The Magical Cookbook - Part 2

6 Lunch

Mix together:

1 secret

1 tableful of seventh-grade hotties

2 Rusamano boys

1 evil neighbor who’s out to get me

2 packages of Twinkies

A splash of yellow mustard

Directions:

Pack all ingredients in a school cafeteria and wait patiently for it to boil over.

In a lot of ways, the Alfred Nobel cafeteria was like an indoor soccer field. The ceiling was high, the walls cement. And no matter what color you painted them, or how many posters you hung, they would still be cold, hard, cement. Sound vibrates off the walls and ceiling, much like at an indoor soccer field. Even if no one was talking (which never happened), the clatter of forks, plates stacking and clanking, and the cash register dinging fill the large room with sound. It was so noisy that sometimes you need to talk very loudly to be heard.

There weren’t referees, but there were lunch monitors (sort of the same thing). The monitors kept order and prevented food fights, drawing on the tables, and running around. They sent troublemakers to Mr. Avery’s office.

(Abby and Mr. Avery have spent a lot of time together over the years.)

Picking a good lunch table on the first day of school was critical, because whatever table I picked could be our table for the rest of the year.

Aubrey conferred with me. “You’re getting the table against the wall, right?”

“Right.” I rushed there to save seats while Aubrey and Abby got in line to buy their lunches. I never buy cafeteria food. I always pack my own lunch.

I spread out a red-and-white gingham dish towel like a place mat, took out my ABCD sandwich, a bottle of water, and a homemade brownie. (I used walnuts, pecans, and hazelnuts. My dad says they’re the best brownies this side of the Mason-Dixon line.) Lastly, I took out the apple that came from Mrs. Silvers. Hesitantly, I bit into it. It was superjuicy, snow white inside, and incredibly sweet. It may have been the best I’d ever eaten.

Aubrey arrived at our table with her tray containing a banana, yogurt, and soft pretzel with a packet of yellow mustard. I looked at her tray and held up the mustard. “You don’t have to give up taste to be healthy,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Aubrey asked.

I went to the condiment table, took a little paper cup, and squeezed some extrahot brown mustard and honey into it. I stirred and tasted with my pinkie finger. Perfecto.

“Try this.”

She broke off a little piece of pretzel, dipped, and tasted. “Oh, this is so good. Thanks.”

I shrugged. “Anytime.”

“Look over there.” Aubrey indicated a table of seventh-grade boys.

“Frankie got so tan this summer. He’s even cuter than last year.” She reached into the pocket of her jeans and took out a glittery grape lip gloss and rolled it across her lips. The glitter and shine looked good. Maybe I

should consider lip gloss this year.

“Frankie Rusamano, cute?” Abby asked. She tilted her head and looked at the boys’ table. “All I think about when I look at Frankie and Tony is how they cried and cried on the first day of kindergarten. Remember? They

wouldn’t let go of Mrs. R. and get on the bus? She had to drive them to school and they both had a meltdown when she finally peeled them off her and left.”

Frankie and Tony Rusamano lived in my neighborhood, but a few streets farther away than Aubrey and Abby. Our moms all knew one another. I studied Frankie Rusamano and his fraternal twin, Tony. Even though

they were twins, Frankie and Tony were as different as Aubrey and Abby.

Frankie was the leader of the seventh-grade boys. Everyone wanted to be his friend. “I don’t know, Abb. Maybe it’s time to forget about the crying and look at the Rusamano boys differently,” I said.

“Boys? With an s? I was only talking about one boy—Frankie. Do you think Tony’s cute?” Aubrey asked.

That wasn’t an easy question to answer. Tony was hard to figure out. Frankie’s looks and personality were obvious. “I can’t really tell. His hair covers a lot of his face, and his clothes are so baggy, I’m not sure what’s

underneath.” Tony hunched over a heaping plate of greasy French fries swimming in ketchup. As he ate the top layer, he added more ketchup.

“You think Tony Rusamano is cute!” Abby said incredibly loudly.

Immediately I averted my gaze from the boys’ table to my apple. “O M G!” I exclaimed, hopeful that a swig of water would wash the hot red off my face. “That was so loud.” Thank goodness the cafeteria was noisy, or

most of Alfred Nobel School would have heard her.

Abby slapped a hand over her mouth and darted her eyes around the room. “No one’s looking.”

Aubrey surveyed the cafeteria. “I think it’s okay.”

I pointed my fork at Abby. “You got lucky, O’Brien.” I exhaled. That was close. I didn’t reopen the subject, but I silently considered Tony’s cuteness. I watched him squirt more ketchup. His taste in food needed work.

Charlotte, followed by her minion Misty, entered the cafeteria. Heads turned to look at them. “I’ll bet you three hundred dollars that they sit right there,” Abby said, pointing at the table right in the middle of the cafeteria.

“You don’t have three hundred dollars,” Aubrey said. “You shouldn’t make a bet you can’t pay.”

“I guess. But I still think they’re going to sit there.” Abby forked a chunk of Salisbury steak, dipped it in her mashed potatoes, and sank it into her mouth. “Mmm.” She sighed.

Aubrey and I watched with a mixture of shock and nausea.

“What?” she said through her full mouth. “Kell, I think you’re an amazing cook, you know that. But you should give this stuff a chance.”

Aubrey let out a soft, “Yuck.”

I said, “Someday I’m going to come back to this school and totally change this cafeteria. I’m going to make a different fabulous menu every day. Each week will have a theme: Mexican, breakfast-for-lunch,

vegetarian, summer BBQ, stews and soups. It will be delicious and much healthier than that stuff.” I pointed to the mashed potato–covered Twinkie Abby was putting in her mouth.

Aubrey said, “Years from now you’re going to be a famous chef in a big city like Los Angeles, London, or Rome. You’ll have your own magazine and TV show, like Felice Foudini. Maybe she’ll retire and you can take all

her fans. You’re not going to have time for the Alfred Nobel cafeteria.”

I sighed, thinking of the wonderful dream Aubrey had painted for my future. “Speaking of cooking, ask yourselves: What do you get when you mix an ancient book of secret recipes hidden in a 1953 encyclopedia, two mysterious warnings, unusual ingredients from a spooky store owned by a

kook, and three BFFs?”

They didn’t know.

I answered: “A secret cooking club.”

“SECRET cooking club!” Abby exclaimed with a spittle of Twinkie crumbs, just as Charlotte Barney was walking by with her lunch tray.

Charlotte stopped and said very loudly (on purpose), “SECRET COOKING CLUB! Hey, everyone! Olivia Sanabia and her friends have a SECRET COOKING CLUB! Hahahaha!” She laughed all the way to the boys’ table, Misty on her heels.

They wiggled themselves into seats next to Frankie and Tony, laughing the whole time. After setting their trays down, they high-tenned across the table.

Abby sank into her chair. My fist tightened around my fork until my knuckles were white. “Sorry,” she said. The remaining Twinkie found its way into her cheeks.

My face was consumed by a red blush, and my eyes were coated with a heavy glaze of fog. I blinked and cleared them just enough to see Frankie and Tony looking my way. They weren’t laughing.

7 Shoobedoobedoowhop

Charlotte called to me as I raced ahead of her off the bus, “Where are you going in such a hurry, Olivia Sanabia?”

I continued to hustle home, not answering. Everyone wanted to be Charlotte’s friend. She always had the best toys and clothes. What people didn’t know was that the idea of hanging out with Charlotte was always better than actually hanging out with her. It all started in third grade. Charlotte and I decided to jump rope. We tied

one end around a tree and I turned and turned for her until my arm felt like it was going to drop off at the shoulder.

I wanted to jump, but she wouldn’t give me my chance. Then Abby asked if she could play too. “No, Freckle Juice. Go away,”

Charlotte said. And Abby cried. Charlotte said to her, “Go play with the kindergarteners, you baby.”

That’s when Aubrey came over and also wanted to play. Charlotte (who was jumping this whole time) laughed and said to Aubrey, “You’re too tall. We can’t turn the rope high enough to get it over your head.”

I said, “This would be better with more kids.”

She said, “Shut up, Olivia Sanabia. My mom says I have to be best friends with you because you live next door. But, she didn’t say anything about those two losers.” That was the moment she became my rival.

She has been my rival ever since then—and has gotten worse (please refer back to ninth birthday party). I tried to convince myself that a relationship with her builds character. That’s what my dad would say about

doing things you don’t like, and he knew what he was talking about because my mom always makes him do things that he didnt’t like.

“I’m talking to you, Olivia Sanabia.” She always used my last name as though I might not know I was the Kelly she was beckoning. I quickly walked toward home so I could get ready for the club’s first meeting.

"Are you heading to your secret club?”

My face got hot, and I clenched my hands. She was just evil. It took all my strength, but I ignored her.

Abby and Aubrey arrived on time. Aubrey on foot, Abby on Rollerblades.

“How did you do?” Mom asked.

Abby looked at her watch before untying her Rollerblades. “Seven minutes, fifty-eight seconds,” she said. It took Abby about eight minutes to skate from her house to mine and she was always trying to make it faster.

We ditched Mom and secluded ourselves in my bedroom. Abby flopped onto my flowered comforter and checked out the new posters on the walls.

“Where did you get all these?” she asked.

“I joined the Felice Foudini fan club and sent in ten dollars. They sent me back a big envelope of pictures. I love this one,” I said, pointing at the poster of a layered cake designed by Felice. Each layer was a different color

hinting at its flavor. “I can only imagine what one perfect bite of that tastes like,” I said. “See this light brown layer? I think that’s cappuccino. I imagine the dark brown one is Swiss chocolate, the creamy colored layer is

French vanilla, and this golden one is a really moist carrot cake. And the last layer is a thick whipped cream spread.”

Abby asked, “Did you just make that up?”

“Yeah. I was lying in bed staring at it, and that’s what I imagined it was.”

Aubrey said, “I think I gained a pound just listening.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Pounds, schmounds.”

Bud came running into my room wearing Dad’s work boots, a bicycle helmet, a Batman cape, and a snorkel in his mouth. He sang “The Wheels on the Bus” as loud as he could.

“MOM! TELL BUD TO GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”

“Maybe there’s a recipe to make little brothers disappear,” Abby said under her breath.

“Now, that would be awesome,” Aubrey said.

Bud started jumping on my bed. “MooOOM!”

My mother came rushing in with a paper shopping bag over her arm.

“Olivia Sanabia, please don’t yell like that unless someone is bleeding.” She waved the bag at Bud and said, “You, scoot. Play downstairs.”

Bud left, still singing at the top of his lungs.

“And don’t come back!” I yelled after him. The little rat turned around and stuck out his tongue. Mom hung around. I cleared my throat, signaling her to leave. “Oh,” she said, getting the hint. She scurried outside my bedroom door, picked something up, and scurried back in. It was a shopping bag from The Kitchen Sink, a fancy cooking supply store at the mall. “I thought that members of a real cooking club, secret or not, should have matching aprons!” She took four aprons out of the bag. They were long and covered with tomatoes.

“Why do you have an extra one?” Aubrey asked, sweeping her hair into a ponytail holder.

“I thought this one could be mine,” Mom said.

“Mom, you said you’d leave us alone.” I couldn’t believe I had to remind her of this.

“Oh, I’m just kidding. I’ll hang this on a hook in the pantry in case you ever invite someone else to join your club.” The bag made a crunching sound when she put the apron in it. “Hey, I saw Charlotte walking home

from the bus stop. Maybe she’d like to come over and join you girls.”

The sideways glance I gave her reminded her of how I feel about Charlotte Barney.

“Oh, all right. Call me if you need help. And make sure you use the special oven mitts that go high up your arms, and don’t lick the spoon if it’s touched raw meat or egg, and be very, very careful if you chop anything. I

don’t want to send anyone home with nine fingers. And be careful—”

“Mom,” I interrupted. “We get it.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” She pulled the door shut behind herself.

“I thought she’d never leave,” I said.

Aubrey was admiring her apron. “You have to admit, Kell, these are very Primetime Food TV.”

Abby asked, “You aren’t seriously thinking of inviting Charlotte, are you?”

“No way!” I said. “Let’s get the first meeting of our secret cooking club called to order. This means we can’t tell anybody.”

“Why does it have to be a secret?” Aubrey asked. “I mean, we’re in seventh grade now. Isn’t that a little silly?”

I was really surprised and a little hurt to hear Aubrey say that.

Aubrey continued, “It’s not like we’re doing anything illegal. Are we?”

“Well,” I said. “One reason is that it’s a good thing if Charlotte doesn’t know.”

“Weren’t you in the cafeteria today?” Aubrey balked. “Everyone knows!”

“But they don’t need to know any more. Especially Charlotte! She’ll ruin everything. Do I need to remind you of the surprise party catastrophe?” I spared them from hearing me whine about the event again.

“And . . .” I reached under my bed and whipped out the Secret Recipe Book. “The club is secret because we’re going to use recipes from this book.”

“But that book is cursed. Remember?” Abby asked.

“You think that’s possible?” I replied.

Aubrey dotted gloss on her lips. “No. It’s not possible.”

Abby said, “But the warnings. What were they?”

I reminded her. “‘Beware of the Law of Returns,’ and the thing Señora Perez said—‘You get what you deserve.’

Abby said, “Well, something beginning with ‘Beware’ usually indicates that you’re supposed to watch out, like ‘Beware of Attack Dog.’ If you go on that property, the dog will eat you.”

“I think you’re taking it a little too seriously,” Aubrey said. “The paper in the Book could’ve been anything. I’m always sticking all kinds of papers in my books. And Señora Perez is a strange old lady. I wouldn’t worry

about something she said.”

“What do you think?” I asked Abby.

“Well, I guess it’s okay. And if not, we’ll have an exciting story to tell— if we’re still alive. But if we don’t start cooking soon, you’ll have to bewarenof me,” Abby said. “because I’m starvin’ like Marvin, amigas.”

“First,” I said, “I was thinking we need a secret handshake. Maybe something like this.” I showed them a grip I’d made up. It ended with high fives. The girls tried it, although Aubrey blew her bangs out of her face the

whole time, signaling to me that she was bored or annoyed. In this instance, maybe she was both.

“I like that,” Abby said. She and Aubrey did it again.

Aubrey said, “Okay, I’ve got it. So now can we decide what we’re going to make, or do we need a password, too?”

“Great idea,” I said.

“I was only kidding.” Aubrey blew her bangs again.

Abby asked, “How about ‘shoobedoobedoowhop’?”

Aubrey didn’t seem to care.

“Fine. Shoobedoobedoowhop it is,” I said.

“So.” I flipped through the Book. “I’ve checked out this book, and something you guys said earlier gave me an idea.” I turned to a page and pointed to Keeps ’Em Quiet Cobbler. There was a note at the bottom of the

page: Stopped the gallo from his early morning cockle, ip.

“What’s gallo?” Abby asked.

Aubrey answered, “That’s Spanish for ‘rooster.’”

I asked, “What’s ip?’

“I don’t know. But I don’t think it matters,” Aubrey said. “You can still tell what the note means: Stopped the rooster from its cockle. It’s nonsense, Kell.”

I said, “Maybe not. We were talking about someone who is loud and annoying”—Abby’s eyebrows lifted like she knew what I was about to say —“and how we would want to shut him up. You know what I’m thinking?”

Abby asked, “You think if we make this cobbler and feed it to Bud that he’ll shut up?”

I shrugged my shoulders in an “I dunno but it’s worth a try” kind of way.

“I’m game,” Abby said.

I pointed on the page to a strange ingredient, aged vetivert stems. “I have them in here.” I found it in the bag of items I’d bought from La Cocina.

We looked closely at the bottle. The glass was so thick, it distorted the contents. They looked wavy, like they were under water. I pulled hard at the cork in the top. It made a distinctive popping sound when it was freed from the bottle. I took out a few stems. I smelled them, but they were odorless.

“What do you think it is?” Kelly asked.

“Looks like plant stems,” Aubrey offered.

“Maybe we should look it up before we try to feed it to my little brother.

He’s a pain in the rumpus, but we don’t want to kill him.”

Abby, the Queen of Google, clicked on my desktop until she found “vetivert.” “It says here that it’s a tall grass whose roots and leaves are often used in alternative healing. What’s alternative healing?”

I said, “That’s like when you don’t go to the doctor or use regular medicine. Instead you take vitamins and use natural stuff to help you feel

better or to prevent getting sick.”

Aubrey looked at me, puzzled. “How do you know that?”

“My aunt is into some of that stuff,” I explained. “She’s a vegetarian, she does yoga every day, and she doesn’t shave her legs. When we go to her house she makes my family meditate. My dad falls asleep. Worst of all, she

doesn’t have a TV. Could you imagine life without The Pastry Quartet, Don’t Let This Happen to Your Kitchen, or Fab Food with Felice Foudini?”

“And now back to reality,” Aubrey said. “From that description, it doesn’t look like this spice will kill your brother. But if it does, and we’re accused of murder, I was never here. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said.

“Got it,” said Abby. “Kell, if we go to juvie, will you be my roommate?”

“You know it!”

“Cool.”

“All right,” I said. “Cobbler it is. We just got some apples from Mrs. Silvers. I had one for lunch and it was really awesome.”

“You got them from Mrs. Silvers, the witch?” Abby asked.

“Yes. But seriously, they’re delish. So I guess we’re all set,” I said,

heading out the door. “Come on Shoobedoobedoowhops. Let’s go cook.”

8 Cobbler

Question: What do you get when you combine an annoying little brother with a secret cooking club?

Answer: A taste-tester.

Outfitted in our new aprons, we spread out the kitchen tools and started

peeling apples.

BANG! CRASH! CLANG! Pots and pans clanged outside the kitchen.

Bud was marching around, in and out of the kitchen, banging on pots like drums. He yelled as loud as he could, “Kelly is smelly and so are her friends!”

CLANG! CLINK! CRASH!

Abby picked up a banana, peeled it, and took a bite. “Olivia Sanabia, I might stick this up his nose if he doesn’t zip his pie hole.”

CRASH! “Kelly is smelly! And her friends stink too!”

“Let’s get to work and see if this cobbler really does keep ’em quiet,” I said. Then I yelled, “MOOOOooom!”

My mom called into the kitchen. “Mister, you’re going to Time Out!”

We heard Bud drag the pans across the hard wood floor to the Time-Out chair.

Aubrey took her hands off her ears. “Thank goodness.”

I pushed preheat on the oven and cracked open the World BooknEncyclopedia, Volume T. Carefully, I turned each worn page until I got to the cobbler. I dragged my finger over the handwritten recipe. “I wonder

who wrote this,” I said.

Neither of the girls answered, giving me a minute to wonder about the recipe book’s writer. The windows steamed up from the heat growing in the kitchen. I cracked one open. I felt a cool breeze and noticed dark clouds rolling in. Suddenly I felt like Abby, Aubrey, and I weren’t the only ones in my kitchen—I had the bizarre feeling that whoever wrote the Book was there with us. The thought gave me a chill.

“What do we need, Kell?” Abby asked.

Aubrey’s pink-nail-polished index finger brushed along the ingredient list. She called out the items while Abby pulled them out of the pantry and set them on the countertop. Aubrey concluded with, “And aged vetivert

stems.”

I took the little bottle from my apron pocket and set it on the countertop.

The girls sliced apples, measured, and stirred. I fluffed together the flour, sugar, and softened butter with a fork.

Abby added the vetivert. I thought maybe the mixture would bubble over or explode or turn a psychedelic color, but it looked like ordinary apple goop. Actually, it looked like rich, delectable apple goop. It was

cinnamonny brown and looked delicious next to the creamy flour-sugarbutter mixture. I imagined what it was going to look like hot and bubbly from the oven.

Abby poured the apple goop into a pan.

Aubrey sprinkled the flour-sugar-butter mixture I’d made atop the goop.

“This looks awesome,” she said.

I slid the pan into the oven, wearing huge heat-resistant gloves. Soon the kitchen filled with wonderful apple smells. At the same time, the skyline became covered with gray clouds. We turned on the oven’s interior light

and watched the cobbler bake, like we were watching TV.

“I’m freaking out a little about soccer tryouts this year,” Abby said, staring at the oven.

“You’ll be fine,” Aubrey said.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re in great shape from swimming all summer and you were one of the best players on the team last year,” Abby

said. “If you haven’t noticed,” she added, “I’m not the most coordinated person in the world.”

“Just try your best and work really hard. Coach Richards likes that,”

Aubrey said.

My mind was in the hot oven, in the sizzling pan, in the sugary mixture gurgling over the rim, and in the drops that dropped onto the bottom of the oven. “Who do you think wrote it?” I asked.

“What?” Aubrey asked.

“The Book.”

The girls didn’t have an answer. I was deep in thought about it when there was a knock at the back door. I looked out and saw a blond head. If I looked a little closer, I might have found little red horns under the curly

locks.

“Argh,” Abby groaned when she saw Charlotte. When we didn’t move toward the door, Aubrey opened it. Charlotte pushed past her and into the kitchen. I subtly took a dishcloth and tossed it over the encyclopedia.

“What do you want?” I asked.

Charlotte scanned the kitchen. Her nose lifted slightly. “Wait a minute. Is this is your silly little secret club?” she asked with a laugh and a snort.

“WHAT do you want?” I asked again impatiently.

“I brought this letter. It came to our house. It’s for your mom, from a reunion company in Massachusetts. Probably her high school reunion.”

“Thanks for bringing it,” I said as I escorted her to the back door. “I’ll make sure my mom gets it.” I practically shoved her onto the driveway.

“You’re so rude, Olivia Sanabia.”

Abby said, real sarcastically, “Thanks for coming. Been great seeing you. Have a super night. Always a pleasure.”

Charlotte snapped, “This club is so stupid, and I don’t know what you’re making, but it smells terrible because you’re a terrible cook, Olivia Sanabia.

And I hope you and your mom lose the chili contest again this year.”

I slammed the door.

“Grrr. She is so MEAN,” I said.

“Just ignore her,” Aubrey said. “She’s probably jealous that we didn’t invite her.”

I said, “Why would she want—” Beep! Beep! Beep! The oven timer went off.

“Woot! Woot! Shoobedoobedoowhop!” Abby called. “My ribs are showing, let me at that bad boy.”

I slid the pan out of the oven and set it on a trivet. We all leaned over the dessert and inhaled. It smelled delicioso!

A pile of leaves rustled in a strange way, drawing our attention outside, where Charlotte was standing in the light rain, watching us. When she saw that we’d caught her little spy thing, she headed home.

“She’s unbelievable,” I said.

Abby pulled the blinds down. “What’s the hold-up?” she asked. “Fork, please.”

“Well,” I said. “I’m dying to taste it too. But, if it’s meant to ‘keep ’em quiet,’ I don’t know if we should. I mean, what would happen to us?”

Abby said, “You could’ve mentioned that earlier, before I became so weak with hunger that I can hardly rip open a package of Twinkies.”

Suddenly, a crack of thunder shook the house. BOOM!

I asked, “What was that?”

“Just thunder,” Aubrey said.

Abby said, “It’s the warning. I told you that book was cursed. We were warned!”

KABOOM!

We shrieked and Mom came in. “Everything okay?” she asked, shutting the oven door.

“Yeah. The thunder scared us,” I said.

“Me too.” She inspected the dish. “Oh, girls, this looks so good.”

Headlights glided into our driveway. “That looks like my mom’s car,”

Abby said. Even though she lives just a block away, Abby isn’t allowed to skate home in the dark or the rain. “I’m outta here. Barb is making stuffed meatloaf tonight.” (Abby was the only kid I knew who called her

mom by her first name.)

“Why don’t you grab your books. I’ll get some containers and you can all take some of this scrumptious-looking cobbler home,” Mom offered.

“Ummm.” Abby looked at Aubrey and me. “No. No thanks, Mrs. Q.

I’m stuffed.”

“No?” Mom asked, confused.

“No,” Abby said. “We were thinking . . . thinking, umm—”

“Thinking that you would have it with dinner tonight,” Aubrey helped.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mom said. “Thanks, girls.”

We saw another set of headlights pull into the driveway. “That looks like my dad’s car.” Aubrey said. She joined Abby in getting her things and the two dashed into the rain.

It was just Mom and me. She said, “Mrs. Silvers called. She wanted to know if you—”

“I know, I know. I’m going.” I went across the street with an umbrella and a pooper-scooper.

That night’s Quinn Family Dinner was typical, except for the addition of a dish made from a Secret Recipe Book for the purpose of shutting up my little brother.

Rosey ate dry food out of her bowl on the floor next to the table while Mom served dessert. She dished out the cobbler, starting with my brother, who sniffed in a huge breath and let out a huge, spitty sneeze all over the

rest of the pan.

Presto! Cobbler a la snot.

“Bud! Cover your mouth!” Mom scolded. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

I passed on eating the germ-infested cobbler. Mom too. Dad scooped a mountain onto his plate.

“Ah, Dad. You sure you want that? I mean, you might get sick,” I said.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Dads don’t get sick.” He shoveled a big bite of cobbler into his mouth.

“Mmmmmm. You and your friends made this?” Dad asked.

“Yup,” I said.

“With the apples from Mrs. Silvers,” Mom added.

Dad stopped with his fork in midair. “Did you check them for poison?

9 Roller Abby

Coach Richards is both the soccer coach and my science teacher. He’s young, not much older than Vinny Rusamano, Frankie and Tony’s older brother, who’s in his second year of college.

He sat us alphabetically, which put Charlotte right in front and Aubrey a few seats behind her. The second row included Abby, me, Frankie, and Tony Rusamano. Obviously, the second row is the best one—if only

“Hernandez” was later in the alphabet.

We stared at Coach, who explained the scientific process while sipping his carrot juice. “You’ll come up with a hypothesis. And then we’ll work in the lab and conduct experiments to either prove or disprove your theory.

Any questions?”

None.

“Now turn to page thirty-three,” he said. “We’re going to talk about Newton’s Third Law. Does anyone know what that is?”

No one reacted.

“Newton says . . .” Coach Richards wrote on the board. The room was quiet except for the sound of scratching chalk.

Abby leaned over. “The only Newton I’m interested in is Fig.”

I got a little giggly.

Coach Richards read what he’d written. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Maybe he could tell that we weren’t impressed by Newton. He said, “Abby, why don’t you read out loud to us,

starting at the top of the page.”

Abby read, but I don’t think anyone paid attention, except for Aubrey, who diligently took notes.

At the end of class Coach Richards invited any interested girls to come to soccer tryouts after school, which was when he transformed from science teacher into fitness maniac.

Coach Richards jogged around the back of the school to the soccer field wearing shorts and sneakers. We were already there waiting for him. “Have a seat and listen up!” he shouted, tucking his clipboard under his arm. We

all think Coach Richards is a ten on the cutie scale, which only added to my stomach butterflies.

“I want to review a few rules for the newbies before we get tryouts started. Number one, you owe me a push-up for every minute you’re late for practice.” He gave Abby a look. “Number two, you cannot practice or

play in any games if you don’t maintain a B average. Number three, if you’re injured, you will come to practice and games suited up and you will stretch with and cheer for your teammates.”

“There are more rules, but that’s enough for now.” He tossed his clipboard onto the grass and bent down to touch his toes. We did the same.

“We’ll do a lot of conditioning today. If you spent the summer eating Super Swirleys, this won’t be easy. But we WILL have fun! . . . just probably not today.” He grabbed the backs of his calves and pulled himself lower. The

muscles in his forearms bulged like he had spent the whole summer lifting very heavy things. The man probably hadn’t had a Swirley in his whole life.

He looked more like the whole wheat type.

“Alrighty then. Let’s start with a six-lap warm-up. The last five girls to finish will do an extra lap.” He led the run. “LET’S MOVE IT, LADIES!”

We all ran after Coach Richards like chicks following their mother hen— a strong, science-y mother hen. He turned and ran backward so he could talk to us. “After the warm-up, we’ll sprint, weave the bleachers, practice

throw-ins, and we’ll end with sit-ups.”

I was already out of breath. I looked back and saw that Abby was the caboose. Everyone was vying for the space right behind Coach, but Aubrey had it, followed by Charlotte.

Question: How many laps can Coach make Olivia Sanabia run before she barfs?

I guessed I would answer myself later, but I felt confident that Abby would toss her cafeteria fried chicken, creamed corn, and Devil Dog before my lunch came up.

“PUSH IT!” Coach Richards yelled. He picked up a plastic orange cone from the sideline and yelled through it. “Push it, girls! No pain, no gain.

Come on, Abby Donnely!”

Aubrey fell back to talk to me. “How’re you doing, Kell?” Even Aubrey’s soccer clothes were fashionable: rolled below the waist nylon shorts and a shirt bearing the Nike Swoosh.

“I’m dying, Shoobedoo. You know CPR?” I could hardly get the words out.

Charlotte had finished the first several laps hardly breaking a sweat.

“Looking good, Kell,” she said with her classic sarcastic snort. Aubrey caught up to her and the two of them ran together for the rest of the tryout, which seemed to go on forever. Shockingly, it was only four o’clock when

we were done.

Abby’s mom drove us all home after practice and we planned to reassemble at my house for a cooking club meeting at five.

Take:

1 sore throat

1 honey drop

A bag of frozen peas

A wicked radar system

Directions:

Knead. Let rise until ready.

I dropped my school stuff and sniffed the air. Something yucky lingered.

“Mom, what’s that smell?”

“I was trying some new combos with my chili.” She whispered, “Let’s just say, it didn’t go well.”

“I guess not,” I said.

“Shhh,” Mom said. “Buddy came home from school sick with a sore throat. He can hardly talk. He’s resting, so you have to be very quiet.”

“He can’t talk?” I asked loudly.

“Shhh! That’s right. You need to be quiet,” Mom said.

I whispered, “He can’t talk?”

“That’s what I said. When are the girls coming over?”

I looked at my watch, “Any minute.”

Abby pushed my front door open. She tripped on her Rollerblades and fell on the tile floor.

“Skates off in the house,” my mom whispered, then looked at Abby

more closely. She had blood on her face and her sweatshirt. “Oh my goodness.” My mom rushed over and grabbed Abby’s face in her hands.

“Come over to the sink.”

My mom washed Abby’s face. “What happened, honey?”

“I was trying to skate fast, but my legs are so tired, I wiped out like a cowboy surfing the coral reef.”

“Man, you’re gonna have a big fat lip,” I said.

“Kelly, please grab a bag of vegetables out of the freezer to put on her eye.” Mom wiped the scratches on Abby’s legs. I could tell which areas would soon become black and blue.

“It’ll make you look real tough for soccer,” I said, but this didn’t seem to make Abby feel better. I handed her a bag of peas and searched my brain for something that might cheer her up. “Bud came home from school early

today with a sore throat. He can hardly talk.”

Abby took the frozen peas off her face and looked at me with a twinklein her swollen eye. “He lost his voice?”

I nodded.

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope.” When my mom wasn’t looking, she gave me a thumbs-up. “Abby, maybe I should take you home,” Mom said.

“Oh, can I stay, please? Really, I’m hunky-dory. We have something very important to cook.”

“Well, if you have something very important to cook, that changes everything.” Mom teased Abby. “I’ll call your mom and see what she says.”

There was a beep in Mom’s pocket. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open to read a text. “Oh, great. Your dad has no voice either. He’s on his way home.” She opened the fridge and took out the two containers of

leftover apple cobbler. “I’m sorry, girls. I saved this cobbler for you from the unsneezed-on side of the pan, but I don’t think you should eat it.” Mom dumped the contents into the garbage disposal and flipped the switch. “I’m

going to check on Bud. And don’t worry, I’ll keep the germs upstairs.” She opened a small cabinet over the oven, got up on her tippy toes, and reached in for a tiny golden tin bearing a bumblebee logo.

“What’s that?” I asked, studying the label. The bee was interesting because it was wearing a sombrero.

“It’s Moon Honey. I always keep a tin around for just such a situation. My mother swore these little drops would heal anything.” She shook the tin.

There was a slight rattle. She looked inside. “Only two left.” She disappeared and Aubrey came in through the back door wearing plaid lounge pants and a Gap hoodie I’d never seen before.

When did she get all these new clothes?

Her hair was clean and damp, twisted up in a clip. Abby and I were still sweaty and in our soccer clothes.

“Eew, what happened?” she asked when she saw Abby.

Abby, her head tilted back and her face covered with the bag of peas, quickly filled Aubrey in on her fall, but she was more excited to tell her about my dad and Bud.

“Bud ate the cobbler?” Aubrey asked.

“Yep,” I confirmed.

“Wow,” Aubrey said. “That’s so weird. That’s what the note by the recipe said.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Abby said. “Which is empty, by the way. And this is a problem because I just got a text message from my stomach saying ‘put food here, por favor.’” She pointed to her

stomach.

I unwrapped a stick of string cheese and shoved it under the peas and into Abby’s mouth. She took a generous bite and held it like a microphone.

“Thank you, Shoobedoobedoowhop,” she said into the string cheese. Aubrey squinted like she was concentrating. “And your dad lost his voice too. Why didn’t you?”

I explained the sneeze infestation.

“This is way whacked out, doncha think?” Abby asked, her mouth full of string cheese. “It happened just like it did for the rooster.”

Aubrey said, “I have to admit, it’s a little coincidental.”

“My mom watches a lot of crime shows on TV and the investigators always say there is no such thing as coincidence,” I said.

“This might be a good time for me to point out that we’re not on a TV crime show,” Aubrey said. “There could be a million reasons why Bud and Mr. Quinn are sick. Maybe they have a cold. Colds are very common.

That’s why they’re called ‘common colds.’ People get them all the time.”

“That’s not a million reasons,” Abby said. “That’s one.”

“You get the point.” Aubrey blew her blond bangs out of her face. She was frustrated with Abby already.

I tried to change the subject so we didn’t start fighting. “Ready?”

“For what?” Aubrey asked.

“We’re a cooking club, aren’t we?” I pulled my apron over my head.

“I’ve been doing some thinking and—”

There was a knock on the back door. I saw a curly mane in the door’s window. “You’ve got to be kidding me. She must have some kind of wicked radar system.” I went to the door, but this time I was careful to stand in

front of it so Charlotte couldn’t just walk in. “May I help you?”

“Actually, you can. Do you have any clear nail polish?”

“Nail polish?”

“Yeah, I ran out in the middle of doing my nails.” She tried to be nonchalant when she stretched her head to the right and left, but I could tell she was trying to see what we were doing in the kitchen.

I looked at her hands. “They don’t look wet.”

“Um, my toenails.”

I looked down. She wore sandals, and there was some polish on her toes that I suspected was also dry.

“No. I don’t have any clear polish.”

“What’s that smell?” Charlotte asked. “Is that chili?” I didn’t answer.

“Gross. Maybe you shouldn’t even bother to enter this year. Honestly, I don’t understand why anyone would go to all the trouble of making something you could buy already made. Seems like a waste of time. And it

seems stupid to enter a contest you know you’re going to lose.”

I had successfully blocked Charlotte so she couldn’t see Abby. But she heard Abby when she yelled, “Wanna make a bet?”

Charlotte asked me, even though I wasn’t the one who asked the question, “You want to make me a bet that you’ll win the chili contest?”

“Yep,” Abby yelled.

“Oh, you’re so on. What did you have in mind?” she asked me. I opened my mouth to answer, but Abby beat me to it. From her kitchen chair she yelled, “If Kelly wins, you have to rake her yard. If Kelly loses, she’ll rake your yard.”

Charlotte grabbed my hand and shook it. “It’s a bet, Olivia Sanabia.” She followed the beaten path back to her house. I slammed the door and walked over to Abby, whose eyes were buried under a bag of frozen peas. I propped my hands on my hips. “What did you do that for?”

The peas fell into her lap when she lifted her head. “What?”

“That bet. Are you crazy?” I asked.

Aubrey chimed in, “Mrs. Rusamano is on a four-year winning streak. You and your mom are good cooks, but Mrs. R. is great.” Aubrey was right, but it would have been nice if she was a little more optimistic about our

chances of winning.

Abby picked up the encyclopedia with her bandaged hand. “Have you forgotten that you have an ancient secret recipedia?”

The corners of my lips started to bend, and suddenly I wasn’t so mad at Abby.

10 Hexberry Tarta

“If the Book can make Bud lose his voice, then it should be able to help you win a chili contest,” Abby said.

I smiled because I liked what Abby was saying, but it also gave me

another idea. “And, maybe it can take care of a nasty, curly-haired, soccerplaying, chili-contest-betting, clear-nail-polish-needing, head-in-the-backdoor-snooping girl?”

Abby looked right at me. She pointed to me and then to her and to me again. “You and me,” she said. “We think so much alike, it scares me. And I don’t scare easily. Except for vampires, and werewolves, and zombies, and

tsunamis, and earthquakes, and—”

“We get it,” Aubrey said. “Lucky for you there’s no such thing as monsters and we live in Delaware, so we don’t have those kinds of natural disasters.”

“But I was also going to mention that I’m not too crazy about cryptic warnings,” Abby said. “Remember ‘You get what you deserve’? Do we deserve something for potioning Bud?”

“You’re taking this warning stuff too seriously, Abb,” Aubrey said.

“Lucky for me I have you, Aubrey Happygolucky, to bring me back to reality.” Abby tilted her head back again and dropped the bag of peas on her face. “If you’re not worried, then I’m not either.”

Aubrey picked up the Book. I saw her fingertips rub the encyclopedia’s rough cover. “So, what can we cook up for Charlotte?”

“I thought you thought it was all coincidence,” I said.

“Oh, I do,” Aubrey said. “But, I also support the process of scientific experimentation. And I think Charlotte was really mean to you just now with all that ‘you shouldn’t even enter the contest’ stuff. I think she’d make a good test subject. Whatcha got in that recipedia?”

“Secret Recipe Book,” I corrected her. We looked through the pages together. I was glad Aubrey Happygolucky wasn’t blowing her bangs out of her face or rolling her eyes. It felt like the three of us were in this together.

Aubrey read aloud, “Lavender Bizcocho de Chocolate. That’s Lavender Chocolate Brownie: Whoever eats this becomes muy relajado—ip. That’s very relaxed.”

“What’s ip?” I asked.

“I still don’t know that word. I’m not sure it even is a word,” Aubrey said. “Condensed Chamomile Té: If you need to fall asleep muy rápido.

That’s ‘quickly.’” She turned a page. “Hexberry Tarta. Embrujar—ip. There’s ip again. I’m gonna have to look that up, it’s bothering me that I don’t know it means.”

I asked, “What’s tarta and embrujar?”

“Tarta is ‘pie,’” Aubrey said. “Embrujar is the verb ‘to hex.’”

Abby said, “B-I-N-G-O, and Charlotte was her name-o. That’s what she needs, an H-E-X.”

“What are the ingredients? I’ll check to see if we have everything,” I said.

I rifled through the freezer and found some pre-made pie crust. I held the bag up. “I can name that tune in two notes: pre-made.”

“Let’s see.” Aubrey read. “Sugar?”

“Check.”

“Lemon juice, flour, cinnamon, unsalted butter?”

“Check, check, check, check.”

“Shaved hazelnuts?”

“Check.”

“Really?” Aubrey asked, “You keep shaved hazelnuts in the house?”

“I never met a hazelnut I didn’t like,” Abby said, the bag of peas now defrosting and dripping cold water down her cheeks. She wiped the drops with her shirt.

“We have hazelnuts. I like to roast them with oil, garlic, and cayenne pepper and mix them with vegetables,” I said.

“Okay then,” Aubrey said. “Rue seed?”

Abby asked, “What seed?”

“Rue seed,” Aubrey repeated. “That’s what it says.”

I went to my backpack and took out the brown paper bag from La Cocina. I looked at the yellow, green, and brown bottles and the plastic bag until I found the one with the rue. The seeds were very tiny, perfectly round

and black. “Check.”

“Great. The last thing is berries. It doesn’t say what kind.”

I stuck my head into the fridge. I thought I saw blueberries in here yesterday,” I said. I kept searching. “Mom!” I yelled loud enough for her to hear me upstairs . . . or in Canada.

“I’m right here.” She answered me from the other side of the kitchen where she was standing with the phone stuck in the crook of her neck. “And don’t yell.” I looked at Aubrey with bulgy eyes and a tilted head. She got

the hint because she tucked the recipe book under her butt. Mom looked at Abby. “Abby, your mom says you can stay, but she’s picking you up at six o’clock.”

“Mom, where are the blueberries?”

“Dad ate them,” she said, then continued talking to Abby’s mom.

“Great. No berries,” I said.

Mom interrupted, “And Abby, your mom wants to know if you broke your record.”

Abby shook her head. “Nah, not even close. My legs are like Jell-O from soccer.”

“Maybe we can substitute something else,” I said, thinking out loud.

“Felice does that all the time.”

“Abby, your mom also mentioned I can call you ‘Roller Abby,’” my mom said. “You know, like roller derby?” We didn’t laugh. “You girls have no sense of humor,” she said. She said good-bye to Abby’s mom and

looked at all the stuff on the table. Her eyes stopped on the small amber

bottle of rue seed. “What’s that?”

The antique bottle stuck out like Abby at a science fair. “It’s a spice for this pie we’re going to make. I got it at La Cocina.”

She nodded. “Why don’t you use blackberries?”

I looked out the back window toward the Barneys’ backyard. “That would mean we’d have to go into her lair.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Mom said. “Besides, I saw her leave a few minutes ago. Her dad mentioned to me this morning that she was going to get new cleats.”

“Then, blackberries it is,” I said. “You ready to pick?”

Abby said, “You two go. I’ll just sit here with frozen peas on my face and wait for you.”

As expected, Mrs. Barney let us pick all the berries we wanted. We picked as fast as we could, hoping to return to the safety of my house before the devil girl got home.

I was no fortune-teller, but I could have predicted what would happen next. Charlotte Barney came around the back of her house wearing brandspanking-new cleats.

Hands on her hips she said, “What are you doing in my backyard?”

Just then my back door opened and Abby appeared. “You guys almost done? My face is getting frostbite.”

Charlotte gasped and put her hand over her mouth. Abby’s lips were puffy, her eye was black and blue, and there was a scratch on her cheek.

“What the heck ran over you?”

I thought up a lie before Abby could speak. “It was Mrs. Silvers. Sheput a spell on Abby for Rollerblading past her house!” I inched closer to my back door, nudging Aubrey with me. “That witch came outside and

waved her arms all around. Bats came out of the trees, attacked Abby, and left her like this.”

Charlotte folded her arms across her chest and said, “Olivia Sanabia, you are a big liar. You’re a bad soccer player, a terrible cook, and a horrible liar.

Just so you know, I’m not going to talk to any of you at soccer tomorrow.”

“No problemo,” Abby said, and slammed the door once Aubrey and I were safely inside with the berries.

“I swear she knew exactly what time to come home. It’s like some kind of mean girl sixth sense,” I said.

I put the berries into the sink and rinsed them. Then we mixed the pie filling, adding the clean berries.

“Did you notice her new cleats?” Aubrey asked, as if we could have missed the shine of the hot pink laces.

We mixed and stirred and blended. “Ya-hoo for the new cleats.” Abby twirled her finger in the air.

Aubrey asked, “Have you seen her outside practicing?” Aubrey was the best player on our soccer team, the Alfred Noble School ANtS, but Charlotte was second-best.

“No—and don’t look now, but there she goes. Probably breaking in her new cleats.” I nodded toward the window that looked out to the front of the

house. We saw Charlotte run down the street, her bouncy ponytail jumping

up and down on top of her head. Her pink laces sparkled.

“That can take a while,” Aubrey added. “I know a girl who brought new

cleats to soccer camp and got terrible blisters. You need to do it gradually and wear extra socks for a few weeks.”

“It would be a shame if those fancy-schmancy cleats hurt Charlotte’s feet,” Abby said.

I chuckled. “Yeah right.”

“Or worse, it looks like the groovy new cleats might get caught in the rain. Uh-oh, they might not be shiny anymore,” Abby said, looking at the dark clouds rolling in.

The pie filling became smooth. I picked up the amber bottle. The cork made a pop when I pulled it out. “How much rue seed does it say to add?” I asked Aubrey.

“It says a dash,” she answered. “That’s not very precise,”

I pinched some seeds between my thumb and middle finger. Then over the bowl of filling I rolled my fingers together, letting go of a few seeds at a time. They looked like teeny pebbles plopping into blackberry-colored

quicksand. When Aubrey stirred, they sunk in and disappeared.

“It’s ready,” I said.

Aubrey looked out the front window and saw the pink laces sprinting up the street as if on cue. “Here she comes.” Charlotte got to her front stoop.

“Home safe and sound.”

Rain drops splashed against the kitchen windows. While the oven preheated, we loaded the dirty dishes into the washer. Suddenly, a bright light filled the room and a bolt of lightning struck so close we all gasped.

From outside we heard a creak, a crack, and a CRASH! and we saw my family’s big old oak tree fall down, crashing right into the Barneys’

backyard. At that same moment, the lights went out.

“Well,” I said into the dim kitchen. “It doesn’t look like we can bake this puppy—our oven is electric.”

After the girls left, I washed up and tucked myself into bed. I wrote in my journal using only the light of the moon and a flashlight. Rosey was under the covers between my feet. My head rested on BunnyBun, my favorite

stuffed toy. It felt like a rag was twisting in my gut. I knew why, but I couldn’t believe it. It might be that I felt just a tiny bit badly about Bud’s voice.

I closed my journal, took my flashlight and BunnyBun, and carefully found my way to Bud’s room. I slid the beam of light onto his bed. He was sleeping. I set BunnyBun under the sheets next to him.