“How did you get up here?” Jess asked, incredulous.
“How do witches get anywhere?”
“On a broomstick?”
“Don’t be silly. Do you know what that would do to my hair? Anyway, how we got up here isn’t nearly as important as why. Sadie’s parents are still trying to sell the playhouse, so Onyx and I need a place to spend the night. I was wondering if we could sleep on that comfortable couch in your family room. May we come all the way in? I feel a bit conspicuous.”
Jess stepped back as Ms. M, holding Onyx, climbed over the sill. Once inside, the cat squirmed out of the witch’s arms, bounded up on the bed, and disappeared under the covers.
“I’d love for you to stay here,” Jess whispered. “But my mom’s got terrible allergies. That’s why we don’t have any pets.”
“Oh, I can take care of that. It’s just for one night. Two at the most. Then I can stay with a witch I know. She has a couple of little ones visiting her now, and you know how cramped gingerbread cottages can be. But she assures me that the kids will be gone soon.”
Jess gulped. “She’s going to eat them?”
“That’s certainly one way to stop them tracking dirt all over her carpets. Though I believe the plan is for her to put them on a plane back to Cleveland. They’re her grandchildren.” Ms. M yawned and scratched her beaky nose. “I promise we’ll be out before your mother is awake. Then I’ll be at the front door at eight sharp. She’ll never even know we were here.”
Jess took a deep breath, like she did before the kick-off in a big game. “Okay.”
The witch dragged a reluctant Onyx from his hiding place, scooped him up, and disappeared out the door. Back in bed, Jess mentally recited soccer player names to relax. Abby Wambach, Alex Morgan, Megan Rapinoe . . . She was just drifting off when a sharp, all-too-familiar smell jolted her awake.
Smoke? Oh, no, not again!
Creeping past her parents’ bedroom, she listened for movement inside but, miraculously, heard none. Once she reached the stairs, she broke into a run.
Sure enough, a flickering light leaked out from under the family room door, and the burning smell was unmistakable.
She didn’t bother to knock. “What are you doing? You can’t build a fire in here!”
Without looking up from her cauldron, which bubbled energetically beside the computer desk, Ms. M said, “Do you want your mother to wake up with red eyes and a runny nose?”
“Do you want her to wake up with her pajamas on fire?”
“Oh, this isn’t a real fire. It’s an illusion. Like when so-called magicians make elephants disappear.”
“So why am I about to die of heatstroke?” Jess fanned her face.
“It’s an excellent illusion. Trust me.” The witch held her hat in place with one hand, leaned over the cauldron, and sniffed. “Your mother will be fit as a fiddle in the morning.”
“Mom’s never going to drink that.”
“She doesn’t have to drink it. It’s aromatherapy. For nasal congestion. It’s called Boogers Begone.”
“Yuck.” Jess took a step back, covering her nose with her hand. “It smells worse than the lasagna that got me in all that trouble.”
“Those are the allergen blockers.”
“Could you at least put out the fire?”
“What fire?”
It was true. Only the battered cauldron sat at the witch’s feet, no smoke or flames in sight. On top of the couch a croissant-shaped Onyx tucked his head under his front paws.
“Go to sleep, dear. Big day tomorrow.”
“Why?” asked Jess, suspicious. “What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know. I like to think that every day’s a big day. Tomorrow especially, since we get to spend it together.”
As Ms. M settled herself beneath a red-plaid fleece throw, Jess looked around the family room. At her soccer trophies. At the framed photo of Mom from chef school graduation. At Dad’s autographed baseball.
“My dad’s been gone a long time,” Jess blurted. “I really miss him.”
“Gone a long time,” repeated the witch. “I certainly know about that.” With a sigh, she asked, “Would you mind turning off the light on your way out?”
The witch’s breathing sounded slow and steady. It seemed she had fallen asleep in an instant.
Jess flipped the switch. Click. Darkness swallowed the room.
Ms. M’s voice floated through the thick shadows. “I like to think that Ethel is happy, wherever she is. But I miss her. I miss her with my whole heart and soul.” A soft rustling of fabric came from the couch, as if the witch were turning over. “Sweet dreams, dear.”
“You too, Ms. M.”
It was colder out in the hallway, and Jess shivered a little as she tiptoed back up to her room. She had almost made it when a noise stopped her. A loud sneeze, and then the honk of her mother blowing her nose.
Terrific.
Chapter 8
Fra Foow
The next morning Jess made sure to get downstairs first. Heart thumping in her ears, she opened the door to the family room.
No witch. No cat. No cauldron.
The fleece throw lay folded neatly at the end of the couch.
Whew.
She was in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of juice, when her mother walked in, already dressed for work.
“I thought for sure I was coming down with something last night. Sneezing, sore throat, runny nose. You name it. But I feel great this morning.” Her mother hovered behind her. “Want me to fix you an omelet before I go? I brought home some wonderful leeks from Chef Paul’s yesterday.”
“I don’t want a leaky omelet.”
“You know leeks are relatives of onions. Last I checked, you liked onions.”
“That’s okay. I’ll eat when Ms. M gets here.”
“Honey—” her mother began, but right then, as if Jess had conjured it, the doorbell rang.
Jess popped a slice of bread in the toaster and listened to the voices in the hall.
“Seriously, Ms. M,” her mother said as the two women entered the kitchen. “Jess is not an orca. Three cans of tuna is too much.”
“I understand. Goat bran and beet germ for today’s menu.”
“Good,” her mother said with a slightly bewildered expression. “That’s a start.”
“Are those even real foods?” Jess asked once her mother had gone. With a knife she dug out a thick gob of peanut butter and spread it over the toast.
“Every balanced diet includes imaginary foods. For vim.” The witch rubbed her hands together in that let’s-get-down-to-business way. “But right now we should decide how to spend our day. I’d like to get outdoors again. How does tennis sound?”
“It sounds great, but—”
“Of course I’ll need a white cable-knit sweater,” the witch interrupted. “To get into the true spirit of the game. One with a black stripe at the neck. Do you have one?”
“I think Dad does, but it’ll be too big.”
“Maybe a little. I don’t mind. Run and fetch it, please, while I cut up some veggies.”
A few minutes later Jess handed Ms. M her father’s sweater. She watched with growing alarm as Ms. M slipped it on. It hung almost to the witch’s shoes.
Ms. M took a couple of practice swings with a stalk of celery. She admired her outfit in the chrome of the toaster. “I’ve always been a trendsetter. In the fall, I think you’ll see this look everywhere.”
“On Mars,” Jess muttered to herself. Then, louder, “Maybe a different hat? A visor?”
“Oh, no. My hat is perfect. Black cuts the glare like nobody’s business. Find us a couple of racquets and let’s hit the courts! I’ll bring these vegetables for a snack.”
“Peanut butter, too?”
“Of course. Just drop it in my bag.”
As they made their way toward the park, Jess couldn’t believe more people didn’t stare. Those who did seemed amused, but not in a mean way. Mrs
. Timley stopped raking as they passed her yard and called out, “A beautiful day for a game! Have fun!” A teenage boy whizzing by on a skateboard gave them a thumbs-up.
Jess twirled her racket as she walked. “Are you as good at tennis as you are at basketball?”
“Sometimes better.”
They stopped in front of the Gladstones’, a large house with a curving walkway. Bushes heavy with pink roses nodded agreeably. They each bent toward a different blossom and sniffed.
“Lovely,” said Ms. M.
“We used to have roses in our yard,” Jess said. “But they caught some kind of disease, so Dad got rid of them.”
“Roses do require a lot of care.” The witch pulled off a single pink petal and rubbed it against her cheek. “Special food. Fungicide. Pruning. Some gardeners think they’re worth all that trouble, but I prefer more independent plants. Mint, for instance. Just as fragrant as any rose, and it grows like, well, like what many people think it is—a weed.”
A large yellow dog came loping around the side of the Gladstones’ garage and headed toward them, tongue flopping.
Jess tensed but stood her ground. “That’s Toby. He’s kind of a drool monster.”
“Oh, he’s all right.” Ms. M stepped forward. “Anyway, I speak Dog.” She patted Toby’s shaggy head. “Fra fra,” she said. “Foow.”
Toby sat back on his haunches and barked.
“Why, thank you,” the witch responded. She beamed at Jess. “He likes my sweater.”
“Fra, fra?” Jess repeated.
“It’s arf, arf backward. Now you can speak Dog, too.”
“You’re joking.”
“Try it,” the witch urged.
“Arf,” said Jess softly.
Toby stared.
“That was English,” said the witch. “Try again.”
Jess cleared her throat. “Fra, fra. Foow.”
The dog’s ears went up. He pressed his heavy, clumsy paws against Jess’s chest and tried to lick her face.
“Down, Toby!”
“You just told him he was handsome but smelly.”
“No, I didn’t. I said ‘Fra, fra’ just like you did.”
“It’s all in the intonation, dear. Like Chinese. It’s not your fault. Learning a second language takes practice.”
“So if I insulted him, why did he act all happy?”
“‘Smelly’ may be an insult to you, dear, but dogs live by their noses. To him, ‘smelly’ is high praise.” Ms. M continued. “You’re welcome, Toby. Fra fra fra fra.”
The dog’s thick tail wagged against Jess’s knees.
“Toby!” Mrs. Gladstone’s voice rang out from the backyard. He took one last, friendly look at them and galloped back the way he’d come.
“Foow!” Ms. M called. Then, to Jess, “I told him we’d be in touch.”
Chapter 9
The Boss of the Sun
Jess and Ms. M turned a corner. The park was only half a block away, but they couldn’t see the court yet. Trees dappled the sun-baked sidewalk with huge, cooling shadows. A dozen small birds scattered out of their path in a dozen different directions.
“Excuse us,” Ms. M called after them.
“What kind of birds are those? I bet Sadie would know.”
“House wrens. Troglodytes aedon, if you want to be formal.”
“Do you know everything’s name?”
The witch stopped to think. “Not all, but a lot. My mother and I were seriously rural. We grew a lot of our own food.”
“Sometimes I help Mom in the garden,” Jess admitted. “She never gets mad at me when we’re outside picking tomatoes. Inside, when she’s pouring balsamic vinegar all over them and shoving them in my face? That’s a different story.” She almost gagged at the memory of a thick tomato slice drenched in brown liquid. Like a red sponge in a muddy puddle.
“Italians used to call tomatoes pomi d’oro.” When Jess looked at her blankly, the witch translated. “Apples of gold. Isn’t that lovely?”
“They could call them fudge donuts. I still wouldn’t eat them raw.”
Ms. M nodded hello to a beagle trotting by on a yellow leash. At the other end of the leash, a middle-aged man struggled to keep up.
The witch turned back to Jess. “You’re a strong young woman. I like that. You stand by your convictions.”
“Too bad Mom doesn’t see it that way. She wishes I was still a baby so she could cram food in my mouth.”
“How do you know?” Ms. M asked.
“I just do.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“I didn’t realize they taught mind reading in the public schools.”
Before Jess could think of a snappy response, the witch tugged at Jess’s hand and said, “I feel like kicking up my heels. Let’s skip the rest of the way!”
Even before they reached the court, Jess heard the thwock thwock of tennis balls. How annoying. “We’ll have to wait,” she said. “Someone else is playing.”
“That’s all right. We have plenty of time.”
Two boys who looked a few years older than Jess lazily hit the ball back and forth. Sometimes. Mostly they played air guitar with their racquets.
“Dunanaduwawodunanananananatata,” the taller one sang, sinking to his knees for a solo.
“When will you guys be done?” Jess called out.
They glared at her. “When we’re done, weirdos,” answered the shorter boy. His friend jumped to his feet and pretended to smash his “guitar” against the court like a punk rocker.
Jess and Ms. M sat on a splintery bench, dangling their feet. “Boys are so stupid,” Jess said.
“They’re just novices,” said Ms. M.
Jess thought she knew what that word meant—beginners. She’d heard Maya use it before. “Then they shouldn’t hog the court when people who actually know how to play are waiting.”
“Not novices at tennis,” the witch corrected. “They’re novices at being boys. At pretty much everything, actually.”
“Dude!” the shorter boy shouted. “Watch this!” He ran at the net and tried to hurdle it, but caught his foot in the mesh. Giggling, he sprawled across the center of the net—half on one side, half on the other—while his friend hurled tennis balls at his back.
Jess sighed. “Were boys like that when you were my age?”
“Oh, yes. My brothers used to dare each other to eat guppies. They’d climb trees and fall out of them. My mother told me more than once she was so happy when the midwife told her I was a girl.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Three. Two older and one younger.”
“Are they witches, too?”
“They run a small business together. Ever see the commercials for Wizard Deodorant? ‘Odor disappears like magic’? That’s them. I’ll let you in on a secret—it really is magic. That and lavender oil.”
Now the boys were playing catch with three balls, attempting to keep them all in the air at the same time like jugglers. And failing miserably. And cracking up.
“Seriously?” said Jess loud enough for them to hear.
“Fine, fine,” the shorter boy said. “We’ll play.” He looked across the net at his friend. “Forty love, right?” He smirked at Jess. “In the first game of a three-set match. Which could take hours.”
Jess turned to Ms. M. “There’s another court about ten blocks away.”
“Let’s wait another minute.” Ms. M narrowed her eyes and hummed a low, almost guttural tune.
“What are you doing?” Jess asked.
“If their racquets melted, they’d have to go home.”
“Cool. Melt their shoes, too.”
Jess watched intently as the tall boy bounced the ball a few times. He squinted, held up his hand for shade, squinted again. “The sun is really intense, man. Switch sides, okay?”
“Then I can’t see.”
“But I’m serving.”
“So?”
“C’
mon, I can’t even see the net.”
As they passed each other, they pretended to fence with their racquets. Then they took their places.
“Dude, I’m burning up.”
The tall boy grimaced. “It’s even worse over here.”
Ms. M hopped off the bench. “So, may my friend and I play?”
“Lots of luck,” the tall boy said as he and his friend stumbled off the court.
The witch tossed a ball into the air and unleashed a blistering serve. “Seems fine to me.”
“How did you do that?” Jess asked after the boys had gone.
“It’s all in the wrist.” Ms. M beamed and twirled her racquet.
“Not the serve. The sun. How did you make it so hot?”
“Oh, I’m not the boss of the sun, dear. The sun has a mind of its own.” The witch crouched, racquet outstretched, and shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Now are you going to ask questions or serve?”
Chapter 10
Transylvanian Tofu
Forty-five minutes later, Jess jogged up to the net and extended one hand. “Now we’re even. You beat me at basketball, I beat you at tennis. But it was close. You had me at forty-thirty a lot.”
“I’m nimble, if I do say so myself. I’m seriously considering joining the Cheerful Crones’ Lawn and Tennis Club when I get back home.”
They relaxed on a park bench beside the bike trail. Jess wiped off the handles of the racquets with a white towel. Ms. M dug two water bottles out of her black bag and handed Jess one.
“Hungry now?” asked the witch.
“Definitely,” said Jess.
“I’m thinking armadillo hash with Thai peanut sauce. Except, armadillo isn’t in season this time of year, so”—she reached into the bag—“I have this.”
Jess inspected the little carton. “Tofu. Blech.”
“But this is Transylvanian tofu. You can’t get it in the U.S. It’s very tasty.”
“Can’t we just have peanut butter sandwiches?”
“We’ll use peanut butter in the sauce.”
Sauce. The word gave Jess the willies. She was not a fan of sauce. Especially slathered all over something that looked and probably tasted like a rat’s mattress.
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