Just Add Magic (3 page)

Quietly I asked Darbie and Hannah, “Do you have the feeling you're being watched?” The words made me shiver.

Darbie followed the worn braided rug around the store and studied the animal heads mounted on the orange paint-chipped walls. “Maybe that's because we
are
being watched,” she said, pointing to a moose staring at us with shiny glass eyes. “Creeeeepy.” She crinkled her nose.

I scanned the shelves of spices. There were hundreds of little bottles. The ones pushed to the front seemed new. I could see they were filled with powders, elixirs, extracts,
and syrups. Other little golden and greenish jars and vials capped with corks were pushed to the back. For some bottles, the glass was so thick I could hardly see through it. On the bottom of each container was a small handwritten label containing the item's name and a price. I lifted several, and noticed they were organized alphabetically. I chose six items I needed. They were all from the back of the shelves. I gave them to Hannah and Darbie to hold.

On the next set of shelves there were rows of see-through plastic bags of various sizes filled with all kinds of leaves, berries, stems, roots, and stalks. A maroon, star-shaped tag with a name and price dangled from each. I studied my list and took the bag I needed.

A voice startled us.
“Hola, niñas.”
A woman had materialized.

Hannah offered,
“Hola
,
Señora—”

“Perez, Señora Perez,” she said. Señora Perez was small—shorter than Darbie, who was the third-shortest kid in our grade. She had black hair streaked with gray and piled high on top of her head like a moldy pineapple.

There was an awkward pause during which Señora Perez looked us each up and down, starting with the freckles on Darbie's legs, up to Hannah's wet hair, and landing on my brown eyes.

“Ah.” She studied my face. “You are the daughter of Señora Becky Quinn.” She gave Darbie one more quick check
from head to toe. “And you must be the one that roller-skates.”

We nodded. This woman was good.

“You are buying those?” She stared at the stuff we cradled.

“Si,”
I said, impressed with my Spanish.

Señora Perez waddled on her short legs around the counter. She fumbled with the chain around her neck until it rescued a pair of reading glasses from her many scarves. She rang us up, pressing down hard on the old metal cash register keys. As she did, she peered over the top of her glasses suspiciously, like a detective might during an interrogation.

She continued to stare as she put our purchases in a brown paper bag, careful to cushion the bottles with tissue paper. I paid her with my attic cleaning money.

Finally Señora Perez spoke. “Would you like me to read your palm?” Then, looking at Hannah, she said, “You do not believe in palm readings.” Hannah held a straight face—
a
poker face,
as my dad says.

Señora Perez wiped her hands on the apron fastened around her midsection and motioned for me to sit down on a stool. She inhaled deeply through her nose, forcing her nostrils open wide, and reached for my hand. The room was quiet. She gently dragged her long nails across my palm. Darbie sucked so hard on her Swirley that she reached the bottom and made a loud
slurp!
The sound vibrated off the walls. Señora Perez didn't seem to notice. Her head tilted down until her chin was buried in the extra skin around her
neck and she studied my hand. “Ah . . .”

Darbie looked over Señora's shoulder at my hand.

“
Si, si.
I see,
niña
. . .” Señora Perez squinted at my palm.

“See what? See what?” Darbie asked.

She said, “I see a book.”

I felt imaginary snakes crawl up the back of my shirt.

Señora Perez took her reading glasses off and shuffled toward a hallway at the back of the store. Instead of a door, long strands of brightly colored beads hung from the ceiling to the floor. Before passing through, she turned and said, “Beware:
Quien siembra vientos recoge temtestades
.”

Then she disappeared into the beads.

Question:
What is the probability of
getting two eerie warnings in fifteen minutes?

Answer (using no math at all):
Zero probability . . . probably.

I was shocked, amazed, and totally freaked out at the same time, if that's possible. Darbie sat on the curb in front of La Cocina and changed out of her flip-flops and back into her Rollerblades. We headed down Main Street toward my house. The only sound was the
swoosh-swoosh
of Darbie's blades on the cement and an occasional passing car.

“That was whacked out,” Darbie finally said.

“How could she have known about the Book?” I asked.

Hannah said, “She said she saw
a
book, not
the
Book. She could have meant any book. Besides, don't get too excited, that palm reading stuff isn't true.”

“Don't get too excited? On the very day I find an ancient book of hidden secret recipes, a bizarre fortune-teller looks into my hand and sees a book. As in, a book that will change my future, maybe the course of my entire life.
That's
very exciting.”

“Now it's an
ancient
book of secret recipes? Come on, Kell,” Hannah said. “It's some papers glued into an encyclopedia. It's not like you discovered Santa's Naughty and Nice List.”

Darbie mimicked Señora Perez with mock exaggeration, “And what about BEEEEWAAARRRREEE, MooHaHaHah!” She rubbed her palms together like an evil scientist.

I didn't see the humor in a fortune-teller giving a warning. “Yeah. What was with that? What does it mean?”

Hannah said, “I can't translate it exactly, but it's something like ‘you get what you deserve.'”

“You get what you deserve,” I repeated thoughtfully. “What do we deserve?”

“What's this ‘we' business?” Darbie said. “Don't bring me into this. You get a corny warning from some kooky Mexican fortune-teller, it's yours. It's all yours, Kelly Quinn.”

Hannah said, “Get a grip. Like Darbie said, it was just a weird comment from some senile old lady. Don't let it get to you.”

As I walked, I dug the Book out of my messenger bag and
opened the front cover. A scrap of paper blew out. I tried to grab it, but the wind swept it out of my fingertips. “Get that! It's from the Book.”

Darbie picked up the pace of her swooshing and snatched the paper before it dipped into a storm drain.

Hannah and I caught up to her. “Good catch. What does it say?” I asked.

“It's tough to tell because the ink is pretty faded,” Darbie said. “Something like, ‘Remember to Beware of the Law of Re . . . Re . . .' I think it says ‘Rewind.'”

“What the heck does that mean?” I thought out loud, “Rewind . . .”

Darbie smirked. “What the heck does that mean? Rewind. What the heck does that mean? Rewind. What the heck does—”

“I get it. You're funny. But, seriously, let me see that.” I examined the note. “It doesn't say rewind, it says returns. It's ‘Remember to Beware of the Law of Returns.'”

Darbie said, “Well, that's just terrific. You know I've gone my entire life without ever getting an eerie warning, and now we get two in fifteen minutes. What are the chances of that?”

Ingredients:

3 twelve-year-old girls

2 eerie warnings

1 ancient book of secret recipes

7 new spices from La Cocina

Directions:
Mix together to create an extraordinary type of club.

I jumped high on my bed. On the first jump I slid the ceiling tile out of place. On the second I got my journal. On the third jump I slid the tile back into place.

My journal was a superfat pink composition notebook. I've written in it for years—things like lists of my favorite Christmas presents, what I wanted to be when I grow up, names for future pets, and things I wanted to be sure to remember. But I had never written a warning until now.

I also wrote about special memories in here. I've read the page about meeting Felice Foudini a hundred times. I turned to the page about the cooking club and made an important update of my plan.

It was time to do the final round of nagging about starting my cooking club.

With journal in hand, I was lured to the kitchen by the smell of roasting garlic. Mom was singing the jazz song, “With a Wink and a Smile.” She thought she sang well, but . . . let's just say that the truth was written in my journal.

“Is that your favorite song? You know you sing great.” I buttered her up. “Whatcha making? It smells really good.”

“Chili, what else? The contest is in a week. Are you in?”

“You bet,” I said. The annual Alfred Nobel School Chili Cook-Off is a major big deal in our town. Everyone who likes to cook enters with their own special recipe. The Cook-Off is held at Alfred Nobel School the first weekend after school starts. All the kids attend in their sports uniforms: the soccer
team, cheerleading squad, football team, bowling team . . . I wondered why we didn't have a cooking team and made a quick note in my journal. The winner is named Wilmington's Chili King or Queen and gets to wear the cherished chili pepper necklace and matching crown.

Mrs. Rusamano, Frankie and Tony Rusamano's mom, is the reigning four-year champion. Last year, Mrs. R. wore the chili necklace to back-to-school night, and to the Alfred Nobel School Halloween and Christmas socials. (I think this made my mom a little jealous.) Mrs. R. is an amazing Italian cook, and she also makes really good chili that the contest judge, our principal, Mr. James G. Avery, loves.

Mom continued, “I heard there's a new judge, some fancy schmancy new teacher at your school.”

Mr. Avery isn't judging this year?
“Mom, that changes
everything
,” I said.

“I know! We've got to get to work. I made a schedule for the week so we can prepare.”

“Cool. I have a good feeling about this year, Mom. We're going to smash Mrs. R. like a clove of garlic.” I punched my fist on the kitchen counter for emphasis.

She stopped chopping a green pepper and looked at me with narrowed eyes and a tilted head. “You know, Kelly Quinn, I can always tell when you want something.”

“That's because you're the smartest person in Delaware,
possibly the whole world.”

She smiled. “That's probably true. But did you know that I can tell fortunes?” She scooted a slice of pepper across the counter for me.

“Oh, really?”

“Of course. I can see into the unknown, the beyond.”

“No you can't.” I crunched on the pepper.

“Well, let's just give it a try and we'll see.” My mom wiped her hands on a napkin and got a big green honeydew melon from the refrigerator. She took a clean dish towel out of a drawer and hung it over her head. She rubbed her hands all over the honeydew like it was a crystal ball. She thought she was so funny. I rolled my eyes.

“Oh, lovely green melon that shows me things that I can't see. Show me Kelly's bedroom floor.” She studied the melon. “I see it! It's covered with dirty socks, a wet towel, and M&M's wrappers. Can that be right, green melon? That must be another girl's bedroom. Please check again.” She gazed at the fruit. “Nope. Same dirty bedroom floor. Thank you, green melon.” Mom said, “So, you didn't clean your room, but you've written in that pink journal of yours.”

“You're right, Mom. You
are
an amazing fortune-teller.” My dad had taught me that the first rule of selling is to find out what someone
needs.
And he's a salesman, so he knows what he's talking about. “You must get tired from working so hard to make nice dinners for us,” I said. “Wouldn't it be nice
for someone to cook for
you
?”

“Okay, tell me what you're cooking up, Kelly Quinn.” Mom took a teacup out of a cabinet and a mesh metal tea ball off a hook.

I showed Mom the page in my pink journal with the change I'd just made:

“Why is it secret?”

Oops. I should've made that update
after
showing Mom, but I thought fast. “Because, it's more fun that way.”

“So, Darbie and Hannah are going to come over and cook in my kitchen?” She sprinkled different colored tea leaves into the open mesh ball, snapped it shut, and dangled it into her mug by a slim silver chain.

I nodded with a smile.

She didn't seem as excited as I was. “What about homework?”

I had expected this question. “We can do some of it here together, and I'll do the rest when they go home.”

“Soccer?” she asked as the kettle whistled.

“
If
I make the team, we would cook on days off, or after
practice.”

“And who will you be cooking
for
?” she asked as she blew on her tea.

I had expected this question too. “You and Daddy.”

“Who else?” she asked.

“That's it. Just you and Daddy. And if you wear a dish towel on your head, it'll just be Daddy.” She gave me her patented “annoyed mom” look. “I was thinking Buddy could go next door to the Barneys',” I said, referring to Charlotte Barney, the meanest seventh-grade girl, who just happened to live next door. She thought Bud was the most irritating creature under the sun. (She wasn't entirely wrong.)