Twist My Charm (6 page)

“Well, that's no way to start a love potion,” she says to the pot, spooning jam into it. “You be nice.”

I've got both the chocolate and honey in my hands when Toby squeezes through his dog door, galloping toward me and leaping up like he wants to give me a hug. I lose my balance and jump off the stool. One second later, the tin of chocolate hits the ground and explodes in a big puff of brown powder. “Oh no!” Madison cries. Of course, I didn't drop the honey bear, because it's plenty sticky on the outside.

I take in the damage. Powdered chocolate is all over the floor
and
Toby. I brush some off him and drop to the ground to start scooping it up. “Is there any left?” Madison asks.

I pick the tin up off the floor, and luckily there's still some powder in the bottom. I join Madison near the pot. The strawberry jam has mixed with the water and is bubbling furiously.

Madison squeezes seven drops of honey into the pot; then I dump in the remaining chocolate. You'd think strawberry, chocolate, and honey would be a good combination, but this smells…nothing but wrong.

“I'll add some more water and stir,” Madison says. “You get the onion.”

I open the fridge, wishing the recipe had any vegetable but onion in it. Onions smell worse than farts, and you never get the smell off your fingers, and they make you cry if you don't cut them the right way, which I don't know how to do. I carefully cut a small chunk, hoping Dad doesn't notice, since it's the only onion we have. Then I cut the chunk into smaller pieces, tears coming to my eyes.

“Is that onion ready?” Madison asks. “This is getting kinda messy over here.” Sure enough, our potion has become an unattractive brown substance that is bubbling up toward the edges of the pot. I should have kept an eye on it myself, but the stupid onion distracted me. One more reason to hate onions. Or, as Dad would make me say,
dislike them intensely.

Madison stands back as I sprinkle a few small onion bits into the mess below. I take over stirring for a couple of seconds, then turn off the burner. “I think that's as good as it's gonna get,” I say.

“Which is not good at all,” Madison comments with a gaggy look on her face.

Together we pour—well, sort of
scrape
—the STUFFS SWEET into a coffee cup that we'll hide under my bed until the art show. Madison takes it to my room, the Ryder head under her arm, while I run hot water in the pot. But no amount of soaking or scrubbing is going to clean this pot. Its edges are forever stained with hardened strawberry-chocolate-honey-onion gunk.

I walk out of the kitchen, where Madison stops me in the doorway with a grim look. “We've got a problem,” she says.

Her tone worries me. “What?”

She steps away from the doorway and lets me through to the hall, where I see Toby sitting and panting with his tongue hanging out…and chocolate all over his paws.

I was so busy with the recipe, I didn't notice that when he ran out of the kitchen on his chocolatey paws, he decided to take a tour of the dining room…the living room…the hallway…my bedroom…and Dad's room!

Then I look out the kitchen window and see Toby safely running around in the backyard.
Now
he decides to go outside! I cover up his dog door with a chair so he can't get back in, and I wonder what else could go wrong.

At that moment, my phone dings. It's a text from Dad:

Heading home in 10–15 minutes. Hope you're cooking something good for dinner!

Even worse, he sent it over five minutes ago.

“O
kay, we've got to work fast,” I say to Madison. “Let's not worry about my bedroom. I can throw clothes and stuff on the ground and cover that up for a while.”

“Or forever,” Madison says.

“This is no time to joke!” This is a lie, because I'm actually laughing.

“I could vacuum your dad's room while you sweep the floors,” Madison offers.

“You know how to vacuum?” I exclaim. Madison shrugs, embarrassed. Hey, if I had a maid, I wouldn't either. “You sweep, I'll vacuum,” I tell her. Even if Madison's never swept a floor before, she can probably figure out how.

I direct Madison to the broom in the laundry room while I rush to our hall closet and grab the vacuum. Before Focus! class, I might have been paralyzed, too scared to make any decisions, but now I know how to “assess an emergency situation” and take charge. A few other items fall out of the closet with the vacuum, but I can't worry about those now. I run into Dad's room and plug in the vacuum. It comes to life with a loud VROOOOOOM. I run it over the beige carpet, but the brown chocolate stays right where it is.

I stop and look at the front of the machine. There's a clear-colored bin in the middle, but it's gray and gross, filled with dirt, hair, Toby fur, and every other disgusting thing that's come out of our carpets for who knows how long.

I pull out the icky bin, and some of the grossness flows over the side and onto the floor. In my head I see Dad already out of the coffeehouse, on his bike with his messenger bag over his shoulder, getting closer to our house with every second.

I assess the emergency situation again. I run to my room and dump the dirt in my trash can, where Dad won't notice; then I run back, pop the bin in, and start vacuuming. It works!

I can only hope Madison has taught herself to sweep.

When the carpet in Dad's room is clean, I unplug the vacuum and turn to push it back toward the hall closet. But something is blocking my way.

Dad.

Taking off his bike helmet, he says, “I think I've stepped into an alternate universe.”

I don't know what to say to that except “Huh?”

He looks happy—he usually is after a large iced Americano with caffeine—so he must not suspect what's been going on. How could he? “Madison's sweeping, you're vacuuming. I thought you were going to make me dinner; I didn't know you were going to clean the house too.”

“Yeah!” I say, putting the vacuum back in the hall closet with the other junk that fell out. “Madison and I got done with our stuff quicker than we thought, so we decided we'd tidy up.”

I told a lot of lies when Samantha and I were doing our voodoo—too many—but I don't know if I've ever told one as big as this before! When have two kids ever, in the history of the world, chosen to vacuum and sweep?

“Well, that's awfully nice,” Dad says. “Did you start dinner too?”

Oh no, he's heading toward the kitchen! Where the burnt pot is still in the sink!

“No, not really.” I run ahead of him. “We tried something but then got busy with the cleaning, and…
Madison, my dad is asking what I'm making him for dinner!
” I shout, putting extra emphasis on
dinner
and hoping she gets the hint. I beat Dad to the kitchen, where Madison is sweeping the last of the chocolate into a dustpan. My eyes immediately dart to the sink.

The pot is gone!

“Where's…?” I ask, mouthing
the pot
to Madison. She nods toward the trash can right as Dad walks into the kitchen. He breathes in, and his caffeinated smile goes away.

“It smells…interesting in here,” he says.

“Oh, we were…um…experimenting with something for dinner, but it wasn't any good,” I tell him as I run for the trash can. The burnt pot is sitting right on top, with the empty chocolate tin next to it. I pull out the plastic trash bag and tighten it up.

“Taking out the trash too? This must be my lucky day.”

“It sure is, Dad!” I say. And when I think of the love potion in the coffee cup in my room, I realize that may actually be the truth—because if the love potion works for Samantha and Larry, Dad will be the next one to try it out. Then he'll be one step closer to getting back together with Terri.

I think I could be the best daughter of all time. He just doesn't know it yet.

On Friday morning, I choose my favorite storyboard for the Immersive Interactive Art Installation—the sequence of pictures featuring Pandaroo and Skunkifer in an action-packed outer space battle. Skunkifer, the evil villain who once had blond hair like Madison but now looks more like Lisa Lee, has kidnapped the Millipede with Many Shoes and hidden him in her lair filled with blue cheese, garlic, and other stinky stuff. (Our experience with the love potion recipe inspired me to add a few onions at the last minute.) Then Pandaroo rescues the grateful and relieved millipede from the skunk's clutches after a battle of cleverness and gymnastics, not violence. When I hand the storyboard to Kevin on Friday morning, I make a wish to get a good and prominent position in the Friendship Community Immersive Interactive Art Gallery (actually the gym) that night.

When Madison gets to class, she gives Kevin a big bag from a store called Hervé Léger. I know Ryder's head is inside. Considering how it still looked a little frightening the other afternoon, I hope she's had time to work on it since then!

Before Dad and I leave for the art show that night, there's a mega-super-important task I have to do: figure out how to transport the STUFFS SWEET to the event! I go into the bathroom, where Dad's medicine cabinet is filled with almost-empty bottles of cold medicine and cans of shaving cream with rust on the edges. I rummage around a bit, and on a shelf behind some hotel shampoos and conditioners I find what I was hoping for: eyedrops! The bottle looks pretty old and dusty, so I don't think Dad will miss it. It's got a squeezy black top that fills a little glass straw with liquid. I empty and wash it, then take it into my bedroom and pour our STUFFS SWEET potion into it. The potion's gotten thicker and gloppier and maybe even browner, but it's still liquid at least. Naturally, I spill some onto my desk as it makes its way from the big coffee cup into the tiny eyedrops bottle, but I can clean it up later. What's most important is that there are enough drops to make Larry and Samantha fall in love.

Dad shouts for me to meet him in the car in two minutes, but a flash of something sparkly grabs my attention. There, on my dresser, sits the red bottle of love potion. It looks extra glittery and pretty tonight, like it
wants
me to look at it. Like it's calling out,
“Use me! Use me!”

Of course that's the potion we
should
be using. I know it's not in the
POCIÓNES
book, and we don't know exactly how it works, but Uncle Arnie's potion would be sure to give ours an extra boost. Just a drop couldn't hurt, could it?

I'm doing it.

I pick up the potion and open the top. I hold the eyedropper steady on my dresser and slowly tip the red bottle. I don't want too much to come out. I take a deep breath and tip the bottle just a little, little bit further. Then—

“One minute!” Dad yells from down the hall.

I stop.

What am I doing? I promised myself I wouldn't use Uncle Arnie's love potion without instructions. It's like he's testing me, sending postcards instead of the information I need. This is a cruel thing to do to a kid—especially an impatient one like me!

It's time to call him. Who knows whether a recipe from an ancient book written in Spanish is going to work or not? STUFFS SWEET might be a
poción fantástico,
or it might be a crock! Tonight's the night I need Uncle Arnie's magic. For good or bad, I know his magic works.

I push the button to start my computer. I told myself I wouldn't, but I really need to know.

“Thirty seconds and the car is leaving!” Dad yells. “I mean it.”

My computer screen comes on. But thirty seconds isn't enough time. No matter how much I want to, I can't use Uncle Arnie's potion tonight.

I put the tops on both bottles, leaving Uncle Arnie's behind and putting the extra-special potion-filled eyedropper in the pocket of my jacket.

I did it. It was tough, but I showed willpower and focus and patience. I wish there were someone here to praise me. Unfortunately, it's just Millie the Millipede, and he's staying quiet.

I join Dad in the car—with almost five seconds to spare. “This is an exciting night, huh?” he asks as we're driving to school. I don't really care to make conversation, because I'm focused on everything that could happen tonight. So I reply with a simple “Yeah.”

“You're awfully quiet. What's up?”

Of course, Dad doesn't know anything unusual might be happening at the art show; I'm sure he doesn't, but I immediately pull my hand out of my jacket pocket anyway, like the STUFFS SWEET has turned into lava. “Nothing!” I say. Luckily, he doesn't ask again.

The school parking lot is busy, full of kids and parents walking toward the gym, which is not just a big empty room anymore. The Immersive Interactive Art Gallery is hopping! It was a project for the seventh graders to create the décor for the event, and they did a great job. It looks like a cross between a hip Hollywood club and an art gallery. There are “walls” made of curtains, creating separate “rooms” for different types of art. Some areas have bright lighting, others are dim; one has a red light, and one little space even has a disco ball making patterns all around. Electronica music fills the whole space.

I walk ahead of Dad to the DJ booth (really a folding table), where Larry is sitting with big headphones over his ears. He's spinning old-fashioned records on an old-fashioned record player as he fiddles with music on his phone. His little carved monkey sits nearby, watching the action. Not wanting to disturb Larry's concentration, I just wave, but he slides off one of the headphones. “Hey, Cleo!” he says. “Like my art?”

“Playing music is your art project?” I ask. He nods with a smile.

“Very cool!” says Dad. I cringe. The word
cool
coming from an adult has the exact opposite effect. Dad introduces himself to Larry (even less cool!) and says he remembers him from our
Healthyland
play.

“Yeah, I can't believe a talent scout hasn't snapped me up yet, after my brilliant portrayal of Old King Kale,” Larry says. Dad laughs way too loud, and I'm glad Larry has to change a record so I can drag Dad away to look for my storyboard.

I'm also looking for Ryder Landry's head, or Madison's—whichever comes first. But before I find either, I see a puff of yellow hair at the top of a stick-figure lady in high heels. It's Mrs. Paddington, with a not-super-real smile plastered on her face, standing next to Madison's father, who's texting on his phone.

“Look around, Dad,” I say, running off toward Madison's parents without saying goodbye. “I need to find Madison!” Normally, I don't like to have conversations with the Paddingtons because they're not very nice, but tonight I dive right in. “Hi! How are you doing?” I ask, not waiting for an answer. “Where's Madison?”

Maybe it's my imagination, but Henry Paddington is looking at me like something he'd scrape off his shoe. At least Heather Paddington forces a smile. “She went to look for that…
head
she made,” she says.

“Thanks! Have a great night!” I say, though I really don't care what kind of night they have. Madison is here and we have stuff to do! I jet off. But a few moments later, I stop fast, my sneakers squeaking.

At the front door, I see a flash of long red hair against the purpley-pink sky outside. It looks familiar, but I don't know how it could be…

“Terri?” I shout. The hair moves and a face looks toward me. It
is
her! I run over, wanting to give her a hug, but I'm not sure if it's appropriate to hug your dad's girlfriend when she's an ex. “What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to hide my excitement but failing, I'm sure.