Cassidy Jones and the Secret Formula (3 page)

“Sure you were. I could tell by the spaced-out look that you were taking it all in.” She gave me a naughty smile. “Okay, now, tell me who you were thinking about.”

I couldn’t help but blush.

Miriam laughed. “Okay, I’ll guess,” she teased.

Like I said, my crush was a secret. No one knew how I felt about Jared, not even Miriam. Unlike Miriam, who held her torches up high, I kept mine safely to myself. If, by chance, Jared’s name made it on the list she was preparing to antagonize me with, I knew I wasn’t enough of a poker face not to get caught.

When I scowled, she smiled.

“Really, Cassidy,” she said with a sigh. “You give me no choice.” Her eyes mischievously sparkled as her lips formed the first name. It began with a “W.” Before she could get it out, I found a distraction.

“No way! They just moved in,” I exclaimed, nodding to a moving truck parked across the street from my house. This was a weak attempt to throw Miriam’s mind off-track, but she was easily distracted.

Her gaze followed mine. “That house is like a revolving door,” she said, squinting her eyes. “It must be a total dump, or else the rent is outrageous.” Pausing in thought, she grinned, elbowing me. “Maybe cute boys are moving in. Twins. One for me, one for you. I’ll even give you first dibs,” she generously offered.

No matter how many tracks her quick mind jumped to, it always seemed to return to the same one.

“Oh, geez, thanks,” I joked. “Knowing our luck, though, if there are twin boys, they’ll be snot-nosed, three-year-old terrors that we’ll be asked to babysit.”

“That’s
your
luck, Cassidy, not mine,” she pointed out with a laugh, stopping at her front gate. “Want to hang out while I pack for Portland?”

“Can’t. I don’t know when my dad is picking me up.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re going on that boring
interview today.”

I couldn’t really argue with her, because I also expected the interview to be as exciting as watching grass grow. My dad had been a news anchorman up until two years ago, when he’d decided he would rather spend more time with his family than keep his prestigious position. He had proposed to the local news station that he develop a human-interest segment to be aired at the end of the weeknight broadcasts. Eager to keep their anchor airing, the station agreed.

Everyone loved Drake Jones and his human-interest segment. When I say everyone enjoyed Dad’s segment, I’m referring to anyone above the age of eighteen. Most of the people Dad interviewed were a little dry for my taste, and for anyone else my age. He usually interviewed local “movers and shakers,” never anyone cool. Today’s interviewee, who was some kind of scientist at Wallingford University, promised to be really bland, but being bored to tears was worth it if it meant hanging out with my dad.

“Yep, that boring interview,” I said.

Miriam grinned. “Well, have a good time,” she wished, teasing, of course.

“You, too.” My wish was sincere. “Say hi to your grandma for me. See ya Monday.”

I walked two doors down to our English Tudor home and went inside.

Two

Entering the kitchen, I had to shield my eyes—not because my sun-deprived eyes were being blinded by the light pouring in through the room’s large window, but because of the glare the light created in this completely white space.

From the cabinetry to the marble countertops to the grout between the limestone tiles, everything was white, or a variation of it. Three years ago, during our historic home’s renovation, the designer had warned my mom against light colors and three kids. But my mom, who had always dreamed of a pristine kitchen, could not be persuaded otherwise. Of course, the designer had been right. There was no hiding peanut butter fingerprints on white cabinets, and mud dragged in from the back yard didn’t camouflage well on creamy limestone. However, Elizabeth Jones wasn’t easily defeated. Much of her time was spent scrubbing her kitchen until it shined, and she expected the same enthusiasm from the mess perpetrators. Being one of those perpetrators, I had come to resent white and kitchens altogether.

“Hi, Cass. How was school?” Mom asked, while scrubbing the porcelain farmhouse sink.

“Fine.” What more could I say? Nothing much ever happened to someone whose entire goal was not to attract attention.

My five-year-old brother, Chazz, sat at the kitchen’s island, dipping graham crackers in a glass of milk. Chazz lived and breathed superheroes. If his nose wasn’t stuck in a comic book, he was improvising a costume. Today, he wore a green sweatshirt, lime-green sweatpants with holes in the knees, and a pair of Dad’s boxers pulled over those. I really hoped he hadn’t gone to kindergarten in that getup.

Easing myself onto the stool next to him, I decided to ask. “Hey, Chazzy, I like the outfit. Did you wear it to school?”

“Nope.” He shook his head proudly. “I just made it up when I got home…Guess who I am?”

Green, green…Who wore green?
“The Green Goblin?” I guessed.

He looked horrified. “That’s a bad guy.” His bottom lip jutted out.

“Come on, Chazzy, you know I don’t know anything about superheroes.”

“I know you’re not real smart about them,” he agreed graciously. “I’m the Hulk, the
Incredible
Hulk.”

“Oh, yeah. He’s green.”

Though disappointed, Chazz forgave my ignorance. “Want one?” he asked, pushing the graham cracker package toward me.

“Thanks, buddy.” I slid a cracker from the plastic. Taking a nibble, I glanced out the window at our classic Seattle view of the Space Needle. On a clear day like today, Mount Rainier, a humungous, dormant volcano, partially framed the city.

“You’re here, but Miriam’s not.”

I turned my head to look at my twin, Nate, who stood at the kitchen entry. “Great observation, Sherlock,” I came back. “Why would she be here?”

Walking to the island, he grinned at my sarcasm. “Because she always is. Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, Nate. How was your day?”

“The usual,” he answered, then looked at Chazz. “Hey, Hulk.”

Thrilled to be recognized,  Chazz growled in response.   

Swiping the cracker from my hand, Nate asked, “So where is she?”

Grabbing the cracker back, I answered, “You’ll be glad to know that
she
will be at her grandma’s all weekend.”

“Good. My ears could use the break.”

Miriam generally had two effects on boys. They either thought the sun rose and set on her pretty face, or they avoided her like the plague. Nate fell into the second category.

“I heard she and Pilchowski got into it today.”

My jaw dropped. “Today? That happened, like, twenty minutes ago.”

Nate shrugged. “News travels fast.” His tone turned advisory. “She’d better watch it, though. Pilchowski is a ticking time bomb. He won’t care that she’s a girl.”

“I know. So does she, but you know Miriam.”

“That’s why it’s only a matter of time.”

Mom moved to the island, armed with a sponge. “What’s this all about? Did someone threaten Miriam?”

“No threat, Mom,” I said quickly. “Everything is fine. Dixon got a little intense but walked off. No big deal.”

“There’s always some problem with that boy.” Mom frowned, wiping up cracker crumbs. “Be sure to tell me if this progresses.”

Mom was like Miriam. They both liked justice and had no problem enforcing it.

“Sure,” I answered to appease her, admiring her dark red hair in the sunlight.

All of us kids had inherited her hair color, as well as her wide-set green eyes and fair complexion. Though we were fair, our complexions were not interrupted by freckles, except for a light splash across our noses. I hated that splash. Dad was the odd one out in the family, with his crystal blue eyes and blond hair, though there was hardly anything odd-looking about my dad. What can I say? It wasn’t only the public that loved Dad; so did the camera. All around, my dad didn’t have a bad angle.

Dad strolled into the kitchen, making a round of hugs. To Chazz, he said, “How did you get in here, Hulk?”

Chazz growled an unintelligible explanation.

Ruffling the Hulk’s hair, Dad turned to me. “We’ve got to shake a leg, Cass. Professor Phillips was reluctant about this interview. I don’t want to give her the chance to back out.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” I said, hopping down from the stool.

Dad pecked Mom’s cheek. “We shouldn’t be more than three hours. Do you mind if I invite Ben for dinner afterward?”

“Not at all. I’ll put another chicken in the oven,” she teased.

Mom loved Dad’s cameraman, Ben Johnson, as much as we all did. Dad had taken a chance hiring Ben two years ago. Though a natural talent, he was only twenty-one when Dad hired him, but he didn’t disappoint. The other thing Ben was natural at was being himself, and there weren’t too many Bens out there. Wherever he went, his good nature and easy humor put everyone at ease. He truly was one of my most favorite people.

~~~

“Hey, Cassy Girl. How are ya?” Ben greeted me as I climbed into the back of Dad’s black Volvo. Turning around, he gave me a toothy smile.

“Fine, Ben.” I flopped into the backseat. “How are you?”

“Good.” When he nodded, his wild, corkscrew hair came alive. “Real good.”

Ben’s four passions in life were filming, X Games, conspiracy theories, and food, and not necessarily in that order. One of his passions always produced interesting conversation or entertainment.

His first passion to come up, which I could have predicted because of the time of day, was food. Ben’s endless quest was to keep his stomach full, though it appeared to be bottomless. The guy did burn a lot of calories with all the extreme sports he participated in.

Ben glanced at Dad’s profile. “Deluxe is up ahead. Mind going through, Drake?”

Inwardly, I groaned.

I despised the saucy, greasy burgers that were considered by many, including Ben, to be Seattle’s best. Even smelling a Deluxe burger made me want to hurl. The only relatively tolerable item on the entire burger joint’s menu was the fries. They were laden with grease, but fries are supposed to be.

At the drive-thru window, Ben ordered enough food for all of us, though he was the only one eating. Thoughtfully, he ordered extra fries for me. As he offered them to me, I shook my head.

“No, thanks, I’m not hungry.” Today, I didn’t think I could stomach the grease.

Ben stared at me in disbelief. “No fries? But you’re a growing girl.”

He would consider grease essential to growth. He claimed ketchup was a vegetable.

Back on the road, I eyed Ben’s teeth sinking into the soppy Double Deluxe, which was double the grease. It probably made him feel like a health nut.

The bite went down in one gulp. “Best burger ever,” he claimed, rolling his eyes.

Grimacing, I glanced out the window.