Just Add Magic (10 page)

Charlotte didn't say anything, not even “thank you,” when I delivered her backpack filled with cement at her back door. “If you think this is bad, just wait until you're raking my yard,” the voice of genuine wickedness called to me as I walked off in a huff.

When I got home, Mom was working on a jigsaw puzzle on the dining room table. She looked at my expression. “Bad day?” she asked.

I nodded.

“What happened?”

“Charlotte happened.”

“I'm sorry, honey.”

I ignored her because “you should be” was the only thing I could think of to say.

“Mom, the club is coming over and I need something for the recipe we're going to make. I don't feel like walking down to La Cocina. Can you take me?”

She glanced at her watch. “Sure, sweetheart. Hey, how about staying up late with me to mass produce our chili?”

Staying up late cooking with Mom?
That changed my mood and put a smile on my face. It reminded me of the reasons I loved cooking. She and I alone in the kitchen, just talking and stirring.

“Maybe I'll get myself a Mammoth.” She snatched her purse. “And I'm thinking of pizza for dinner so we can start early on the chili.”

“That sounds good,” I said.

Cup O' Joe was noisy and crowded. “How about a hot chocolate?” she asked, ruffling my hair.

“That would be great.” I pulled an ANtS sweatshirt over my head. “I'm going next door to get the stuff for the club.”

“Don't you mean
secret
cooking club?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, that's the one.” After I turned around, the corners of my lips curled up. I would've never admitted it to her, but sometimes she was actually funny.

I pushed open the door of Cup O' Joe and found the target of the love potion on the other side.

Enter Frankie Rusamano: “Whoa, where's the fire?” I was so close to him that I could smell his soap.

“Oops, sorry Frankie.”

“You don't know your own strength. Maybe you should go out for the football team.” He gently punched my arm.

My mom waved to Frankie. “Hi, Frankie, how's your family?” She inched up in line.

“Everyone's good. Tony and my dad are working on a landscaping project at the Rossis'. I'm heading there now. My mom's at home making sauce,” Frankie replied over the bustle.

Mom asked, “Is she entering the Chili Cook-Off?”

“She wouldn't miss it,” Frankie said. “She wants that chili pepper necklace for another year.”

“Well, tell her I said hello and that we need to get together one of these days.”

“Will do, Mrs. Q.”

My mom was almost to the front of the line. “Frankie, do you want hot chocolate too?”

“That'd be great, Mrs. Q.” He gave her a big grin that revealed his dimples.

He turned to me. “Sweet! That's what I came in for.”

“I was about to go next door,” I said to him.

He held the door for me and, to my surprise, Frankie followed me to La Cocina.

The shells hanging on the door knocked together as we entered the Mexican cooking store. It felt like a museum that
was closed for the night, or maybe one that had been deserted for years. Animals stared at each other. Sunlight was scarce. The smell of stale nachos floated in the air. Stacks of burlap-style cloth with colored zigzag patterns were piled on tables and stools.

Standing on a faded braided rug, Frankie mumbled, “Creeeeeepy.” He examined each animal head. “I've been to Sam's and Cup O' Joe a zillion times and I can honestly say I've never been in here. Now I know why.”

I found the spice rack holding corked bottles of various shapes, shades, and sizes, and using the alphabetical organizing system, I found the one I wanted filed under
G
: shade-grown Mexican ginseng. Scratchy black writing on a price tag read $10.95.

Frankie saw the tag over my shoulder. “Holy Stromboli, that's expensive for some dust.”

“It's a spice that's hard to find, not dust. But it is expensive. I don't think I have enough money to pay for it.”

“I have the money I was going to use for the hot chocolate, if you need it.” He reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and found a crumpled five-dollar bill.

“Thanks, I'll pay you back,” I said gratefully.

Frankie was a nice guy. I felt kind of bad borrowing money to buy something to use in a potion intended for him.

“It must be nice having a job,” I said, counting the money
in my hand. When I looked up, I suddenly saw that Señora Perez was inches from my face.

“Buenos días
,” she said slowly with her arms crossed over her chest. Wearing a thin bathrobe and slippers, she looked like she had just rolled out of bed. She checked Frankie out from head to toe, expressionless.

I felt the need to fill the quietness. “Ahhh . . . I . . . I'd like to buy this.”

Señora Perez finished her visual examination of Frankie, took the bottle without looking at it, and walked to the back of the store. She disappeared through the curtain of colorful beads—red, gold, and green. I waited at an ancient cash register.

Frankie walked up behind me. “Maybe you were supposed to follow her back there?” He nodded toward the beaded doorway.

“I hope not,” I said hesitantly.

“What? You look scared. Kelly Quinn is afraid of an old lady? She's shorter than my eight-year-old cousin.”

“Shhh,” I said. “I am not scared.”

I gazed at the artwork while we waited. There were lots of dusty, framed photos of a beach that went on for miles before melting into choppy mountains rich with green plants. If I squinted, I could make out little homes, or huts or something, on the tops of the mountains.

Señora Perez emerged from the waterfall of shiny beads
with her glasses hanging on an elaborate strand of jewels. She lifted the chain over her messy bun that reminded me of a Black and White Super Swirley. The hairdo gave the illusion that she was taller than she really was.

She perched the glasses on the tip of her nose.
“Diez, niña,”
she said, and turned the bottle in her hand to look at the name of the spice. Her eyes peeped over the rims of her glasses. She gave me a quizzical look. Then she looked at Frankie Rusamano, and back to me.
Why is she smirking?

“Shade-grown ginseng, ah?” she asked.

I nodded and slid the wad of dollars and change across the counter. “Yes, it's for . . . for . . . a lemon smoothie.” I think I started sweating.

She slid the money toward her very slowly. “A smoothie?” She looked at me as though she could read my thoughts. I swear that the look on her face said,
I know you're making a love potion for the kid standing right next to you, and are you sure you want to do that?

Maybe I was being paranoid, but it was definitely getting hot in there.

Señora Perez pushed the buttons on the antique cash register. As though the sound of the keys dinging summoned a mythical flying creature, a black bird with a long beak shot through the beaded curtain and landed on the woman's shoulder.

I gasped in surprise and fear. But then I tilted my head,
noticing something peculiar. Señora Perez had a wide, warped nose. The bird had a wide, warped beak. Señora Perez had disheveled hair. The bird had unkempt, mangy feathers. Looking at the bird and Señora Perez, I had a bizarre thought. Those two looked alike. Well, as much as a bird and a person
could
look alike.

Either Frankie was afraid of them, or shocked by the weirdness of their appearance, because the color drained from his face.

Señora Perez took my money and put the bottle in a small paper bag. I couldn't wait to get that bag and get out of there. Part of me feared that when I turned around, the door would be blocked by a dragon, and the animals on the wall would come to life and try to eat me. Or this creepy woman would trap me in a cage with her bird before feeding me to her pet iguana that lived in the basement.

Señora Perez didn't seem to notice the bird. She seemed more interested in staring at us.

“Gracias,”
I said. I saw my mother outside thumbing through the newspaper. No dragons, no iguanas, and no wall animals came to life.

When I was just two feet from the door, Señora Perez called to me. “You remember what I tell you,
Quien siembra vientos recoge temtestades
?”

There it was again.

* * *

Darbie and Hannah had already made themselves at home in my kitchen.

“What's with the sneakers?” I asked Darbie, who was without her signature blades.

“My mom took my skates away until I can stop being klutzy.”

“That could take years,” Hannah teased.

“Very funny, Hannah Haha,” Darbie replied. “So, what are we making today?”

“I found a recipe for Bug Juice.”

“Oh, no,” Hannah said. “I can name that tune in two notes . . . no way! You're getting carried away, Kelly Quinn. I'm not drinking bugs. I'm not eating bugs.”

“I have no problems with bugs, but we're not
actually
drinking them, are we, Kelly?” Darbie asked. “Because I'm with Hannah on this one. No. Eating. Bugs.”

“Yes, I collected them last night after midnight. We need to squeeze their blood out—or we can put them in the blender.”

Hannah said, “Seriously, I draw the line at eating or drinking any form of insect.”

I
tisk
ed with my tongue. “Oh, I'm just joking with you guys. Do you really think
I
would drink bugs?”

We all chuckled.

“Really, what are we making today?” Hannah asked.

I said, “I want to know for sure whether the recipes in this book are special potions. It's time to put the Secret Recipe
Book to the test with a
serious
experiment.”

“What experiment?” Hannah asked.

“Go ahead, Kelly-Belly, tell her,” Darbie said.

I hesitated. I was not sure how Hannah would react to being part of the experiment.

“WHAT experiment?” Hannah asked again.

“Hannah, don't say no right away.” I opened my arms to my sides. “Open your mind, and let's just suppose for a minute that the secret recipes can make things happen.”

“All right, I'm supposing,” she said, but she blew her bangs out of her face.

I glanced at Darbie, indicating she and I were in this scheme together. “Do you still like Frankie Rusamano?”

“Duh. Of course.” Hannah blushed.

My lips began to twist up. “Well, I was thinking . . .”

“About what?”

I enthusiastically spat it out. “A love potion.”

“You can't be serious,” Hannah said.

Darbie chimed in, as excited as me. “Totally, Shoobedoobedoowhop.”

Hannah said, “I thought you were worried about a curse.”

“It's worth the risk,” Darbie said.

“I agree,” I said. “I was thinking we could make this Bug Juice—actually it's called Love Bug Juice—for Frankie and take it to him at work,” I said. “He's working at the Rossis' house today.”

Hannah tilted her head and considered this.

“What's the worst that could happen?” I asked. “If the potion isn't real, what do you have to lose?”

Hannah thought for another second. “And I could prove to you guys that this is all a bunch of baloney and we can start cooking regular stuff?”

Darbie and I nodded.

“Okay, my mind is certainly open to scientific experiment. Let's give it a try,” said Hannah.

Darbie, Hannah, and I made a love potion for Frankie Rusamano.

Although we'd been an official secret cooking club for only a few days, we worked like an experienced team of TV chefs.

I got a tall pitcher from my cabinet and poured in chilled cranberry juice.

Hannah peeled and diced green grapes. Darbie sliced a kiwi fruit. I mashed a jar of maraschino cherries. Each fruit got plunked into the pitcher. Gradually the liquid became a blend of rich colors.

I took the shade-grown Mexican ginseng out of my pocket and gave the petite green-tinted bottle to Hannah. She showered contents of the pitcher with the spice.

After plopping in generous amounts of ice cubes, it was done.

“It's beautiful,” Darbie said, staring at the swirling juice.

“Should we go to the Rossis'?” I asked.

“I want to fix my hair,” Hannah said.

Darbie said, “And I need to borrow something in your garage.”

“Okay. I'll look for a Thermos.” We all went in our own directions.

When I returned to the kitchen with the Thermos, I found droplets of Love Bug Juice on the kitchen counter and the floor.

BUD!

Thankfully, I saw there was still plenty of juice left for Frankie. In fact, it didn't all fit in the Thermos. So I resisted the urge to flatten Bud like an ant.

A second later Hannah called, “You ready?”

Through the front window I saw Darbie at the end of my driveway standing on my skateboard, which she'd borrowed from my garage. For some reason, I didn't have a good feeling about Darbie on my skateboard. I didn't want her to get hurt on my watch. But I didn't think she'd like me to suggest that she walk, so I went with it. “Ready,” I said.

* * *

In lieu of falling, Darbie quick-stepped off the skateboard several times. I held the Thermos and told her she couldn't fall into me. She grabbed on to Hannah a few times to steady herself.

It didn't take long for us to spy the Rusamano Landscaping truck a few streets down. Frankie was spreading mulch. The back of his shirt was wet with sweat.

He lifted his head and staggered over to us. “Hi guys, I mean, girls. What up?”

For once, Hannah was at a loss for words.

I said, “We were just going for a walk.”

“Hot today, huh?” Darbie asked, one foot on the skateboard.