Just Add Magic (4 page)

“No. He'll be here. And you and your friends have to be nice to him.”

“But MOomm, he'll ruin everything. You know how he is.”

“I'll talk to him about not ruining everything.”

I made a pouty face. “Oh, all right.” I hopped off the kitchen stool and dashed to the phone to call the girls.

“Hold it right there, Kelly Quinn,” Mom called to me. “Can you name that tune in two notes?”

She looked at me, waiting for me to guess what two-syllable word she was thinking about. “Clean-up,” she finally said, because I didn't know the word she was thinking of.

My mom is a freak show about messes. She's always like, “Make the bed, pick up your shoes, put your clothes away, don't write on the walls, blah, blah, blah.”

I said, “We'll load the dishwasher. And I'll put the big pots in the sink to soak.”

“And do you think the dishwasher will just empty itself?” she asked.

I
can
name that tune in two notes: Clean Freak.

“I'll tell you what,” she said. “If you run the dishwasher and do a good job cleaning up everything else, I'll help you empty it before you go to bed.”

Sold to the lady with the green melon!

Mom wiped her hands and stuck one out so we could shake on it. “I'm going to be here keeping an eye on you girls.” She pointed to her eyes and pointed to me. “Now, go upstairs and clean your room. Then you can send an e-mail to the girls and invite them to your cooking club. Oh, sorry,
secret
cooking club. Don't worry, I won't tell a soul. But I can tell Dad, right? He's one of the sharpest tacks in the box, and he might notice if three girls are here cooking in our kitchen.”

“Okay, but that's it,” I said.

Mom said, “Oh, one more thing. Mrs. Silvers gave me some fresh-picked apples today. Please pack one for lunch tomorrow and don't throw it out.”

From Mrs. Silvers? Did you check it for poison?
“Okay,” I said.

I worked my way back up to my bedroom. I tidied up a bit, and emailed the girls. I put the journal back into the ceiling tiles, slid the Secret Recipe Book under my bed, and wiggled
into my bed. And, three, two, one, pounce! Rosey jumped onto the bed and burrowed herself under my covers. (I don't know if all beagles sleep under the covers, but mine does.) She kept my legs really warm in the winter, with the exception of the occasional rub from a cold, wet nose. It didn't take long before she was asleep and snoring. I was right behind her.

Question:
How many times does a girl have
her first day of seventh grade?

Answer:
Once.

So, it should've been a wonderful and memorable morning, right? Oh, it started out okay. I dressed in my new deep-cuffed denim capris and made myself an awesome gourmet lunch with an alphabet theme: Avocado, Bacon, and Chicken sandwich, with Dill. That's when my mom looked out the window. I can name who she saw in four notes: Char-lotte Bar-ney.

“Kell, there goes Charlotte. If you hurry, you can walk to the bus stop with her.”

I rolled my eyes. “That's okay. I'm going to walk to the other bus stop.”

“Don't be silly. That's farther.” And that's when she did it. She yelled out the window. “Good morning, Charlotte. Wait up, Kelly will be right there.”

Mom and I need to have a serious chat later.
What she can't seem to remember (ever), is that Charlotte Barney might be my next door neighbor, but she is also my archenemy. (BTW, having an archenemy isn't as glamorous as it sounds.)

I left the house and slammed the door behind me so that my mom would know I was mad and walked with Charlotte, whose outfit made me think twice about my favorite deep-cuffed denim capris.

She wore a supershort plaid miniskirt that I knew was from Abercrombie & Fitch, a matching T-shirt, and a loose dangly belt. Her hair bounced with fresh blond curls, and I think I smelled perfume. Charlotte talked about her summer and being in her cousin's wedding, wearing a dress “with organza roses at the hem.”

All I heard was,
Blah, blah, blah
.

“. . . soccer tryouts . . .”

Blah, blah.

“My father told the real estate developer . . .”

BLAH!

We boarded the bus and she “blah-ed” to me as if I didn't already know she was awful, as if I had somehow suffered a major brain-fart causing me to forget the peak of her evilness, what she did to my ninth birthday party—which was supposed
to be a surprise party. She got mad at me for something stupid (I don't even remember what), so she told me that my surprise birthday party was the next day.
What kind of person would do that?

She was still jabbering when Hannah and Darbie got on at the next stop. They sat on either side of me in the very back seat. Misty sat with Charlotte a few seats in front of us, and it was as if I had never been there.

Normally, Hannah was color coordinated: purple pants and socks, purple clip in her hair (always a matching clip in her hair), and a matching striped shirt. But apparently she had changed her style for seventh grade.

Her hair was down. It had grown very long and blond over the summer. And it looked like it had been straightened or shined. She wore skinny jeans that showed off her long legs, which had grown longer and skinnier. But what I noticed most was her shirt. Big white letters spelled
LUCKYBRAND
. Hannah had gone from fashionable to majorly trendy.

I diverted my stare from Hannah's outfit and stacked our backpacks up on the seat in front of us.

I whispered, “My mom says we can meet at my house, starting today.” Darbie gave me a fist bump. Hannah smiled, but I sensed she was more interested in the Rusamano boys who were getting on the bus, because she was looking at them, not us.

There was a universal, “Frankkkayayayayay!” from the
boys. Frankie high-fived everyone he passed. He and his brother Tony sat with the boys in the middle of the bus.

Soon, the bus chatter spilled out the double doors, into school, past the trophy case, and to the lockers. We had each brought in stuff to decorate our lockers. Hannah had pictures of that hot guy from the biggest summer movie hit,
Vampire High
, Darbie had clipped magazine pictures of extreme sports, and I'd brought an autographed picture of Felice Foudini that I'd gotten when I joined her fan club.

I entered the Home Ec room. It didn't take a fortune-teller to predict that Home Ec was going to be my favorite class.

I sat in the front row. The new teacher, Mr. Douglass, walked in a few minutes late. I suspected that he could be the only person, besides Felice Foudini, who loved cooking as much as me.

“Goooood morning”—he paused for dramatic effect—“future chefs of America!” Mr. Douglass used his arms when he talked. “It's a glorious day in seventh-grade Home Economics.” He sat on his desk, his long legs reaching the floor. “As you know, this is the first time this class is being offered at Alfred Nobel School. What you might not know is that this is a trial program, and I really want to make it a huge success.” He wrote the words “huge success” on the board. I wrote them in my Home Ec notebook.

“Let's create something deeee-licious. Today, and for the
next two weeks, is Free Expression. That means we won't have any set structure. Use the tools and ingredients at your stations to make whatever you're inspired to create. Class, cook with your heart”—he closed his eyes and clenched his fists—“and your soul.” When he opened his eyes, they sparkled. “Begin.”

I raced to one of the six kitchen areas set up around the large, bright room and claimed my space. I looked at the various recipe cards scattered on the countertop and opened the pantry to see what I had to work with. I felt inspired to make supermoist butter cupcakes with butter-cream frosting.

I started at the top of the recipe card and added all the basic dry ingredients to a bowl. As I sifted two cups of all-purpose flour, I noticed the Home Ec room had grown unruly with raised hands. Kids surrounded Mr. Douglass and tried to be louder than one another so that he could hear
their
questions:

“What does T-B-S-P mean?”

“Which bowl should we use?”

“How do you use this mixer-thing?”

I cracked an egg and whipped it up with butter, amused by the frenzy surrounding me. Once I blended the wet and dry ingredients, I dipped my finger in to taste. It was okay, but not great. I liked my batter to be GREAT. Felice Foudini says you won't have
awesome
cupcakes, cake, or muffins without totally awesome batter first.

I decided to stray from the recipe on the card. I went to the pantry at the head of the classroom to see what I could find. Instant vanilla pudding. That was good, but not enough. I passed the mob surrounding Mr. Douglass and opened the double doors of the refrigerator. Sliding some stuff around, I saw the thing that would add the zest I was looking for: cream cheese.

I popped the cream cheese into the microwave to soften it a bit before adding it to my ingredients. With the hand mixer, I blended it into the batter. Then I added the pudding mix. I was so busy blending my batter while slowly turning the bowl that I didn't notice the room get quiet. When I looked up I saw Mr. Douglass with a strange look on his face and I thought he was mad because I had done something I wasn't supposed to.

I turned off the mixer.

He picked up the recipe card and looked on the countertop and in the trash area. He scrutinized the empty pudding box and the empty cream cheese container. “I'm sorry,” I said. “Were you saving those for something?”

The expression on his face slowly eased itself into a smile. “No, not at all.” He dunked a spoon into my batter and tasted it. “This is delicious, Miss Quinn. You are quite the independent chef who is not afraid to experiment and explore your creativity.” He clapped—slow, deep claps with his hands cupped. “Perhaps I can put this into the oven for you. Then you could start over from the top and give the class a bit of a
demonstration. That will allow me to address the questions of many students.”

Actually, I wasn't thrilled to let go of the fab batter. And I wasn't excited to disclose the ingredients I had added to make the batter so fabulous in the first place, either.

“Of course. I would love to,” I said.

Mix together:

1 secret

1 tableful of seventh-grade hotties

2 Rusamano boys

1 evil neighbor who's out to get me

2 packages of Twinkies

A splash of yellow mustard

Directions:
Pack all ingredients in a school cafeteria and
wait patiently for it to boil over.

In a lot of ways, the Alfred Nobel cafeteria was like an indoor soccer field.

The ceiling was high, the walls cement. And no matter what color you painted them, or how many posters you hung, they would still be cold, hard, cement. Sound vibrates off the walls and ceiling, much like at an indoor soccer field.
Even if no one was talking (which never happened), the clatter of forks, plates stacking and clanking, and the cash register dinging fill the large room with sound. It was so noisy that sometimes you need to talk very loudly to be heard.

There weren't referees, but there were lunch monitors (sort of the same thing). The monitors kept order and prevented food fights, drawing on the tables, and running around. They sent troublemakers to Mr. Avery's office. (Darbie and Mr. Avery have spent a lot of time together over the years.)

Picking a good lunch table on the first day of school was critical, because whatever table I picked could be our table for the rest of the year. Hannah conferred with me. “You're getting the table against the wall, right?”

“Right.” I rushed there to save seats while Hannah and Darbie got in line to buy their lunches. I never buy cafeteria food. I always pack my own lunch.

I spread out a red-and-white gingham dish towel like a place mat, took out my ABCD sandwich, a bottle of water, and a homemade brownie. (I used walnuts, pecans, and hazelnuts. My dad says they're
the best brownies this side of the Mason-Dixon line
.) Lastly, I took out the apple that came from Mrs. Silvers. Hesitantly, I bit into it. It was superjuicy, snow white inside, and incredibly sweet. It may have been the best I'd ever eaten.

Hannah arrived at our table with her tray containing a banana, yogurt, and soft pretzel with a packet of yellow mustard.
I looked at her tray and held up the mustard. “You don't have to give up taste to be healthy,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

I went to the condiment table, took a little paper cup, and squeezed some extrahot brown mustard and honey into it. I stirred and tasted with my pinkie finger.
Perfecto.

“Try this.”

She broke off a little piece of pretzel, dipped, and tasted. “Oh, this is so good. Thanks.”

I shrugged. “Anytime.”

“Look over there.” Hannah indicated a table of seventh-grade boys. “Frankie got so tan this summer. He's even cuter than last year.” She reached into the pocket of her jeans and took out a glittery grape lip gloss and rolled it across her lips. The glitter and shine looked good. Maybe I should consider lip gloss this year.

“Frankie Rusamano, cute?” Darbie asked. She tilted her head and looked at the boys' table. “All I think about when I look at Frankie and Tony is how they cried and cried on the first day of kindergarten. Remember? They wouldn't let go of Mrs. R. and get on the bus? She had to drive them to school and they both had a meltdown when she finally peeled them off her and left.”

Frankie and Tony Rusamano lived in my neighborhood, but a few streets farther away than Hannah and Darbie. Our moms all knew one another.

I studied Frankie Rusamano and his fraternal twin, Tony. Even though they were twins, Frankie and Tony were as different as Hannah and Darbie. Frankie was the leader of the seventh-grade boys. Everyone wanted to be his friend. “I don't know, Darb. Maybe it's time to forget about the crying and look at the Rusamano boys differently,” I said.