Jess's Story
Page 1
Dedication
For Mom—C. H.
For my mother—gone but not
forgotten—R. K.
For all the students at
Field and Price Elementary
who called me Ms. M—D. M.
Dedication
CHAPTER 1: Food, Blah, Blah, Food
CHAPTER 2: Hello, Independence
CHAPTER 3: This Should Work
CHAPTER 4: The New Babysitter
CHAPTER 5: Mortar and Pestle
CHAPTER 6: Good Game
CHAPTER 7: Boogers Begone
CHAPTER 8: Fra Foow
CHAPTER 9: The Boss of the Sun
CHAPTER 10: Transylvanian Tofu
CHAPTER 11: The Secrets of Sorcery
CHAPTER 12: Oozy and Blobby
CHAPTER 13: Mothers and Daughters
CHAPTER 14: Schnriwisvheirecnkwilbel
CHAPTER 15: Animal Advocates
CHAPTER 16: Time to Move a Mountain
CHAPTER 17: Dessert!
CHAPTER 18: Ready. Set. Go.
Ms. M’s Tips for Young Chefs
Ms. M’s Spellbinding Grilled Tofu with Thai Peanut Sauce
Get to Know Your Herbs
Magic Books and Magic Links
About the Authors and Illustrator
Books by Christine Hepperman and Ron Koertge
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Food, Blah, Blah, Food
Jess drummed on the underside of the table.
Taptaptap. Tap-tap-tap. Taptaptap.
SOS—the Morse code distress signal. Not that there was a chance her best friends, Sadie and Maya, would burst through the double doors of the banquet hall, past the row of waiters in their short red jackets, to rescue her. But her only other option was to die of boredom or starvation or both, soooooo . . .
Taptaptap. Tap-tap-tap. Taptaptap.
The very tall woman seated to her right sniffed. To her left, her mother stopped chatting with a red-faced man and gave Jess a look. A look that said, You remember what we talked about, don’t you?
Jess nodded and picked up the menu.
Beneath A Celebration of Chefs, printed in swooping gold cursive, came the list: first, crab cakes. Then eels. Baby eels. In garlic sauce.
She may have made the teensiest, tiniest gagging sound.
This time her mother’s look had a lot more capital letters: You Remember What We Talked About, Don’t You?
“Mom, are they going to announce the awards soon?” So we can get out of here and go home.
“Be patient.”
“I am being patient. I’m just asking.”
“Your daughter is très charmant,” said the red-faced man.
“She’s très something,” replied her mother. Then in a brighter tone, “Jess, I was telling Chef Rénard that I used to test my recipes on you when you were a baby.” Her mother turned toward the red-faced man and smiled. “She ate everything I put in front of her. Quinoa with Parmesan and dill. Lemon prune whip.”
“Such a sophisticated palate for a little one,” murmured Chef Rénard.
“You whipped a prune.” Jess grimaced. “And made me eat it?”
“You banged on your high chair tray when I didn’t spoon it in fast enough.” Her mother and Chef Rénard laughed together. Jess ignored them and studied the centerpiece. She identified a pineapple and . . . was that an artichoke? She was so hungry, she could almost eat them. Well, maybe just the pineapple.
Good thing she’d brought—as Maya would say—provisions.
“So,” her mother continued. “I named my catering business after my first and most important client. J. B. Catering. The ‘J. B.’ stands for Jessica Blair.”
Before her mother could launch into another thrilling story from her past—first diaper rash? first tooth?—Jess asked, “May I go to the bathroom?”
She wound her way through the maze of banquet tables, each one full of chattering chefs. Some were young. Some weren’t. Some had tattoos twining out from under their shirt sleeves or climbing up from their collars. She caught bits of conversation—food, food, blah, blah, blah, blah, food.
At one table a boy her age or a little older sat looking down and smiling, and not because he was enchanted by his swan-shaped napkin. She’d give anything to be playing Cookie Smoosh or Pirate Party right now, but no way would her mother hand over her precious phone.
Jess returned just as the names were being called. Her mother’s was first! The other chefs at the table shook her mother’s hand, but limply, like they didn’t mean it. Like the losing team after a soccer game.
Her mother and the rest of the winners—three women, two men—stood on a low platform, beaming. Jess joined in the applause and wished her dad were there, too. She could imagine him whistling and shouting “Way to go!” But his baseball team’s season was only half over, so he was still on the road.
Back at the table, her mother, grinning, handed Jess a long envelope. Inside was a certificate: One Week in Chef Paul’s Kitchen.
“And this is good, right?”
“Chef Paul is famous, honey. It’s a privilege to have an opportunity to work beside him. I’ll learn a lot.”
“By cutting up his vegetables?”
“Let’s talk about this later.”
Jess poked the edge of the tablecloth, which was as white as milk. Maybe whiter. She lifted the heavy silver fork. A waiter tried to set a plate of crab cakes in front of her. Cakes. Made out of crab. That was just so . . . wrong. “Could I maybe have a salad instead?” she asked.
“Of course,” said the waiter.
Her mother tilted her head in concentration as she tasted the crab cakes and then said to her neighbor, “Maybe a tad too much mustard.”
He made a humming sound as he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Hmmm. Or not enough. The balance is certainly off.”
The waiter set down Jess’s salad. She took a bite of lettuce. Looked thoughtful. Looked at the ceiling. “Hmmm. Either too much of something or not enough of something else.”
Her mother used the Warning Voice. “Jess.”
Jess picked at her salad, moving little strange things to one side of her plate where they could all be strange together. In a room full of copycats, all sitting very straight, tasting deliberately, rolling their eyes in unison, she thought of her friends. If only she were with them right now. Maya spelling words twice as long as grown-up eels. Sadie identifying every bird in the neighborhood.
Away went the salad and the crab cake plates. Waiters moved fast. Jess moved fast, too, especially on soccer fields and tennis courts. A natural athlete, her father said. And he should know. But she’d never want to be a waiter. That would mean, well, waiting. And it was indoors.
As the waiter served the lamb, Jess shook her head politely. He bent toward her and whispered, “What if I bring you something vegetarian?”
“I’m not really a vegetarian, but that would be great. Thanks.”
The very tall woman said, “You don’t like lamb, dear?”
“I just remembered that its fleece was white as snow,” she replied. “Once.”
The woman smiled in that annoying way grown-ups do. Jess vowed never to smile like that. Ever. She knew the word for that smile, thanks to Maya. It was condescending. To look down on. There was “descend” right in the middle.
“Jess, how are you getting along?”
“I’m fine, Mom. The waiter is bringing me something that didn’t run around with its friends and go ‘Baaa.’”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed just as the waiter leaned in and presented Jess with a bowl of soup. Or she hoped it was soup. It looked like a small pond covered with scum.
“Promise me there isn’t something hiding in there,” she said to the waiter. “Something long and squirmy whose name begins with ‘E.’”
“No worries. It’s watercress puree.”
“Um, yum?”
The waiter laughed and hurried away. Jess tried the soup. It didn’t taste bad exactly, just . . . green. Alien life-form green. Pus-draining-from-the-monster’s-eyes green.
She put down her spoon.
The very tall woman picked up a different spoon and asked, “May I?” More eye rolling. Then, “Very nice, actually. It looks simple, but if the cress is blanched too much or not enough, you have to start all over.”
“Don’t I know it,” said Jess. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve blanched my cress too much.”
Now her mother’s look had exclamation points!
When the eels arrived, Jess pushed her plate to the side. She was hungry, though. She felt all buzzy and hollow, like a balloon filled with bees. Her backpack was tucked away right at her feet. So she reached for it.
The zipper opened quietly, and what she wanted, what she’d hidden there, sat right on top. Silently she lifted the sandwich in its waxed paper up to the table. Surreptitiously—one of Maya’s favorite words—she slid it onto a small white plate and began to unwrap.
Everyone at the table stopped eating. Everyone, spoons or forks halfway to their lips, turned her way and stared. All of a sudden the crackle of that innocent waxed paper sounded like a rhino tromping through dry leaves.
“Jess?” said her mother. “What are you up to now? What is that?”
It was like Show & Tell. So she showed. “Peanut butter, Mom. And jelly.”
Everyone laughed. Everyone except her mother, who blushed and apologized. “I’m so sorry.”
“What for?” asked Jess. “It’s just a sandwich.”
Chapter 2
Hello, Independence
Jess, Sadie, and Maya stood together at the kitchen counter at Jess’s house, passing a jar of peanut butter back and forth. Afternoon light, yellow as butter, spilled through the blinds, across the silver mixer and bowl, the sleek black espresso maker, the copper pans hanging from racks over the stove.
Sadie said, “I hope your babysitter is ten hours late, not ten minutes.”
Jess said, “Don’t tell my mom that.”
Right on cue the phone rang. Again.
“Mom. Vicki’s always late. I’ll call you the second she gets here.” She set down the phone. Sadie slid the jar toward her. Maya handed her the spoon.
Mmmm, extra-crunchy. Was there anything better?
“Where is Vicki, anyway?” Maya asked.
“Don’t you start.” Jess reluctantly screwed the lid back on the almost-empty jar. “We should put this back before Vicki gets here. She’ll say it’s nasty.”
“It’s not nasty,” said Sadie, spoon dangling from her mouth.
“It’s scrumptious,” said Maya. “Unhygienic, but scrumptious.”
“Vicki’s awful,” said Jess. “She treats me like I’m three years old. Last time she tried to get me to take a nap.”
Sadie opened the fridge. “Who wants orange juice?”
“Just don’t spill any. Vicki goes nuts when the counter’s all sticky.”
The phone buzzed. “Hi, Mom. Stop worrying. We’re not going to let that homeless zombie in. Dad already called to make sure we boarded up the windows. He sounded happy. He hit a home run. He wants to talk tonight. Bye.”
Jess poured herself a glass of orange juice and stood against the refrigerator, right next to the drawing of a snowman she’d made in first grade and a picture of her dad in his Maryvale Stars uniform.
“My dad,” Sadie said, “totally loves that your dad’s job is playing baseball.”
Jess swirled her juice. Too much pulp. “Yeah, Dad’s off living his dream on the ball field two hundred miles away. Mom’s living her dream at Chef Paul’s restaurant ten blocks away. And I’m here living the thousand-phone-calls-a-day nightmare.”
“Is your mom still mad at you?” asked Maya. “For smuggling in contraband?”
“It was a sandwich. Not a . . .” Jess groped for a word.
Maya helped her out. “Not a black mamba, one of the ten deadliest snakes in the world.”
“Right.”
The phone buzzed. Ugh, would she never stop? “Be me!” She thrust the phone at Sadie.
“Yes, Mom. No, Mom.” Sadie sounded perfect: a little impatient, a lot annoyed. “Bye.” She turned to Jess. “She knew it wasn’t you. And she said you shouldn’t make any more jokes about homeless people.”
“I didn’t say homeless people. I said homeless zombies. Parents never listen.”
“Ms. M said most grown-ups see what they want to see,” Sadie offered. “Probably they hear what they want to hear, too.”
“That is so true,” Maya agreed. “Your parents thought Ms. M’s classic witch hat was some new fourth-grade fashion craze.” She leaned across the counter. “Have you heard anything from her since she left? It’s been, like, a month. You said that she said you guys would keep in touch.”
“Yeah, any news?” Jess loved Sadie’s stories about Ms. M, the witch Sadie had met while Jess and Maya were on vacation at Moosehead Lake.
“I did get a postcard from Cozumel. It either said she was at the zoo and wished me well, or she lost a shoe and caribou smell. Witches have terrible handwriting.”
Maya’s eyes widened. “How many witches did you meet while we were gone?”
“Just the one,” Sadie said, smiling. “But she taught me a lot.”
Jess glanced at the wall clock. “Vicki was supposed to be here half an hour ago. Maybe she’s not coming. How cool would that be?”
“You could prove how responsible you are,” said Sadie.
“And self-reliant,” said Maya. “And—”
The phone interrupted. Jess sighed. “Hi, Mom. Vicki—”
What her mother said made her stand straighter. As if she was suddenly taller. As if the house was suddenly larger.
She set down the phone, turned toward her friends, and announced, “Unbelievable. Vicki can’t make it. For the next two hours, we’re on our own.”
The words hung in the air. ON OUR OWN. It was as if every door and window had been flung open.
“I love autonomy!” said Maya. “We can do whatever we want.”
“Let’s eat the rest of the peanut butter!” said Jess.
“I wonder if we shouldn’t be responsible first,” said Sadie as she set the glasses in the sink next to the spoon.
“Then the peanut butter?”
“We’ll see.” Sadie could do a Mom voice with no trouble at all. Everybody laughed.
Maya rinsed and dried the dishes. Sadie put them away. Jess wiped the counter with the blue sponge. They stood in the spotless kitchen and looked at each other.
“Let’s do something noisy,” Jess said.
“How about Scrabble?” said Maya.
“Scrabble is not noisy.”
“It is when you lose. Remember?”
Sadie spoke quietly. “What if we cooked dinner? That would prove to your mom that you’re fine on your own.”
“Yes!” said Maya. “No more babysitters. Ever. Good-bye, Vicki. Hello, independence.”
“Great, except for one little problem,” Jess reminded her. “I can’t cook.”
“I’ve seen my dad make lasagna,” Sadie persisted. She waved her hand toward a shelf under the counter. “There are about twenty cookbooks right here. Easy-peasy.”
Jess remembered not so long ago when Sadie would have given in. Would have let Jess overrule her. Not anymore. Whatever magic Ms. M worked had resulted in a new Sadie. More adventurous. Less timid. More fun.
“It’s a genius idea,” Maya chimed in. “Your mom will completely love that you were so solicitous.”
“Huh?” said Sadie and Jess as one.
“Thoughtful and considerate. The storm will pass, and she’l
l forget all about your disgraceful PB and J.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Come on,” urged Sadie. “Let’s pick a cookbook and get started.”
Chapter 3
This Should Work
A few minutes later, the troops were at their stations—Jess in front of the refrigerator, Maya in front of the pantry—waiting for General Sadie to call out ingredients.
“Italian sausage?”
“No.”
“Ground beef?”
“Not much.”
“Vegetarian, then,” Sadie declared. “Maya, canned tomatoes?”
“Uh-huh. And lasagna noodles.”
“Mozzarella, Jess? Any vegetables?”
“Yes on the mozzarella. For vegetables, there’s onions, broccoli, spinach, and I think this other thing is a zucchini. Or a bowling pin for Shrek.”
Sadie filled a pot with water for the noodles. Maya chopped some vegetables and slipped them into the microwave. Jess bunched together little leafy greens from the garden. “This whole thing makes me really nervous,” she admitted.
“Relax,” said Maya. “It’s like a science project. All we have to do is follow the directions.”
Jess opened a jar of spaghetti sauce. “Remember Science Fair last year? ‘Do white candles burn faster than red candles?’ And ‘Is mold the same if the bread is different?’”
Maya probed the vegetables with a fork. “My favorite was ‘Does magnetism affect plant growth?’ Tyler Banks puts two smiley-face magnets on one pot of pumpkin seeds and nothing on the other pot of pumpkin seeds.” She started to laugh. “So when pot number one grows something and number two doesn’t, he concludes that the seeds in pot number two don’t have a sense of humor.”
“He’s a pretty good tennis player,” Jess observed. “Big serve, weak backhand.”
She looked around the kitchen. So far, so good. Sadie had drained the noodles without burning herself. Maya had chopped the vegetables and still had all her fingers. She had personally spilled only a little tomato sauce.