The Sisters Club

by Megan McDonald

Me: First is best!

  Stevie: You’re conceited.

  Me: Confident. (Taking shampoo bottle back.) Tonight’s drama is a mystery. I have called you here to help me solve the Mystery of the Missing Glitter Nail Polish. As the drama unfolds, we will round up the usual suspects and discover WHO is the culprit. Who stole the glitter nail polish from big sister Alex’s room?

  Joey: (Pointing to Stevie.) She did.

  Stevie: (Pointing to Joey.) She did.

  Me: I see we have a stalemate. Let’s call in Sherlock Holmes. (Putting on houndstooth cap with earflaps, holding out crayon for pipe, and propping Sock Monkey up on chair.)

  Me: (To Sock Monkey.) My dear Watson, we must ask the suspects to hold out their hands. (Joey holds out her hands; Stevie sits on hers.) What’s this I see, old chap?

  Sock Monkey: I do believe we have caught BOTH suspects! (Takes up Joey’s hand.)

  Me: Here I see minute traces of a highly reflective decorative material. Suspect Number Two has proven her guilt by concealing her hands altogether. Yes, Watson, I do believe the mystery is solved — in record time, at that.

  Sock Monkey: What’s the punishment?

  Me: The punishment, you say? The two shall hereby be banned from this room forever unless given permission in writing to enter.

  Joey: How can we have the Sisters Club if we can’t even come in your room?

  Stevie: It was for science! I was helping Joey with constellations.

  Me: And is it not written in the stars that you shall never enter this room when I am not here? I’m serious, you guys — stay out! (Stevie rolls her eyes. Joey jumps up and grabs the shampoo bottle.)

  Joey: How come you’re like this now? You hardly ever play with us anymore. We never get to have fun.

  Me: Hello! I’m twelve and three-quarters. I’m almost a teenager, not a baby.

  Joey: Well, how come you won’t let us touch your stuff now? Not just nail polish. Even your old Barbies you don’t play with anymore.

  Me: Reality check! They’re M-I-N-E. Just like this nail polish. (Holding up Joey’s hand.) The evidence, Watson. The evidence. I rest my case.

  One Thursday, Mom put on The Hat at dinner.

  “Da-da-da-da!” my dad crowed, like he was a human trumpet.

  I guess I better tell you about The Hat. We’re talking really embarrassing. See, there’s this jester hat my dad wore when he played King Lear for real. It looks kind of like a droopy crown with bells on the ends. When somebody has something important to say in our family, they have to put on The Hat and announce it like they’re the town crier or something.

  Me, I’m more of a sticky-note-on-the-fridge kind of person.

  “I have some news,” Mom began.

  “Good news or bad news?” asked Alex. Joey sat up straighter.

  “Good news! I’m going back to work. A real acting job. No more bit parts at the Raven. This is my big break. Are you ready for this?”

  Mom whipped out a dopey-looking striped apron that said FONDUE SUE in big fat letters with rolling pins flying around in the background.

  “Your name’s not Sue,” said Joey.

  “I’m going to be on TV!” said Mom. “I just got my own cooking show. This is my character, Fondue Sue.”

  “How is this possible?” asked Alex. “You can’t even cook!”

  “What do you mean? I cook for this family almost every night, in case you haven’t noticed,” said Mom.

  “Yeah, potatoes from a box and spaghetti from a can,” Alex said. “They’ll have to call your show The Art of Opening a Can!”

  Root beer went up my nose. I had to duck to avoid Joey’s mashed-potato-from-a-box spray across the table.

  “Girls, c’mon now,” Dad said. “Let’s try to be supportive. This is a big opportunity for Mom.”

  “Mom, you know what fondue is, right?” Know-It-All Alex asked Mom. “Cheese glop! Fondue is French for cheese glop.”

  “Mom. Name the five food groups,” said Little Miss Homework (Joey).

  “Meats, Vegetables, Fruits. Let’s see . . . pretzels and things like that go at the top, right? Junk food?”

  “Mo-om. Pretzels are not a food group! They call it Oils, not Junk Food. They teach us that in third grade. At the beginning of the year.”

  “Look, they’re going to give me all the ingredients,” said Mom. “I won’t even have to chop a single toe of garlic or sift my own flour. All I have to do is smile and point and read the prompts. Maybe a little stirring and mixing. How hard could it be?”

  “Mom. News flash. Garlic doesn’t have toes,” I said.

  “Witches stir and mix things,” said Joey. “Why don’t you just be a witch?”

  “Hey, I know! You could be a TV anchorwoman!” said Alex. “Or a meteorologist on the eleven o’clock news. They smile and point. And you get to wear a matching two-piece suit, not a dopey apron with a funny fondue name.”

  “But I’ll be acting,” Mom said. “I don’t have to know how to cook. That’s why it’s called acting.”

  Mom took off the King Lear hat and set it on the table, all crumply-like.

  “This is my chance to make some real money. We could save for a house. A real house of our own. Not this crickety old monster with the falling-down roof.”

  “We don’t have crickets,” Joey said. “Or monsters.”

  “And we’re used to the saggy old roof. It’s like it’s leaning down to hug us,” Alex said. “And these crooked old floors remember our footsteps.”

  I didn’t want Mom to be a goofy chef on TV any more than Joey or Alex, but I could tell it meant a lot to her. So what did I do? I remembered my role as the middle sister, the glue, and I rushed in to save the day. “It’ll be great, Mom. Don’t worry. I can cook dinner. Alex and Joey will help me. Right, you guys?” Nobody answered.

  “Just think,” said Alex. “You’ll be like that weird lady on the old Mary Tyler Moore reruns. The one with the corny cooking show.”

  “Cooking shows don’t have to be corny anymore,” Mom said, defending herself. “They’re hip now.”

  “Mom!” I told her. “It’s not even hip to say ‘hip’!”

  “Dad, you remember,” Alex continued. “The goofy lady who was always making flambé and flan and Florentine stuff. What was her name? Sue Ann?”

  “Sue Ann Fondue?” Joey and I sprayed each other with laughter — and more mashed potatoes.

  “Say it, don’t spray it,” said Alex, making us crack up and spray all the more.

  “Sheesh,” said Mom. “This cooking thing is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought.”

  I should have known the Reel Family was in big trouble as soon as I laid eyes on the Joy of Cooking.

  It was the very next day after Martha-Stewart-formerly-known-as-Mom made her big announcement. She hauled this giant book out of the back of a cupboard we use like once a year, since you can only reach it by standing on a chair. The book was covered in dust that dated back to the Titanic.

  Mom dusted it off. She cracked open the spine.

  “When did you get that?” I asked her, in between choking on one-hundred-year-old dust particles.

  “It was a gift. When your dad and I got married.”

  “Is it an antique?” asked Joey.

  “It looks brand-new,” I said. (Minus the Titanic dust, that is.)

  “I wonder why,” said Alex.

  “Ha, ha,” said Mom, not laughing.

  “I thought you were acting,” said Alex. “I thought you didn’t have to know how to cook.”

  “Well, I should know something about it,” said Mom. “I have to get into my role, after all.”

  There was no stopping her.

  For seven days straight, we ate Mom’s cooking. She dished it up; we choked it down. Each night was more disgusting than the one before.

  “What is this stuff, anyway?” I couldn’t help asking that first night.

  “Beef tournedos,” said Mom.

  “I know why they call it ‘
tornado,’” Joey said. She pointed to the kitchen mess, cracking up. It did look like a disaster area.

  All week, there were Quick Potato Dumplings that needed dumping and Cheese Puffs that didn’t puff. There was Chicken à la King without any king and Eggs Benedict that Benedict Arnold himself would not have eaten.

  By the fifth night of cooking, Mom stared at the cheese-puff-stained cover of the cookbook. “I don’t know why they call this the ‘Joy’ of Cooking,” said Mom. Joey and I rolled our eyes at each other. Mom looked at the author’s name on the cookbook. “Who is this Irma S. Rombauer person, anyway? She is going to hear from me.”

  This is Mom’s favorite saying. Whenever she doesn’t like something, somebody is going to hear from her.

  “I think Irma S. Rombauer is dead, Mom,” I said. “On account of the book being like a hundred years old.” I opened the book to a random page, looking to prove my point. “‘Potted Goose,’” I read aloud. “Did they have potted goose in colonial times, when this book was written?” I flipped some more pages. “‘Marinated Wild Birds.’”

  “Marinated Wild Birds!” Alex shouted. “What kind of person would marinate wild birds? We should throw the book away this second. Before the Sierra Club arrests us.”

  By the end of the week, we were getting pretty desperate — and pretty hungry.

  “I know,” Joey said, trying to be helpful. “Why don’t you make something we’ve actually heard of? Like Jell-O. You make really good Jell-O.”

  Joey could live on Jell-O. I’m surprised she doesn’t turn into the stuff.

  “Ya know, one day we’re gonna wake up and there’s gonna be a jiggly mass of green stuff in your bed instead of you,” I warned. “Invasion of the Jell-O monsters.”

  Joey grinned — like she thought turning into Jell-O was a good idea.

  “How about Tuna Noodle Casserole?” I suggested. “It’s easy. Everybody knows how to make Tuna Noodle Casserole. You can’t go wrong. Look. It says right here in the No-Joy of Cooking, page 529. ‘Excellent Emergency Dish.’”

  “This is an emergency,” said Mom.

  “And if anything goes wrong, I can always put out the fire,” Dad called from the hallway. “I played a firefighter back in summer stock one year, remember?”

  “Very funny,” Mom said. “I’m going to do this, and it’s not going to burn. Do you think maybe something’s wrong with our oven?”

  “As in Never Been Used?” I asked.

  “Oh, I see. A whole family of comedians,” said Mom. “Too bad they didn’t ask me to do stand-up.”

  That night, Mom minced and whipped and greased and poured and sprinkled and sifted until she had herself one Foolproof Emergency Tuna Noodle Casserole.

  “This is good noodle casserole,” Alex said, trying to sound encouraging. “Do you think they make noodle casserole on hip TV shows?”

  “Not without tuna. I didn’t get any tuna in mine,” said Joey. I kicked her under the table. “Hey, Stevie kicked me.”

  “Girls,” said Dad.

  “I forgot the tuna?” wailed Mom. “I forgot the tuna, didn’t I? You can’t have Tuna Noodle Casserole without the tuna!”

  “It’s fine,” said Dad. “Yum.” For an actor, he wasn’t very convincing.

  Mom ran to call one of her sisters long-distance. Like she always does when things are looking worse than hopeless.

  “I think I lost five pounds this week,” Alex whispered to me.

  “I miss potatoes from a box,” I said.

  “I miss Mom,” said Joey.

  I could not face eating cold pizza or leftover Chinese takeout for dinner one more time. Ever since Mom had gone back to work, we had not eaten together as a family — not once. Alex had caught Play Fever and was practicing for her Beauty and the Beast audition nonstop. She’d even stopped coming to Sisters Club Meetings! And Dad was busy building props for Beauty and directing a play next door at the Raven almost every evening.

  The closest we could get to being a family was Joey and me eating soggy cornflakes for dinner while we watched Mom on TV. The first time Joey saw Fondue Sue, her eyes almost popped out — like some alien in a striped apron had taken over our mom. She had (matching) little dishes full of chopped-diced-minced things and powdery things, like magic potions that she tossed and flung, stirred, sautéed, and coddled.

  “But Mom can’t even crack an egg,” said Joey.

  “She can on TV,” I said.

  Joey looked down at her dismal cornflakes, which now looked more like papier-mâché. “Those stuffed, wrapped thingies actually look good!” Joey said, leaning into the television.

  I decided it was time for me to step in and make an RFD — Real Family Dinner? Reel Family Dinner! I mean, how hard could it be to cook? But I wasn’t about to do it all by myself.

  First I tried to convince Alex. I even told her it was an Emergency SCM. In the past, that meant to drop everything and meet in Alex’s room in two seconds.

  She didn’t even look up — she just mumbled she’d be downstairs in a few minutes (more like one hour!). After practicing her lines for her Beauty and the Beast audition, which she did like a million and one times a day.

  Then I went to find Joey on Planet Jell-O (under the piano). She’d been living there all week, eating (what else?) lime Jell-O. It’s all I’ve seen her eat since Mom became Fondue Sue (besides the before-mentioned papier-mâché cornflakes).

  “Do you think the pioneers ate Jell-O?” she asked me.

  “No. The pioneers were smart. They knew that if you ate too much lime Jell-O, your face and hands would turn green, and your ears would jiggle and fall off.”

  “Would not!”

  “Would, too! What are you doing under there, anyway?

  “I had to get inside my covered wagon because it was raining so hard.”

  “Well, it stopped raining now. Come help me chop wood to start a cooking fire.”

  “But the wood’s all wet. It won’t light.”

  “C’mon, Joey! It’s Family Dinner! Mom would not want us moping around feeling all sorry for ourselves.”

  Joey stuck her lip out.

  “Stick that lip out any farther, and a chicken’ll come lay an egg on it.”

  She pulled the lip in. I guess she did not want chickens roosting on her face.

  “Don’t be stubborn. If I told you it’s for homework, would you help?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s for homework.”

  “What kind of homework?”

  “Science homework. Pretend we have to save something endangered.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like we’re saving the Family Dinner from going extinct around here.”

  “Can we make Mac and Cheese?”

  “Sure, Duck. We can make whatever you want. Sweet Potato Soufflé, Crêpes Suzette, Jellied Eel, Roast Rat — anything. Just not Beef Tornado.”

  “And it can’t come from a box.”

  Joey and I headed toward the kitchen, a Sisters Club of two. Joey sat at the table and wrote some more in her notebook. She wasn’t exactly helping, but at least I stopped her from living under the piano.

  I opened the refrigerator. Three hairy peaches, green cheese, and an art project. “Hey! What are your constellations doing in the fridge?” I asked Joey.

  “The glitter nail polish has to get hard.”

  “Duck! Go put this on the table.”

  Pout-face Joey put down her notebook and took her constellations to the (not-being-used) dining room table. I opened the butter door. “No butter. Just film.”

  “Did you know Jell-O is really gooey stuff made from animal parts and they use it in film?” said Joey.

  “Gross! Well, we’re not eating film, even if it is made of Jell-O! OK, forget the butter. We’ll use eggs, milk, and cheese. That’s a food group, right?”

  “Green cheese? P.U. We’re going to eat green cheese?”

  “We’ll cut off the mold. Just like the pioneers!” Joey’s face lit up
when I said the magic word.

  She scribbled some more in her notebook.

  I poured the noodles into the skillet and grated the cheese and beat the eggs and stirred the milk. All Joey did was play with the saltshaker.

  “Joey! You’re not helping. Here. Put two drops of hot sauce in.”

  “Whatever you say, Betty Cracker.”

  “I said two drops! Not a flood! That stuff is really hot. Give it.”

  I stirred everything together. “Look. You turned the Mac and Cheese all orange.”

  “It doesn’t look right anyway,” Joey told me.

  She was right. The macaroni looked too small. And burned. Not plump and fluffy like Dad’s used to be in the good old days (B.B., Before Beauty). I’d seen Dad melt the cheese over macaroni in the skillet a hundred times. What had I done wrong?

  “Where’s Alex?”

  “Not here.”

  “Is she still practicing for tryouts? All she cares about is that play!”

  “I know,” said Joey. “Hey, let’s make the whole dinner orange! We can have orange Popsicles and orange juice and stuff. Then they’ll think we did it on purpose. Like a theme!”

  I wanted to like her idea. I wanted her to feel like she was a big help. “OK, how about Mac and Cheese and orange carrots and orange juice.”

  “And don’t forget dessert,” said Joey. “Orange Jell-O! Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?”

  “Oh, brother.”

  “Don’t you mean sister?” she asked.

  I spread a tablecloth over the coffee table. “Let’s sit on the floor, Japanese style.”

  Joey was in charge of the (all-orange) centerpiece. A half-melted pumpkin candle, a snow globe of the Golden Gate Bridge (minus the snow), a horn-toed lizard she got at the zoo, and socks.

  “I hope they like orange in Japan,” Joey said.

  Then everything started to happen all at once. Mom yelled, “I’m home!” Dad yelled, “What’s that smell?” Alex made an appearance (better late than never), peeking under pot lids and snitching carrots from the bowl. Some help.

  Joey was running around, collecting all the dirty dishes and pots and pans and putting them in the sink to soak. She squeezed like five million gallons of dishwashing liquid in there. I know she was trying to help, but it looked more like she was building the Eiffel Tower in the kitchen sink.