Just Add Magic (5 page)

“Boys? With an
s
? I was only talking about one boy—Frankie. Do you think Tony's cute?” Hannah asked.

That wasn't an easy question to answer. Tony was hard to figure out. Frankie's looks and personality were obvious. “I can't really tell. His hair covers a lot of his face, and his clothes are so baggy, I'm not sure what's underneath.” Tony hunched over a heaping plate of greasy French fries swimming in ketchup. As he ate the top layer, he added more ketchup.

“You think Tony Rusamano is cute!” Darbie said incredibly loudly.

Immediately I averted my gaze from the boys' table to my apple. “O M G!” I exclaimed, hopeful that a swig of water would wash the hot red off my face. “That was so loud.” Thank goodness the cafeteria was noisy, or most of Alfred Nobel School would have heard her.

Darbie slapped a hand over her mouth and darted her eyes around the room. “No one's looking.”

Hannah surveyed the cafeteria. “I think it's okay.”

I pointed my fork at Darbie. “You got lucky, O'Brien.”
I exhaled. That was close. I didn't reopen the subject, but I silently considered Tony's cuteness. I watched him squirt more ketchup. His taste in food needed work.

Charlotte, followed by her minion Misty, entered the cafeteria. Heads turned to look at them. “I'll bet you three hundred dollars that they sit right there,” Darbie said, pointing at the table right in the middle of the cafeteria.

“You don't have three hundred dollars,” Hannah said. “You shouldn't make a bet you can't pay.”

“I guess. But I still think they're going to sit there.” Darbie forked a chunk of Salisbury steak, dipped it in her mashed potatoes, and sank it into her mouth. “Mmm.” She sighed.

Hannah and I watched with a mixture of shock and nausea.

“What?” she said through her full mouth. “Kell, I think you're an amazing cook, you know that. But you should give this stuff a chance.”

Hannah let out a soft, “Yuck.”

I said, “Someday I'm going to come back to this school and totally change this cafeteria. I'm going to make a different fabulous menu every day. Each week will have a theme: Mexican, breakfast-for-lunch, vegetarian, summer BBQ, stews and soups. It will be delicious and much healthier than that stuff.” I pointed to the mashed potato–covered Twinkie Darbie was putting in her mouth.

Hannah said, “Years from now you're going to be a famous chef in a big city like Los Angeles, London, or Rome. You'll
have your own magazine and TV show, like Felice Foudini. Maybe she'll retire and you can take all her fans. You're not going to have time for the Alfred Nobel cafeteria.”

I sighed, thinking of the wonderful dream Hannah had painted for my future. “Speaking of cooking, ask yourselves: What do you get when you mix an ancient book of secret recipes hidden in a 1953 encyclopedia, two mysterious warnings, unusual ingredients from a spooky store owned by a kook, and three BFFs?”

They didn't know.

I answered: “A
secret
cooking club.”

“SECRET cooking club!” Darbie exclaimed with a spittle of Twinkie crumbs, just as Charlotte Barney was walking by with her lunch tray.

Charlotte stopped and said very loudly (on purpose), “SECRET COOKING CLUB! Hey, everyone! Kelly Quinn and her friends have a SECRET COOKING CLUB! Hahahaha!” She laughed all the way to the boys' table, Misty on her heels.

They wiggled themselves into seats next to Frankie and Tony, laughing the whole time. After setting their trays down, they high-tenned across the table.

Darbie sank into her chair. My fist tightened around my fork until my knuckles were white. “Sorry,” she said. The remaining Twinkie found its way into her cheeks.

My face was consumed by a red blush, and my eyes were
coated with a heavy glaze of fog. I blinked and cleared them just enough to see Frankie and Tony looking my way. They weren't laughing.

Charlotte called to me as I raced ahead of her off the bus, “Where are you going in such a hurry, Kelly Quinn?”

I continued to hustle home, not answering.

Everyone wanted to be Charlotte's friend. She always had the best toys and clothes. What people didn't know was that the
idea
of hanging out with Charlotte was always better than
actually
hanging out with her.

It all started in third grade. Charlotte and I decided to jump rope. We tied one end around a tree and I turned and
turned for her until my arm felt like it was going to drop off at the shoulder.

I wanted to jump, but she wouldn't give me my chance.

Then Darbie asked if she could play too. “No, Freckle Juice. Go away,” Charlotte said. And Darbie cried. Charlotte said to her, “Go play with the kindergarteners, you baby.”

That's when Hannah came over and also wanted to play.

Charlotte (who was jumping this whole time) laughed and said to Hannah, “You're too tall. We can't turn the rope high enough to get it over your head.”

I said, “This would be better with more kids.”

She said, “Shut up, Kelly Quinn. My mom says I have to be best friends with you because you live next door. But, she didn't say anything about those two losers.”

That was the moment she became my rival.

She has been my rival ever since then—and has gotten worse (please refer back to ninth birthday party). I tried to convince myself that a relationship with her
builds character
. That's what my dad would say about doing things you don't like, and he knew what he was talking about because my mom always makes him do things that he didnt't like.

“I'm talking to you, Kelly Quinn.” She always used my last name as though I might not know I was the Kelly she was beckoning. I quickly walked toward home so I could get ready for the club's first meeting.

“Are you heading to your
secret
club?”

My face got hot, and I clenched my hands. She was just evil. It took all my strength, but I ignored her.

Darbie and Hannah arrived on time. Hannah on foot, Darbie on Rollerblades.

“How did you do?” Mom asked.

Darbie looked at her watch before untying her Rollerblades. “Seven minutes, fifty-eight seconds,” she said. It took Darbie about eight minutes to skate from her house to mine and she was always trying to make it faster.

We ditched Mom and secluded ourselves in my bedroom. Darbie flopped onto my flowered comforter and checked out the new posters on the walls. “Where did you get all these?” she asked.

“I joined the Felice Foudini fan club and sent in ten dollars. They sent me back a big envelope of pictures. I love this one,” I said, pointing at the poster of a layered cake designed by Felice. Each layer was a different color hinting at its flavor. “I can only imagine what one perfect bite of that tastes like,” I said. “See this light brown layer? I think that's cappuccino. I imagine the dark brown one is Swiss chocolate, the creamy colored layer is French vanilla, and this golden one is a really moist carrot cake. And the last layer is a thick whipped cream spread.”

Darbie asked, “Did you just make that up?”

“Yeah. I was lying in bed staring at it, and that's what I imagined it was.”

Hannah said, “I think I gained a pound just listening.”

Darbie rolled her eyes. “Pounds, schmounds.”

Bud came running into my room wearing Dad's work boots, a bicycle helmet, a Batman cape, and a snorkel in his mouth. He sang “The Wheels on the Bus” as loud as he could.

“MOM! TELL BUD TO GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”

“Maybe there's a recipe to make little brothers disappear,” Darbie said under her breath.

“Now,
that
would be awesome,” Hannah said.

Bud started jumping on my bed. “MooOOM!”

My mother came rushing in with a paper shopping bag over her arm. “Kelly Quinn, please don't yell like that unless someone is bleeding.” She waved the bag at Bud and said, “You, scoot. Play downstairs.”

Bud left, still singing at the top of his lungs.

“And don't come back!” I yelled after him. The little rat turned around and stuck out his tongue.

Mom hung around. I cleared my throat, signaling her to leave. “Oh,” she said, getting the hint. She scurried outside my bedroom door, picked something up, and scurried back in. It was a shopping bag from The Kitchen Sink, a fancy cooking supply store at the mall. “I thought that members of a real cooking club, secret or not, should have matching aprons!” She took four aprons out of the bag. They were long and covered with tomatoes.

“Why do you have an extra one?” Hannah asked, sweeping her hair into a ponytail holder.

“I thought this one could be mine,” Mom said.

“Mom, you said you'd leave us alone.” I couldn't believe I had to remind her of this.

“Oh, I'm just kidding. I'll hang this on a hook in the pantry in case you ever invite someone else to join your club.” The bag made a crunching sound when she put the apron in it. “Hey, I saw Charlotte walking home from the bus stop. Maybe she'd like to come over and join you girls.”

The sideways glance I gave her reminded her of how I feel about Charlotte Barney.

“Oh, all right. Call me if you need help. And make sure you use the special oven mitts that go high up your arms, and don't lick the spoon if it's touched raw meat or egg, and be very, very careful if you chop anything. I don't want to send anyone home with nine fingers. And be careful—”

“Mom,” I interrupted. “We get it.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” She pulled the door shut behind herself.

“I thought she'd never leave,” I said.

Hannah was admiring her apron. “You have to admit, Kell, these are very Primetime Food TV.”

Darbie asked, “You aren't seriously thinking of inviting Charlotte, are you?”

“No way!” I said. “Let's get the first meeting of our
secret
cooking club called to order. This means we can't tell anybody.”

“Why does it have to be a secret?” Hannah asked. “I mean, we're in seventh grade now. Isn't that a little silly?”

I was really surprised and a little hurt to hear Hannah say that.

Hannah continued, “It's not like we're doing anything illegal. Are we?”

“Well,” I said. “One reason is that it's a good thing if Charlotte doesn't know.”

“Weren't you in the cafeteria today?” Hannah balked. “
Everyone
knows!”

“But they don't need to know any
more
. Especially Charlotte! She'll ruin everything. Do I need to remind you of the surprise party catastrophe?” I spared them from hearing me whine about the event again.

“And
. . .” I reached under my bed and whipped out the Secret Recipe Book. “The club is secret because we're going to use recipes from this book.”

“But that book is cursed. Remember?” Darbie asked.

“You think that's possible?” I replied.

Hannah dotted gloss on her lips. “No. It's not possible.”

Darbie said, “But the warnings. What were they?”

I reminded her. “‘Beware of the Law of Returns,' and the thing Señora Perez said—‘You get what you deserve.'”

Darbie said, “Well, something beginning with ‘Beware' usually indicates that you're supposed to watch out, like
‘Beware of Attack Dog.' If you go on that property, the dog will eat you.”

“I think you're taking it a little too seriously,” Hannah said. “The paper in the Book could've been anything. I'm always sticking all kinds of papers in my books. And Señora Perez is a strange old lady. I wouldn't worry about something she said.”

“What do you think?” I asked Darbie.

“Well, I guess it's okay. And if not, we'll have an exciting story to tell—if we're still alive. But if we don't start cooking soon, you'll have to beware of me,” Darbie said. “because I'm starvin' like Marvin,
amigas
.”

“First,” I said, “I was thinking we need a secret handshake. Maybe something like this.” I showed them a grip I'd made up. It ended with high fives. The girls tried it, although Hannah blew her bangs out of her face the whole time, signaling to me that she was bored or annoyed. In this instance, maybe she was both.

“I like that,” Darbie said. She and Hannah did it again.

Hannah said, “Okay, I've got it. So now can we decide what we're going to make, or do we need a password, too?”

“Great idea,” I said.

“I was only kidding.” Hannah blew her bangs again.

Darbie asked, “How about ‘shoobedoobedoowhop'?”

Hannah didn't seem to care.

“Fine. Shoobedoobedoowhop it is,” I said.

“So.” I flipped through the Book. “I've checked out this book, and something you guys said earlier gave me an idea.” I turned to a page and pointed to Keeps 'Em Quiet Cobbler. There was a note at the bottom of the page: Stopped the
gallo
from his early morning cockle,
ip
.

“What's
gallo
?” Darbie asked.

Hannah answered, “That's Spanish for ‘rooster.'”

I asked, “What's
ip
?'

“I don't know. But I don't think it matters,” Hannah said. “You can still tell what the note means: Stopped the rooster from its cockle. It's nonsense, Kell.”

I said, “Maybe not. We were talking about someone who is loud and annoying”—Darbie's eyebrows lifted like she knew what I was about to say—“and how we would want to shut him up. You know what I'm thinking?”

Darbie asked, “You think if we make this cobbler and feed it to Bud that he'll shut up?”

I shrugged my shoulders in an “I dunno but it's worth a try” kind of way.

“I'm game,” Darbie said.

I pointed on the page to a strange ingredient, aged vetivert stems. “I have them in here.” I found it in the bag of items I'd bought from La Cocina.