The Magical Cookbook - Part 1

1 The Secret in the Attic 

Question: What do you get when you mix two girls hungry for cash with a cleaning project? 

Answer: Olivia Sanabia and Abby Donnely in a dark, dusty, spider-webby attic on their last day of summer vacation.

Correction: I, Olivia Sanabia, was cleaning. Abby Rollerbladed in the clutter-free areas, careful not to bang her head on the rafters.

THUD!

I had missed Abby this summer while she had been at her dad’s house at the beach and I had been at camp. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine.” Abby sat among the piles of attic stuff, rubbing her head.

“Where did all this junk-arooni come from?” she asked.

“Some of it was my grandmother’s. And some belongs to the witch, Mrs. Silvers, from across the street. Her basement flooded years ago, and presto, we got her junk,” I said.

“Are you gonna give it back to her?”

“She says she doesn’t want any of it,” I said.

Abby lifted a heavy old book out of a tub full of old books, magazines, and newspapers. “Check out this book. It looks older than my grandpa Stan.” She blew off the dust, her skin shining with sweat, and I noticed her freckles were dark from her beach tan. (I never mention her freckles out loud. Last time I did, she Rollerbladed over my sandwich: smoked ham and Muenster cheese, with honey mustard on rye

Books are “blah” to Abby. I don’t love them myself, unless it’s my journal or one of my cookbooks.

Oh, BTW, I’m Olivia Sanabia, age twelve, seventh-grader, lover of all things cooking, mediocre soccer player, average student, and best friend to Abby Donnely and Aubrey Miller Hernandez.

I wasn’t thrilled to spend my last day of summer vacation cleaning the attic. However, I needed the money, and any time I could spend hanging with one of my BFFs couldn’t be all that bad.

“Look, Kell,” Abby said excitedly, dusting off a book. “It’s dated 1953.” For a book to capture Abby’s attention, I figured it must’ve been something pretty interesting.

“Wow, that’s older than my mom.” I wiped the rest of the book off with the bottom of my T-shirt. “It’s a World Book Encyclopedia, Volume T.”

“Encyclopedia? Yuck!” Abby tossed the book like it was a hot tamale burning her fingers. I was curious, so I flipped through it. I looked for “tamale.”

It only took a second for me to realize there was no tamale, tomato, turnovers, or anything else starting with the letter T. In fact, the book wasn’t filled with anything encyclopedia-ish. The original pages were pasted over

with yellowed stationery. The papers were thick, a little crunchy, and stained in places. The words on the stationery were handwritten, a little sloppy, and a few were in Spanish. I knew what I was looking at right away.

These were recipes. I sat on the trunk and looked at each heavy page. The names of the recipes were very interesting: Forget-Me-Not Cupcakes, Love Bug Juice, and Tell Me the Truth Tea. And there were notes written all around the edges of the stationery, in the margins of the encyclopedia.

“Abby,” I said. “This isn’t an encyclopedia at all. It’s a bunch of recipes hidden in an encyclopedia. Do you know what that makes this?” I asked.

“A recipedia!” Abby said, grabbing some chunky pearls and bejeweled sunglasses from a hatbox as she Rollerbladed by. “That sounds perfect for a Food Network junkie like you.” She was right. I love to cook. Ever since my encounter with the famous TV chef Felice Foudini herself, I haven’t been able to get enough of cooking. My mom and I cook together all the time, and my other BFF, Aubrey, gave me the very first book in my

cookbook collection, which consists of six books ranging across the meal, dessert, and snack spectrums. They’re stored on a kitchen shelf with different colored Post-it notes sticking out from all sides.

“No, not a recipedia. Listen to this stuff: ‘Induces sleep,’ ‘Keeps ’em quiet,’ ‘Brings your true amor.’ Abby, there’s only one thing better than a cookbook, and that’s a Secret Recipe Book! And that’s exactly what this is.”

Just then, the latch on the attic door jiggled. It rattled hard like someone was trying to break in, which was strange because I would’ve preferred breaking out. Suddenly my sweaty mom, who had been cleaning out the

garage, tumbled into the attic from pushing the door so hard. She stood at the top of the stairs with a red bandana covering her hair and ears, and yellow rubber dishwashing gloves covering her hands, looking like she’d just appeared on Extreme Makeover: Dork Edition. Thank goodness Aubrey wasn’t here to see the outfit. She’s our local fashionista, particularly known for always color coordinating her headband, outfit, and socks.

“Mrs. Silvers just called.” Mom sounded frustrated that Mrs. Silvers had interrupted her cleaning day. “She said Rosey pooped in her yard again. Would you please go over and pick it up?”

Mrs. Silvers is my older-than-dirt neighbor from across the street and she’s as nasty as a witch. She’s convinced that Rosey, our beagle, flies over, or tunnels under, our fenced-in backyard every day for the sole purpose of

pooping in her yard. One day, when Rosey was a puppy, before we had the fence, she actually did poop in that yard and Mrs. Silvers saw her. Rosey hasn’t left our yard since. Still, thanks to that incident, I scoop for every dog on Coyote Street that uses Mrs. Silvers’s yard as their personal bathroom.

While scooping didn’t thrill me, I was dying to get out of the hot attic to get some sunlight and fresh air. “Sure,” I said, and Mom vanished back down the stairs.

Abby said, “She looks like she’s arming herself to enter a chicken pox colony.”

“Unlike you, my mom hates bugs and spiders. She won’t touch them. When she cleans, she’s afraid they’ll land in her hair or crawl into her ears,” I explained.

Abby considered this. I could tell she was thinking about the bug thing.

“Before you ask, no. You can’t stay and catch any. Besides, bats and rats hang out in attics, not bugs,” I told her.

When our attic work was pretty much done, we headed across the street to Mrs. Silvers’s house. I walked, pooper-scooper in hand, while Abby Rollerbladed. She blades pretty much everywhere. The crazy thing is that

Abby isn’t a great blader. She’s an okay blader who just manages to keep herself upright. (Of course, I don’t tell her that.) She stumbled to the driveway, to the sidewalk, to the street, to the grass. I held out my arm in

case she needed it for balance.

I couldn’t get the Secret Recipe Book out of my mind. “Why do you think they’re hidden in the encyclopedia?”

“What? The recipes?” Abby asked.

“Abb, not just any recipes, secret recipes.”

“Right. Well, they are probably hidden because they’re secret.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” As we got to the yard I warned Abby,

“Don’t look directly into Mrs. Silvers’s eyes. You’ll turn to stone.”

Mrs. Silvers yelled from her front porch, “If I see that mutt again, I’m going to call the pound!” She was surprisingly loud for a woman who looked old enough to be dead. Besides the flabby wrinkles that hung from a

face covered in a perpetual scowl, her white hair made her recognizable from miles away. It was short and somehow able to defy gravity by sticking straight up in the air. It reminded me of one of those toy trolls that sits on top of a pencil. And while I assumed she had feet, we couldn’t see them under the weird uumuu/housedress thing she always wore.

“Man, Silvers is a grouch-a-saurus,” Abby said under her breath. “You would be too if you were a hundred years old and bent over all crooked,” I said. I didn’t actually know how old she was, but a hundred sounded about right.

“Why do you have to scoop the poop?” Abby asked.

“Since Rosey’s mostly my dog, I have to be responsible for her.” I mimicked my dad on “responsible for her.” “And because, if I don’t, I won’t get my allowance, which I need to support my Swirley habit.” Abby nodded understandingly. She and Aubrey had the habit too.

Super Swirleys were the best milkshakes in Delaware, and possibly the world. They’re ice cream and all kinds of other stuff blended into a heavenly frozen concoction. I can’t live without them. They were made at Sam’s Super iScream, which, luckily, was within walking distance from my house.

After a refreshing breath of mid-Atlantic air, we headed back across the street and entered my house through the garage. We stopped in the kitchen for ice water. Our vegetable-themed kitchen was my favorite room in the house. The walls were painted artichoke green. Our plates were eggplant purple and stacked nicely in a tall glass-doored cabinet. The wallpaper border was a conga line of dancing carrots, cucumbers, bell peppers, radishes, and mushrooms, all with legs, holding pretty much every kitchen appliance, gadget, and accessory imaginable.

Mom appeared, thankfully sans her protective gear. Her spider-free blond hair was flipped up in a clip. She’d changed into a clean LIFE IS GOOD shirt, gray cotton miniskirt, and cute sandals: undorked. “If I pretend Abby

isn’t wearing Rollerblades in my kitchen, will you girls load all the attic stuff into the minivan?” she asked.

We kept quiet, not excited about loading.

“After that, maybe we’ll get you two busy bees a soda.”

Silence. No sale, as my dad would say.

“Oh, all right. After we drop off all the attic stuff at Goodwill, I’ll pay you for your work and treat you to Swirley’s.” We smiled.

Abby asked Mom, “Can we maybe meet Aubrey-Hoobi-Haha at the pool after her laps?” Abby loved to add a little jazz to Aubrey’s name.

Mom said, “I think we can do that.”

SOLD to the lady with the minivan!

Abby and I looked at each other and did our happy dance by swiveling our hips in a small circle and shifting our bodies from side to side. We sang, “Oh yeah. It’s your birthday, it’s my birthday.”

Abby switched to flip-flops and we loaded the van. I worked quickly because I was anxious to fill my belly with a Super Swirley and read the Secret Recipe Book. When we were done, I stuck the book in a canvas

messenger bag that I wore across my chest.

As luck would have it, my little brother, Buddy, tagged along. He was five going on annoying. The only thing good about having Buddy with us was that he couldn’t be rummaging through my bedroom and smearing his

boogers on the wall. (Seriously, I actually caught him doing it.) Before we were even out of the driveway he was singing “The Wheels on the Bus” painfully loud. Abby and I put our hands over our ears. As we drove off in the noise-polluted, air-conditioned van, I saw Mrs. Silvers looking out her living room window.

Buddy sang, “ALL THROUGH THE TOWN!”

2 A Mysterious Warning

Soon after pulling out of the driveway, I saw a familiar, tall, skinny, longhaired figure wearing a loose bathing suit cover-up and dripping with water as she walked down the street. It was Aubrey Miller, the third of our

BFF trio. Like Abby, she lives in my neighborhood. We all met each other on the first day of kindergarten, when we sat together on the school bus in terrified silence. We’ve been best pals ever since.

Abby hung her head out the window. “Hey there, Aubrey-HeidiHoHoHo. Done swimming?”

She nodded and got into the van, careful to sit on her towel. “Done for the season. I’m gonna miss it.”

“We’re heading somewhere that’ll cheer you up,” I said.

“Sam’s?” she asked. We nodded. “Awesome! A Swirley is exactly what I need right now.”

The minivan pulled into the strip shopping mall, which had three stores:

Sam’s, Cup O’ Joe (my mom goes there a lot for coffee), and La Cocina. La Cocina was a Mexican cooking store, but they have some other stuff too, like Mexican clothes, candles, and homemade arts and crafts. I walked past

it all the time, but I’d never actually been inside—our regular supermarket had everything I needed. Also, for some unexplained reason, the place gave me the willies.

Maybe because the windows were so heavily tinted that all you could see when you looked at them was your reflection. I saw my mirror image standing between Aubrey and Abby. I was shorter than Aubrey, but not as

short as Abby. My hair was light brown, wavy, and touched my shoulders, while Aubrey’s was light, straight, and long (like her mom’s), and Abby’s was dark brown, short, and sort of mussed-up.

I have big, dark, chestnut brown eyes that people always complimented. One front tooth slants so that it slightly crosses the other. The orthodontist promised she could fix it, but sometimes I wasn’t sure I wanted it fixed.

My skin was smooth and naturally tan—in the summer it gets pretty dark. Sometimes I’d study my face and body in the mirror, and I know a lot of girls don’t say this about themselves, but I liked what I saw. I wasn’t

joining the pageant circuit, but there was nothing I looked at and said ‘I hate it.’

The front door of La Cocina is regular glass, so I could see inside. It was dingy and dark.

Bud continued to sing, and literally marched into Sam’s.

“He is totally embarrassing,” Abby said.

I said, “Welcome to my world of Life with Bud.”

My mom tried to be patient with him. She got him ice cream and a minute later said, “You girls can walk home, right?”

I nodded. She handed Abby and me envelopes with our pay (Thirty-two big ones! EACH!), and an extra ten-dollar bill to cover the Swirleys. Then she took Buddy by the hand and marched him right out the door and back into the van.

“Thank goodness,” Aubrey said. “He was giving me a headache.”

Sam, the owner, said, “Hi girls. You know, Kelly, I’m thinking of taking Abby’s advice and naming a grape Swirley after you: The Peanut Butter and Kelly Jelly.”

“Really? That would be great. Do you want my picture?” I asked. “You can put it right here next to your postcard collection.” I pointed to the cards he kept under the glass at the counter.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said.

I glanced at the postcard collection, noticing one I hadn’t seen before.

“Where’s this one from?” I asked.

“Oh, I love that one. A friend sent it to me from Mexico.” He wiped the counter with a towel. “Now, what can I get for you?”

Abby got a Rocket Launching Rainbow because it had, like, every flavor and every topping. I got a Black and White. (That’s vanilla and chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup.)

“Let me guess,” Sam said to Aubrey. “Bowl Me Over Chocolate

Brownie with extra fudge, and Snickers.” Aubrey smiled.

We got a table. I took my messenger bag off my chest and slid out the big book.

Aubrey asked, “What’s that?”

I filled her in. “We found this when we were cleaning out my attic. On the outside it looks like an ordinary 1953 World Book Encyclopedia, Volume T. But on the inside . . .” I opened the book. “The encyclopedia pages have

been pasted over with old stationery containing handwritten recipes. The recipes are hidden inside the encyclopedia. You know what that makes this?”

Aubrey looked at the book. “A recipedia?” “Exact-a-mundo,” Abby said.

Sam delivered the shakes and we thanked him. I dipped a long spoon into mine and savored the blend.

“No. Look at the unusual names of these recipes. And look at these notes. It’s a Secret Recipe Book,” I said.

Aubrey nodded in agreement. She wasn’t as enthusiastic as I’d hoped.

“Sure, okay,” she said.

I turned each page slowly and carefully, so Aubrey could read them. I thought that if she saw the papers herself, she’d understand how totally cool this was.

Aubrey pointed to the top of one page. “It’s faded, but do you see this logo? I think it’s from the Wilmington Library.”

Aubrey knew the logo because she studied there a lot. If my favorite place was the kitchen, then Aubrey’s was the library.

Aubrey turned all the pages to look at the inside back cover. “Look at this stamp—WL. That’s definitely the Wilmington Library’s stamp.”

“So?” Abby asked.

“So, at one time this encyclopedia belonged to the Wilmington Library.

I’m guessing before it was a recipedia,” Aubrey said as she stirred together all the chocolate elements in her Swirley.

“Not recipedia, Secret Recipe Book,” I said. “You know what I’m thinking?”

Abby and Aubrey shrugged.

“I’m thinking this is the perfect time for me to start a cooking club,” I said. I had wanted to start one ever since my mom and I went to watch a live Cooking Network show starring a chef named Felice Foudini. Of everyone in the studio, she chose to bring me up on stage to taste her chili. Well, I knew a lot about chili because every year my mom and I enter the Alfred Nobel School Chili Cook-Off.

So when Felice Foudini asked me if I liked her chili, I told her that I thought the cayenne pepper overpowered the cumin. She was shocked that a kid knew so much about spices. Everyone clapped for me, and at that

moment I knew my future would be about cooking. Right around the time of the Felice Foudini show, my mom said I could start a club when I was in seventh grade. She probably thought I’d forgotten, but no.

BTW, seventh grade was starting TOMORROW!

Aubrey said, “It’s about time you started that club. You’ve talked about it for long enough.”

I ripped a blank sheet of paper out of the spiral notebook that was in my messenger bag.

“Let’s start tomorrow,” I said, “with something from this book. It looks like we’ll need some ingredients. There are a few in here that I’ve never heard of.”

“You?” Abby asked. “If you’ve never heard of them, then maybe they don’t exist.”

Aubrey was still reading over my shoulder. She pointed to the word amor. “That’s Spanish. It means ‘love.’” She pointed to another word. “That’s Spanish too, it means ‘mix.’ This word here, that’s ‘bread.’”

Aubrey was practically fluent in Spanish. She was born in Barcelona, where her mother met her father. They lived there for a few years before coming to live in Delaware. At her house they speak Spanish and English.

Abby said, “Maybe it’s a Mexican recipedia.”

Why couldn’t she call it a Secret Recipe Book? “Maybe,” I said. “But there are recipes that definitely aren’t Mexican, like these cupcakes.

Anyway, you’ve given me an idea for where we can find the ingredients we need.”

Strings of shells hung from the doorknob of La Cocina. They knocked together as the door inched closed behind us, cutting us off from the scent of Cup O’ Joe’s and the rest of Wilmington. A big stuffed bear welcomed us into an alternate universe. The bright sunlight was blocked by the tinted windows. It took a minute before the spots in front of my eyes went away. I didn’t know if it was the effect of the icy Swirley in my hand, or the

coolness in the room, but I felt a frigid whisper on the back of my knees.

Quietly I asked Abby and Aubrey, “Do you have the feeling you’re being watched?” The words made me shiver.

Abby 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 Aubrey and Abby 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.

Aubrey offered, “Hola, Señora—”

“Perez, Señora Perez,” she said. Señora Perez was small—shorter than Abby, 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 Abby’s legs, up to Aubrey’s wet hair, and landing on my brown eyes.

“Ah.” She studied my face. “You are the daughter of Señora Becky

Quinn.” She gave Abby 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 Aubrey, she said, “You do not believe in palm readings.”

Aubrey 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. Abby 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 . . .”

Abby looked over Señora’s shoulder at my hand.

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

“See what? See what?” Abby 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.

3 Another Warning

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. Abby 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 Abby’s blades on the cement and an occasional passing car.

“That was whacked out,” Abby finally said. “How could she have known about the Book?” I asked.

Aubrey 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,” Aubrey said. “It’s some papers glued into an encyclopedia. It’s not like you discovered Santa’s Naughty and Nice List.”

Abby 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?”

Aubrey 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?” Abby 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, Olivia Sanabia.”

Aubrey said, “Get a grip. Like Abby 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.”

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

Aubrey 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,” Abby 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 . . .”

Abby 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.’”

Abby 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?”

4 My Cooking Club

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.

Warnings:

Beware:

1. Quien siembra vientos recoge temtestades.

(Translation)

Beware:

You get what you deserve.

2. Remember to Beware of the Law of Returns

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-toschool 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, Olivia Sanabia, 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, Olivia Sanabia.” 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:

SECRET Cooking Club

Members: Olivia Sanabia, Abby Donnely, Aubrey Miller

Place and time: Olivia Sanabia’s kitchen, 3:15 p.m.

“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, Abby and Aubrey 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.)

“No. He’ll be here. And you and your friends have to be nice to him.”

“But MOomm, he’ll ruin everything. You know how he is.”

“I’ll talk to him about not ruining everything.”

I made a pouty face. “Oh, all right.” I hopped off the kitchen stool and dashed to the phone to call the girls.

“Hold it right there, Olivia Sanabia,” Mom called to me. “Can you name that tune in two notes?”

She looked at me, waiting for me to guess what two-syllable word she was thinking about. “Clean-up,” she finally said, because I didn’t know the word she was thinking of.

My mom is a freak show about messes. She’s always like, “Make the bed, pick up your shoes, put your clothes away, don’t write on the walls, blah, blah, blah.”

I said, “We’ll load the dishwasher. And I’ll put the big pots in the sink to soak.”

“And do you think the dishwasher will just empty itself?” she asked.

I can name that tune in two notes: Clean Freak. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “If you run the dishwasher and do a good job cleaning up everything else, I’ll help you empty it before you go to bed.”

Sold to the lady with the green melon!

Mom wiped her hands and stuck one out so we could shake on it. “I’m going to be here keeping an eye on you girls.” She pointed to her eyes and pointed to me. “Now, go upstairs and clean your room. Then you can send

an e-mail to the girls and invite them to your cooking club. Oh, sorry, secret cooking club. Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul. But I can tell Dad, right?

He’s one of the sharpest tacks in the box, and he might notice if three girls are here cooking in our kitchen.”

“Okay, but that’s it,” I said.

Mom said, “Oh, one more thing. Mrs. Silvers gave me some freshpicked apples today. Please pack one for lunch tomorrow and don’t throw it

out.”

From Mrs. Silvers? Did you check it for poison? “Okay,” I said.

I worked my way back up to my bedroom. I tidied up a bit, and emailed the girls. I put the journal back into the ceiling tiles, slid the Secret Recipe Book under my bed, and wiggled into my bed. And, three, two, one,

pounce! Rosey jumped onto the bed and burrowed herself under my covers. (I don’t know if all beagles sleep under the covers, but mine does.) She kept my legs really warm in the winter, with the exception of the occasional rub from a cold, wet nose. It didn’t take long before she was asleep and snoring. I was right behind her.

5 The Wonderful World of Seventh Grade

Question: How many times does a girl have her first day of seventh grade?

Answer: Once.

So, it should’ve been a wonderful and memorable morning, right? Oh, it started out okay. I dressed in my new deep-cuffed denim capris and made myself an awesome gourmet lunch with an alphabet theme: Avocado,

Bacon, and Chicken sandwich, with Dill. That’s when my mom looked out the window. I can name who she saw in four notes: Char-lotte Bar-ney.

“Kell, there goes Charlotte. If you hurry, you can walk to the bus stop with her.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s okay. I’m going to walk to the other bus stop.”

“Don’t be silly. That’s farther.” And that’s when she did it. She yelled out the window. “Good morning, Charlotte. Wait up, Kelly will be right there.”

Mom and I need to have a serious chat later. What she can’t seem to remember (ever), is that Charlotte Barney might be my next door neighbor, but she is also my archenemy. (BTW, having an archenemy isn’t as

glamorous as it sounds.)

I left the house and slammed the door behind me so that my mom would know I was mad and walked with Charlotte, whose outfit made me think twice about my favorite deep-cuffed denim capris. She wore a supershort plaid miniskirt that I knew was from Abercrombie & Fitch, a matching T-shirt, and a loose dangly belt. Her hair bounced with fresh blond curls, and I think I smelled perfume. Charlotte talked about her

summer and being in her cousin’s wedding, wearing a dress “with organza roses at the hem.”

All I heard was, Blah, blah, blah.

“. . . soccer tryouts . . .”

Blah, blah.

“My father told the real estate developer . . .”

BLAH!

We boarded the bus and she “blah-ed” to me as if I didn’t already know she was awful, as if I had somehow suffered a major brain-fart causing me to forget the peak of her evilness, what she did to my ninth birthday party— which was supposed to be a surprise party. She got mad at me for something stupid (I don’t even remember what), so she told me that my surprise birthday party was the next day. What kind of person would do that?

She was still jabbering when Aubrey and Abby got on at the next stop. They sat on either side of me in the very back seat. Misty sat with Charlotte a few seats in front of us, and it was as if I had never been there. Normally, Aubrey was color coordinated: purple pants and socks, purple clip in her hair (always a matching clip in her hair), and a matching striped shirt. But apparently she had changed her style for seventh grade.

Her hair was down. It had grown very long and blond over the summer. And it looked like it had been straightened or shined. She wore skinny jeans that showed off her long legs, which had grown longer and skinnier. But what I noticed most was her shirt. Big white letters spelled LUCKYBRAND.

Aubrey had gone from fashionable to majorly trendy. I diverted my stare from Aubrey’s outfit and stacked our backpacks up on the seat in front of us.

I whispered, “My mom says we can meet at my house, starting today.”

Abby gave me a fist bump. Aubrey smiled, but I sensed she was more interested in the Rusamano boys who were getting on the bus, because she was looking at them, not us.

There was a universal, “Frankkkayayayayay!” from the boys. Frankie high-fived everyone he passed. He and his brother Tony sat with the boys in the middle of the bus.

Soon, the bus chatter spilled out the double doors, into school, past the trophy case, and to the lockers. We had each brought in stuff to decorate our lockers. Aubrey had pictures of that hot guy from the biggest summer

movie hit, Vampire High, Abby had clipped magazine pictures of extreme sports, and I’d brought an autographed picture of Felice Foudini that I’d gotten when I joined her fan club.

I entered the Home Ec room. It didn’t take a fortune-teller to predict that Home Ec was going to be my favorite class. I sat in the front row. The new teacher, Mr. Douglass, walked in a few minutes late. I suspected that he could be the only person, besides Felice Foudini, who loved cooking as much as me. “Goooood morning”—he paused for dramatic effect—“future chefs of America!” Mr. Douglass used his arms when he talked. “It’s a glorious day in seventh-grade Home Economics.” He sat on his desk, his long legs reaching the floor. “As you know, this is the first time this class is being offered at Alfred Nobel School. What you might not know is that this is a trial program, and I really want to make it a huge success.” He wrote the words “huge success” on the board. I wrote them in my Home Ec notebook.

“Let’s create something deeee-licious. Today, and for the next two weeks, is Free Expression. That means we won’t have any set structure. Use the tools and ingredients at your stations to make whatever you’re inspired

to create. Class, cook with your heart”—he closed his eyes and clenched his fists—“and your soul.” When he opened his eyes, they sparkled. “Begin.” I raced to one of the six kitchen areas set up around the large, bright

room and claimed my space. I looked at the various recipe cards scattered on the countertop and opened the pantry to see what I had to work with. I felt inspired to make supermoist butter cupcakes with butter-cream frosting. I started at the top of the recipe card and added all the basic dry ingredients to a bowl.

As I sifted two cups of all-purpose flour, I noticed the Home Ec room had grown unruly with raised hands. Kids surrounded Mr. Douglass and tried to be louder than one another so that he could hear their questions:

“What does T-B-S-P mean?”

“Which bowl should we use?”

“How do you use this mixer-thing?”

I cracked an egg and whipped it up with butter, amused by the frenzy surrounding me. Once I blended the wet and dry ingredients, I dipped my finger in to taste. It was okay, but not great. I liked my batter to be GREAT.

Felice Foudini says you won’t have awesome cupcakes, cake, or muffins without totally awesome batter first.

I decided to stray from the recipe on the card. I went to the pantry at the head of the classroom to see what I could find. Instant vanilla pudding. That was good, but not enough. I passed the mob surrounding Mr. Douglass and opened the double doors of the refrigerator. Sliding some stuff around, I saw the thing that would add the zest I was looking for: cream cheese.

I popped the cream cheese into the microwave to soften it a bit before adding it to my ingredients. With the hand mixer, I blended it into the batter. Then I added the pudding mix. I was so busy blending my batter while

slowly turning the bowl that I didn’t notice the room get quiet. When I looked up I saw Mr. Douglass with a strange look on his face and I thought he was mad because I had done something I wasn’t supposed to.

I turned off the mixer. He picked up the recipe card and looked on the countertop and in the trash area. He scrutinized the empty pudding box and the empty cream cheese container. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Were you saving those for something?”

The expression on his face slowly eased itself into a smile. “No, not at all.” He dunked a spoon into my batter and tasted it. “This is delicious, Miss Quinn. You are quite the independent chef who is not afraid to experiment

and explore your creativity.” He clapped—slow, deep claps with his hands cupped. “Perhaps I can put this into the oven for you. Then you could start over from the top and give the class a bit of a demonstration. That will

allow me to address the questions of many students.”

Actually, I wasn’t thrilled to let go of the fab batter. And I wasn’t excited to disclose the ingredients I had added to make the batter so fabulous in the first place, either.

“Of course. I would love to,” I said.