Mom clapped her hand to her head. “No wonder you’re flunking.”
Ollie stared at Ray and Robbie, shocked. “The Yankees are the Northerners. The Union. The side that won,” he said in a loud, distinct voice. “The Confederates are the Southerners. The ones that lost. The ones who lived here. Us.” You idiots, his expression clearly added.
“Oh, yeah. Right,” said Robbie. “We’re in.”
Ollie rolled his eyes and sloped off to the bathroom, muttering about kids today, and Miri shivered as one of the cold drafts that wafted through the old house curled along her neck. She picked up Cookie and huddled the kitten against her chest, where the downy fluff warmed her.
Chapter 3
Don’t set the house on fire. Miri and Molly nodded. But if you do set the house on fire, call us. Molly and Miri nodded. There’s plenty to eat. Miri and Molly nodded. But don’t just eat desserts; have some fruit. Molly and Miri nodded. Don’t forget to feed Cookie. Miri and Molly nodded. But don’t feed her before two. Molly and Miri nodded. If you have any problems, call us. Nod. Don’t watch TV. Nod. You aren’t allowed on the Internet when we aren’t home. Nod, nod, nod.
Nod, nod, nod, nod, nod, nod, nod.
Now that it was Saturday, a warm, blue-skied October Saturday, Robbie and Ray were even less interested in their Civil War reenactment than they had been a few days before. They moped and shuffled and claimed to be getting sick and announced that life was unfair.
“It sure is,” Dad agreed. “Get in the car.”
And finally they did, looking very un-Civil-War-like in their jeans and sweatshirts, together with Mom and Dad and Nell and Nora, who were going to have a picnic while the fake armies battled.
“You’ll be sorry if I get stabbed,” whined Ray.
“If you get stabbed, Mommy will sew you up,” Nell said confidently.
“Have fun!” trilled Molly and Miri from the front steps. “Learn lots of history!”
“Get out of here!” groaned Robbie, slumping into the backseat.
“I bet you’ll look darling in your little costumes!” called Molly.
“Shut up,” wailed Ray.
“Be sure to take pictures, Mom!” sang Miri. “So we can show them around school.”
Their brothers’ yelps of horror faded as the car crunched down the gravel driveway. Giggling, Molly and Miri turned toward the house.
Molly stretched luxuriously. “A whole day,” she said.
“A whole day,” Miri agreed. A whole day with the house to themselves. In a family of eight, this was a rare and precious event. An opportunity. An occasion not to be squandered but to be spent judiciously in an activity that their parents would be happier if they didn’t know about. Miri and Molly grinned at each other. They could do anything. They could do nothing. And whatever they did, no one would know!
They wandered through the living room aimlessly. “Let’s bake something,” suggested Miri. In her arms, Cookie purred, which, Miri decided, meant she thought Miri’s idea was brilliant.
“Okay,” said Molly. “Now that I don’t have to do it all the time, I kind of miss baking.”
“It’s been almost eighty years,” said Miri. “You remember how?”
They looked at each other gleefully—today, only today, they could talk about Molly’s other life. Today they could say it out loud. Today they were free.
In the kitchen, they examined their supplies. “Let’s bake cookies,” suggested Molly. “You know, in honor of Cookie.” Cookie raised her head. “Oh my gosh, look how smart she is! She knows her name already!”
Soon the kitchen counters were loaded with flour, butter, eggs, brown sugar, and chocolate chips. Even though there was nothing better in the world than chocolate chip cookie dough, they allowed themselves just one (extra-large) spoonful each. Cookie stepped delicately among the canisters, inspecting the ingredients and only once inserting her nose into the butter. Molly wiped the butter from the nose; Miri wiped the nose from the butter. They were a good team.
The day progressed, happy and easy. It was, Miri realized, exactly the kind of day she had dreamed of before Molly came. She had imagined how, if she had a twin, the two of them would sometimes talk and sometimes be quiet, how they’d have secret jokes that no one else knew, how they’d make plans, laugh, and just lie around together. And now she had a twin. She had everything she’d always wanted.
“I’m going to explode,” muttered Molly, rubbing her stomach clockwise. Both girls were lying on the floor. Cookies—warm from the oven—had formed a very large percentage of their lunch. Possibly too large. Miri had heard somewhere that clockwise stomach-rubbing was good for digestion.
“Ugh.” Miri stopped rubbing. “I think I heard wrong. Let’s get up and do something.”
“Like what? I’m too full to do much,” sighed Molly.
Miri looked around the kitchen for ideas. Cookie, prowling the floor for possible traces of butter, stopped to watch her attentively. “I know. Let’s make a movie. Let’s make a movie about Cookie.”
Their grandmother, who was under the impression that all her grandchildren were geniuses, had recently decided that Molly and Miri were brilliant artists. To help them express their amazingly hidden talents, she’d given them a camera, a good one. The girls had taken about five million pictures of themselves before they’d discovered that the camera also shot video, and then they’d annoyed everyone in the family by filming news shows about things like Mom fishing a mangled spoon out of the garbage disposal and Ray drooling as he slept, with whispered voice-overs commenting on the action.
“Okay.” Molly heaved herself up and went in search of the camera. “We can call it The Way the Cookie Crumbles.”
But cats, they soon learned, make rotten actors. Cookie found the camera fascinating, so fascinating that she decided to sit down and stare at it.
“This is pretty boring,” Molly said after a few minutes.
Miri tried to liven up the subject with her favorite toy, a crumpled napkin. Cookie took the napkin between her paws, bit it, and fell over.
“Jeez, forget it. You’re fired,” Molly told the kitten. Glancing around the familiar kitchen, her eyes stopped at the back door, the door that currently opened onto nothing. “I know,” she said. She got to her feet. “Let’s make a video of me walking out the back door. You know, like I think the porch is still there—and then, zoop! I disappear. It’ll look like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. It’ll be funny.”
They decided it would be even funnier if Molly pretended to be superbusy and important. As Miri filmed, Molly rushed around the kitchen, frowning and shuffling papers and huffing about how late she was.
“Run,” suggested Miri, giggling. “Run to the door and throw it open.”
Molly looked at the clock, shrieked, and ran to the door. She flung it open and dashed out, into empty air.
Where she stayed.
Not falling.
Not moving.
Standing.
On air.
In the tiny camera screen, Miri saw Molly turn slowly around, her eyes round with shock.
Very carefully, so as not to jar anything, Miri set the camera down.
Their eyes locked for a long moment. Neither of them moved.
Finally, Miri spoke quietly, “Is it—” She hesitated, not daring to say the word.
“I think so,” Molly said, her voice thin. “I feel a floor. Under my feet, it feels like a floor.” Cautiously, she lifted one foot and brought it down gently. “There’s something there.”
With as little movement as possible, Miri rose and tiptoed to the doorway. She looked down. She could see the ground below, a lumpy mixture of dirt and rocks and wood. She breathed out slowly and raised her eyes to her sister’s.
Molly shook her head. “I know—I can see it, too—but still—I’m standing on something. I’m not, like, flying or anything.”
Miri nodded, her skin prickling with excitement. It’s happening, it’s happening, it’s h
appening, her mind sang, and she could feel her heart thumping—or maybe it was her stomach. Very slowly, she extended her flip-flop over the threshold. Something shifted; there was a small shudder, a loosening, and then, through the rubber sole, she felt a hard, flat, obvious surface. “It’s a floor,” she confirmed, feeling an enormous, elated smile spread across her face. “I didn’t think we’d get it again,” she whispered.
Joy flamed inside her. The magic had come back. For all the times she had assured Molly that it was possible, that magic might choose them again, she had told herself sternly that it wouldn’t. Who could be so lucky? How could that lucky person be her? But now—she felt the shivery, electric thrill up her spine. Magic. For her and Molly.
“You said we might,” Molly whispered.
“This house must be full of magic,” Miri said in wonderment. “You break off a little piece of house, and magic comes spilling out.”
“Are you shaking?” asked Molly. “I’m shaking.” She held out her hand. It was shaking.
Miri held out her own trembling hand to grasp her sister’s and, strengthened, she turned to look at the world they had entered. Indians? she thought hopefully. No. Instead, there was the paint-peeling house, the tired grass, and the faint animal smells of the last journey through time. Molly’s time. She’d last seen it in high summer. It was less dusty now and colder, and the trees that marked the edges of the backyard were turning gold, but aside from that, it was all very, very familiar. “We’re back in 1935?” she whispered.
“Looks like it,” Molly said.
Why? thought Miri with her first flash of worry. They had settled everything. They had finished with that time. She glanced to Molly and found her worry reflected in her sister’s eyes.
“Why are we here?” Molly echoed her thoughts.
Miri shook her head weakly. She didn’t know.
Suddenly, Molly’s face cleared. “It’s Grandma! She said I might see her again. She needs something.” Molly started toward the open door. “Grandma! It’s me!”
“You’re a disgrace!” cried a sharp voice from the kitchen.
Molly froze.
“Honestly, I’m going to lock you in the basement! See if I don’t!”
Molly winced at Miri. Flo? she mouthed.
Miri nodded. Flo. Miri would have been perfectly happy to go the rest of her life without seeing Flo again. A sudden warmth circled Miri’s bare ankle. She looked down to see Cookie, purring as she wound between the four available legs. The sight of the kitten weaving over open air made Miri feel seasick, and she quickly bent to scoop Cookie into her arms.
“A gentleman is paying me a call!” Flo’s voice continued shrilly. “You can’t drift around like—like—a crazy girl! I’ll just die of embarrassment if he sees you!”
Molly shuddered. “Let’s go around to the front,” she murmured. “We can get to Grandma’s room from the hall. I didn’t come all the way back in time to listen to Flo yell at someone.”
Miri nodded. “Me neither,” she whispered. “And she’s going to be yelling for a while, sounds like.”
A light, chuckling voice bubbled from the kitchen. “You don’t like my dress?”
Molly shot Miri a questioning look. Who was that?
“You ain’t got no more sense than a horsefly!” snapped Flo. “That is a nightgown! Whatever are you thinking?”
Whoever it was, Miri and Molly felt sorry for her. The two girls began to edge away. It was cautious work, walking on an invisible floor, and they slid their feet over the unseen surface as quietly as they could, never quite taking a step, for there was no way to know when they would suddenly reach the porch’s edge and tumble over it. Molly led the way, feeling blindly in front of herself with her foot. Sliding forward. Again. Again. Again—and there! An edge. “Stair?” she breathed, lowering her foot carefully—and yes! “Stair!” she said triumphantly.
“Shh!” warned Miri.
But it was too late. Instantly, the shrill voice squalled again, much closer, “Lord have mercy, there are two ragamuffins on the porch! Gypsies! They look like Gypsies! I swear, I can’t keep things decent around here for one afternoon. Now, get offa that porch, you tramps!”
“Oh jeez!” hissed Molly, pulling Miri by the elbow as she scrambled down the invisible stairs. Cookie, gripped tight, squeaked in alarm.
“Head for the trees!” called Miri, staggering as she hit solid ground. But now they could run. And they did, leaping for the thick cluster of trees that rimmed the backyard. In less than a minute, they reached the safety of the woods and crouched, panting, behind a sturdy, comforting tree trunk.
“And don’t you come back or I’ll set the dog on you!” bellowed Flo from the porch, waving her fist.
“As if you even have a dog; you hate dogs—” muttered Molly. Suddenly, she stopped, her eyes widening.
“Oh my gosh,” breathed Miri. While they had been running, the invisible back porch had become visible. It now stretched across the width of the house. It wasn’t exactly the same porch as the one from Miri’s time; it wasn’t as wide and the stairs weren’t in the same place, but it was definitely a porch. The house had regrown itself. Miri glanced to her right, down the long yard that bordered one side of the house. Yes, there was the barn, next to the old orchard that grew at the far edge of the property. In Miri’s time, the barn was gone, its place taken by a tangled field of blackberries that had merged with the remains of the orchard. But Miri recognized what she saw: It was the same as the last time. They’d been dropped into 1935, into Molly’s past. But why? thought Miri again. And another important question struck her: How are we going to get back?
Molly was standing stock-still, her eyes fixed on the porch. “That’s not Flo.” She took off her glasses, rubbed them with her dress, and put them back on.
“What?” Miri squinted through her glasses. Her eyesight was worse than Molly’s, but she managed to make out a woman who was scrawny and knobby, like Flo. With a long, horsey face, like Flo’s. But—
As Molly leaned forward for a better look, she was briefly exposed, resulting in an outraged holler. “I’m getting my shotgun right this minute!”
Miri yanked her sister back into the shadows. “What the heck are you doing?”
“Sorry. I was trying to see her better.”
Once more, Miri squinted with all her might at the stranger’s furious, flushed face. It was like searching for hidden pictures. Flo’s long, bony jaw was there, but the pink cheeks were wrong. Something was wrong. “It’s definitely her voice,” she whispered. She hadn’t seen Molly’s aunt Flo very many times, but she had heard her. She had heard her raging at Molly: “Do you have to break everything you touch, you worthless child?” “I’ll teach you about clumsy, miss!” Miri remembered the glad sound of Flo’s voice, the ring of her slap against Molly’s cheek, her quivering excitement as she announced she was planning to send Molly to the county home for orphans.
“I’d just as soon shoot you as look at you!” bleated the figure on the porch.
It was Flo’s voice. It’s was Flo’s rotten temper. But this woman was too young, practically a girl. “Could it be Sissy?” Miri murmured. Sissy, Flo’s daughter, was about the age of the porch girl.
Molly shook her head. “Not unless she got a lot uglier in a few months. And Sissy’s hair isn’t long enough to put up like that.”
This was true. The young lady on the porch had a bun on the back of her head. “Not as pretty as Sissy,” mumbled Miri. “Not as ugly as Flo.”
“Weird.”
As Cookie purred and the two girls stared at the faraway figure in perplexity, an odd idea began to grow in Miri’s mind. She turned and looked again from the house to the yard, searching for clues. The backyard was untidy and overgrown, as usual. The barn? Weathered gray, it was just as it had been last time she’d seen it. Nearby, an assortment of chickens made their normal ruckus. 1935. Check and check. From her vantage point in the woods, Miri could see the back of the house, its si
de, and a hunk of the front yard. She inspected what she could see of it. Lawn, check. Elm tree, check. Wait. Her eyes darted back to the elm tree. In her own time, it stood regally in the middle of the circular lawn, shading the grass and house with its leafy canopy. Now it was shorter and smaller, though still lovely. But that wasn’t what had caught her eye. She stared, narrowing and widening her eyes to focus them. In the web of gray branches, she glimpsed something odd. Something square. Something that seemed to be a small structure. It looked like—a tree house? “Mols,” she said quietly. “Look at the elm. Is that a tree house?”
Molly looked. After a moment, she said wonderingly, “Why would Sissy put up a tree house?”
“It’s not 1935,” Miri said.
Molly’s eyes darted to her face and back to the tree. “Not 1935?”
“It’s longer ago,” Miri said. “That’s Flo, but—”
“Younger!” cried Molly. “That’s it! She’s young!” She whirled around. The horsey woman, her long chin in the air, was marching back inside. “Quick! Look at the dress! What year?”
Pink. Halfway between the ankle and the knee. “Well,” said Miri doubtfully, “I guess it’s not hoop-skirt time.”
Molly lifted an eyebrow. “Good work, Sherlock. How old do you figure she is?”
Miri wasn’t very good at that, either. “Twenty? Maybe twenty-five? I don’t know.”
“Yeah, that’s what I think, too.” Molly fell silent then, her eyes circling the white house, the red and gold trees, the nearly empty beds of vegetables, the faraway elm.
“What?” asked Miri, watching her.
Molly’s gray eyes were shadowy as they turned back to Miri. “Why are we here?”
Miri shook her head. She didn’t know.
“You always say that magic doesn’t waste its … its strength, or whatever you want to call it, on fun. You say that if magic happens, it’s for a reason.”
“That’s what your grandma said,” Miri broke in.
“Yeah, I know,” said Molly. “‘Magic is just a way of setting things right.’ So what year is it, and what are we supposed to do?”
Magic in the Mix Page 3
