Mom too. Dad scooped a mountain onto his plate.

“Ah, Dad. You sure you want that? I mean, you might get
sick,” I said.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Dads don't get sick.” He shoveled a big bite of cobbler into his mouth.

“Mmmmmm. You and your friends made this?” Dad asked.

“Yup,” I said.

“With the apples from Mrs. Silvers,” Mom added.

Dad stopped with his fork in midair. “Did you check them for poison?

Coach Richards is both the soccer coach and my science teacher. He's young, not much older than Vinny Rusamano, Frankie and Tony's older brother, who's in his second year of college.

He sat us alphabetically, which put Charlotte right in front and Hannah a few seats behind her. The second row included Darbie, me, Frankie, and Tony Rusamano. Obviously, the second row is the best one—if only “Hernandez” was later in the alphabet.

We stared at Coach, who explained the scientific process
while sipping his carrot juice. “You'll come up with a hypothesis. And then we'll work in the lab and conduct experiments to either prove or disprove your theory. Any questions?”

None.

“Now turn to page thirty-three,” he said. “We're going to talk about Newton's Third Law. Does anyone know what that is?”

No one reacted.

“Newton says . . .” Coach Richards wrote on the board. The room was quiet except for the sound of scratching chalk.

Darbie leaned over. “The only Newton I'm interested in is Fig.”

I got a little giggly.

Coach Richards read what he'd written. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Maybe he could tell that we weren't impressed by Newton. He said, “Darbie, why don't you read out loud to us, starting at the top of the page.”

Darbie read, but I don't think anyone paid attention, except for Hannah, who diligently took notes.

At the end of class Coach Richards invited any interested girls to come to soccer tryouts after school, which was when he transformed from science teacher into fitness maniac.

* * *

Coach Richards jogged around the back of the school to the soccer field wearing shorts and sneakers. We were already there waiting for him. “Have a seat and listen up!” he shouted,
tucking his clipboard under his arm. We all think Coach Richards is a ten on the cutie scale, which only added to my stomach butterflies.

“I want to review a few rules for the newbies before we get tryouts started. Number one, you owe me a push-up for every minute you're late for practice.” He gave Darbie a look. “Number two, you cannot practice or play in any games if you don't maintain a B average. Number three, if you're injured, you will come to practice and games suited up and you will stretch with and cheer for your teammates.”

“There are more rules, but that's enough for now.” He tossed his clipboard onto the grass and bent down to touch his toes. We did the same. “We'll do a lot of conditioning today. If you spent the summer eating Super Swirleys, this won't be easy. But we WILL have fun! . . . just probably not today.” He grabbed the backs of his calves and pulled himself lower. The muscles in his forearms bulged like he had spent the whole summer lifting very heavy things. The man probably hadn't had a Swirley in his whole life. He looked more like the whole wheat type.