Gordy folded his arms and stared at his untouched lemonade. “What do I do?”
“For now, you’ll continue on as normal,” his mom said. “We’ll keep our fingers crossed that the Chamber President assigns you a solid trainer, someone we can trust to give you a fair shot, and then we’ll take it one step at a time. But, Gordy, do you know how to keep a low profile?”
Gordy thought about the question for a moment and nodded. “I think so.”
“That means you have to play by the rules from now on,” his mom said. “No more taking risks. No more breaking procedures. Don’t do anything that will draw unnecessary attention to yourself. Not at school. Not in the neighborhood. Not with your friends. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” he answered.
That should be easy enough. Gordy could keep a low profile. He would just do what he did every day at Kipland Middle School. He would blend in. Fade into the background. Become invisible. Then, during his next training session, Gordy would show B.R.E.W. that he could play by the rules.
Gordy woke up to a buzzing vibration.
“What is that?” he called out, bleary-eyed and confused. When he saw his cell phone trembling on his bedside table, he snatched it up and checked the screen. He didn’t recognize the number. Plus, it was 12:14 a.m. He’d barely been asleep for two hours, only to be rudely awakened. With an agitated growl, Gordy attempted to toss the phone back on the table, but it broke free from its charging cord and toppled into a pile of laundry, where it nestled down deep enough that he could no longer see the brilliant light from the screen cutting through the darkness.
Gordy collapsed on his pillow. His head felt fuzzy, and the whole room had fallen completely black. Palming his eyes, he dragged his fingers down his cheeks.
Bizz, bizz, bizzzzzzzz!
The cell phone started up again, buzzing angrily amid his crumpled clothing. Gordy considered ignoring it, but the caller persisted. Plunging his hand into the pile, he pulled the phone free and brushed away a sock stuck to the back.
“Who is this?” he grumbled.
“Rude,” a female voice answered. “Do you always answer your phone like that?”
Gordy pulled the phone away from his ear and checked the number again, trying to place the voice. “I do when people call me after midnight,” he said.
“And that happens a bunch, I bet. Of course it does,” the girl replied, without any attempt to mask her sarcasm. “You’re the great Gordy Stitser. I’m sure loads of fans call you at all hours of the night.”
“Sasha?” he asked, not entirely certain.
“Obviously.”
“It . . . uh, what are you calling for?” He sat up in bed, now fully alert, and reached over to turn on his lamp, illuminating the room. Sasha Brexil had called him. How did she get his number? And why was she calling so early in the morning?
“I was just brewing in my lab, as I do, and it dawned on me that maybe I forgot to tell you a few of the rules for my party.”
There definitely hadn’t been any mention of rules. Gordy’s whole interaction with Sasha had happened more than a week ago and had lasted less than five minutes, and she had dominated the conversation.
“Nothing major,” she continued. “You just need to bring your own satchel. I’m assuming you have one.”
Gordy looked over at his backpack leaning against his closet door. It was the closest thing to a satchel he owned. Most official potion-makers’ satchels came specially equipped with compartments and leather straps to secure test tubes and prevent vials from spilling. His backpack had a decent amount of webbing woven on the inside pocket, but that was about it.
“You’ll also need to bring your own ingredients,” Sasha continued, not giving Gordy any time to respond. “This is a sharing party, so bring a recipe or two to try out in the group, and come prepared with empty containers to take home new findings. And don’t forget the invitation. That, along with my approval, will get you past our wards. They’re quite strong. I helped brew them myself.”
“Really?” Gordy asked, trying to sound interested. He wanted to say he hadn’t decided yet if he was actually going to attend her party, but for some reason, Gordy didn’t have the guts to say anything that might trigger an angry outburst. Plus, he felt jealous of Sasha’s late-night concocting, as if she might somehow gain the upper hand on Gordy. Which was ridiculous. Upper hand to what?
“Oh, and don’t bring anything volatile or my parents will flip,” Sasha said.
Gordy cleared his throat. “Your dad’s going to be there?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” Sasha’s withering laughter poured from the phone. “Don’t tell me he got into your head the other day when he yelled at you.”
Gordy frowned. “He told you about that?”
“My dad tells me everything. He just likes to mess with everyone. Every Dram, that is.”
It sure hadn’t sounded like he was just messing with Gordy. The expectations had been laid out plain and clear. Gordy could imagine Mr. Brexil hovering over his shoulder while he did his best to brew safe and friendly potions. Ones that made flowers bloom or produced soap bubbles.
“Does he know how to brew?” Gordy asked.
“He’s the principal of Kipland, remember?”
“Yeah, but lots of Elixirists have a day job.”
“No, my dad’s not an Elixirist. He can barely brew coffee,” Sasha said. “But my mom? She’s the best potion master in the country.”
Gordy imagined Sasha arrogantly staring at her fingernails while sprinkling herbs into a cauldron.
“I doubt that,” he muttered.
“Oh, a challenge. Throwing down the gauntlet, eh?” Gordy could hear what sounded like thick, bubbling liquid being poured into a container. He could have been mistaken, but he had brewed enough potions over the years to recognize the sound. “One second,” she said. “Let me just stopper these.”
More bubbling, along with the gaseous whistle of a Bunsen burner torching a cauldron. Then Gordy heard the plunk of several corks being wedged into test tubes.
“That should be what we do tomorrow,” Sasha said. “Let’s have a game to see who can concoct the most difficult potion.”
“How’s that a game?” Gordy asked.
“If I win, then my mom is the more skilled Elixirist, because she taught me everything I know. And if you win, your mom can hold that title.”
Gordy wanted to tell her to go bob for apples in a vat of Balding Booze, but he didn’t. Sasha Brexil didn’t seem like the type of person he could easily insult without facing consequences.
“I think that’s everything,” Sasha said. “Own satchel, own ingredients, own recipes. No volatile potions—but something definitely difficult. Bring your invitation. And . . . oh, I remembered! Don’t tell your parents.”
Gordy started nodding before realizing what Sasha had said. “Why not?”
“Because.” She paused and sighed. “That’s the other rule.”
“That’s a strange rule.”
“Maybe, but it’s the most important one.”
“And yet you forgot to say it until the end.” Gordy swung his legs over the side of the bed and slid his feet into his slippers.
Sasha snickered. “No, I was pausing for dramatic effect. I wanted to plant that rule in your head, and I knew if I waited until the end, you’d honestly hear me.”
“You can count me out, then.” Gordy quietly moved to the closet and picked up his backpack.
“You’re not coming because you can’t tell your mom about my little get-together? Aw, Gordy, I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”
“I’m not sensitive. I just don’t like lying to my parents.”
“It’s not lying. They can know about the party, just not the details. Besides, both my parents will be there, along with me and Dez Mumphrey, Br
ianna Washburn, and Pedro Rodriguez. Now you know everyone who is attending. All the mystery’s gone. Besides, it was my mother’s idea to keep the potion part of the party a secret.”
“Your mom said that?” Sasha’s snooty behavior now had an origin. Mrs. Brexil sounded shady.
“Uh-huh. My mom doesn’t want any other adults bothering us during our brewing time. She knows how important it is for young Drams to have privacy and freedom to concoct. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess,” he said.
“Good. Keep it tight-lipped until tomorrow night. Au revoir.”
The line went dead.
What responsible parent set a rule that no other adult could know about some brewing party? He knew for a fact his mom would never allow him to go to Sasha’s under false pretenses, especially since she had just instructed Gordy earlier that evening to keep a low profile. And yet, now more than ever, Gordy felt as though he needed to go. Sasha’s party had sparked his curiosity. Beyond that, he needed to prove his superiority over Sasha. His mom’s reputation was at stake!
Most Saturday nights, Gordy’s parents went out on a date, and they were usually out until late. That meant Gordy would have no problem sneaking out of his house to go to the Brexils. He’d be back before his parents even knew he had left. Yes, Gordy would need to babysit his brother and sister, but he could leave them watching movies all night until he returned.
No longer tired, Gordy clutched his backpack in his arms and crept to his door. He opened it and checked the hallway. All the lights were out, including the ones downstairs. Everyone was sleeping.
Gordy dragged a knuckle across the bottom of his nose. No doubt about it, he would be at that party, and he would show Sasha’s little gathering a thing or two. But for now, Gordy needed to brew.
Maintaining focus throughout a brewing session had always been one of the most important rules of potion making. Gordy knew that rule well. His mom had pounded it into his brain throughout his training. But he had also developed a knack for fudging it when it came to basic brewing. Some potions were just a cinch. Six simple ingredients, a lightly heated brass cauldron, and a few actions while sprinkling in items were all it took to make a batch of Torpor Tonic, a knockout agent regularly used by Elixirists. Over the course of Gordy’s lifetime, he had probably made enough Torpor Tonic to fill a kiddie pool.
While his cauldron simmered, Gordy tossed in pieces of magnolia bark with a garden trowel, and he gazed at the rows of multicolored recipe books lining one of his mother’s bookshelves. He barely paid any attention to the potion in front of him, routinely adding several fluffs of dandelion, snapping the gossamer seeds into the mixture with his fingers. The potion sputtered, forming lazy bubbles at the surface.
Gordy blew out his cheeks and cranked the knob on the Bunsen burner to the maximum level. The flames intensified, coloring the cauldron with an orange glow. He moved to the apothecary table and selected two separate containers of ingredients, their labels unreadable. He added both to the potion without glancing down at the now-roiling liquid spitting out of the bowl. On the countertop, he diced a stalk of pokeweed and squished the spine of a dried caterpillar with the dull edge of a scalpel. He rolled the pieces together and dropped them into the potion.
The potion produced a squealing sound, like a teakettle demanding release from the heat, and Gordy turned off the Bunsen burner. He plucked a test tube from the rack and was about to dip it into the cauldron when the light to the laboratory snapped on.
Wearing her bathrobe and pink slippers, Gordy’s mother stood in the doorway, leaning into the jamb with her shoulder.
“Hey, Mom,” Gordy said, startled. He squinted in the sudden brightness.
“It’s late, pal.” She glanced at the clock.
“I know. I—” Gordy yawned. “I just couldn’t sleep.”
His mom’s eyes looked droopy, but she exhaled and smiled. “What are you making?”
“Torpor Tonic,” he answered.
The fumes from Gordy’s potion wafted across the room, and his mom inhaled briefly. Her smile faltered, and she crossed the lab, arms folded, brow furrowed as she peered into the cauldron. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah, why?”
Gordy’s mom opened her mouth and laughed in disbelief. “What have I told you about brewing volatile potions when I’m not around? It’s a big rule to break.”
“Okay.” Why was she looking at him as though he had done something bad? “Why are you telling me this?”
Gordy’s mom picked up an oven mitt and slid the brass cauldron off the wrought-iron holder, being careful not to slosh the potion over the edge. “Is that why you chose to brew at this hour? So I wouldn’t accidentally stumble in?” She pointed to the squished remains of the insect lying a few inches from the cauldron. “That’s a Lonomia caterpillar husk. Am I wrong?”
Gordy shrugged. “I think you must have left it out earlier.”
She glared at him. “Nice try, bub.” She sniffed the fumes coiling up from the potion. “Hemlock. Oleander. Pokeberry stalks. Were you trying to brew a Mangle potion?”
“A what?” Gordy’s mom had been stressed out lately, but she wasn’t making any sense. Gordy didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
“This mixture is designed to cause permanent bodily harm. Who did you plan to give this to?”
“It’s a Torpor Tonic, Mom!” Gordy glanced down at the cauldron as his mom probed the surface of the potion with a long wooden spoon. The brownish liquid promptly snapped the spoon in half. He reached for the bowl, but she pulled his arm back and pushed him away from the counter.
“I understand you know your way around a lab, but that doesn’t give you the right to brew things beyond your grade level. This is dark stuff, Gordy. Scourge material!”
Scourge material? Gordy opened his mouth in shock. “That’s not what I was doing—honest! I wasn’t trying to brew anything bad. See?” He held up a sprig of lavender still clutched in his fingers and pointed to the evidence of Torpor Tonic ingredients scattered on the counter.
“Then what happened?”
Gordy couldn’t remember. His head felt foggy as though he had just woken up after an afternoon nap. He must have zoned out while he had been mixing the potion.
“Am I supposed to believe that you don’t remember making this?” his mom asked.
Gordy nodded. “Don’t you believe me?”
She chewed on the inside of her cheek and looked around the workstation at the opened drawers near the base of the table—drawers that were strictly off-limits to anyone other than herself. Her eyes snapped back on Gordy. “You didn’t get any of it on your skin, did you?”
“Would I be mangled if I had?”
“Maybe.” She grinned weakly. “And you just blacked out and this happened?”
Gordy felt his heart pounding in his chest. “Mom, what’s wrong with me?”
Her stern gaze softened, and she pulled him into her arms. “Nothing’s wrong with you, I don’t think,” she said into his ear. “I don’t know the methods of Blind Batching, so I’m not sure how that works. This could just be a side effect of that skill. Let’s be done with lab work for the night, okay?”
Gordy didn’t protest. After helping his mother clean the countertop and watching her carefully stopper the Mangle potion into several small vials that she tucked away in the bottom drawer, he followed her out of the lab. But Gordy doubted sleep would come easy to him that night.
For the second time in as many weeks, the blue pickup truck rolled into Adilene’s neighborhood. Adilene was out in the yard with her dad, pulling weeds, when the vehicle stopped in the road and Cadence climbed down from the passenger side. Her uncle Carlisle hunched in the driver’s seat, staring glumly through the windshield. The girl waggled a scolding finger at him, and though Adilene might have been mistaken, the older man cringed aw
ay from her, offering his niece an imperceptible nod.
“Hello, Adilene,” Cadence said, crossing the road and waving cheerily. “Would you like to play?”
Play? They weren’t in elementary school anymore. No one in the eighth grade used the word “play” when they wanted to hang out together. She started to laugh but then realized Cadence wasn’t telling a joke. Adilene felt embarrassed for the girl.
“Ah, I suppose.” Adilene looked at her father for confirmation. They had only just begun their Saturday chores, which normally took until lunch to finish.
Adilene’s dad shrugged. “You’ll have to work later,” he grunted and went back to yanking deep-rooted weeds from the flower bed.
“Great!” Cadence said, marching up to the porch and waiting by the door. “I really enjoyed those cupcakes we had the other day. They were so good. Should we go inside?”
Adilene hurriedly dusted off her knees and shot a wary look at Carlisle, who had yet to drive away, the truck idling in the middle of the street.
“What’s he doing?” Adilene asked.
Cadence followed her gaze. “Just one moment, please,” she said, stepping down from the porch and glaring at her uncle. Without saying another word, she swatted a hand in the air and pointed aggressively down the road. Though Uncle Carlisle never looked in her direction, the blue truck lurched forward and sputtered away.
Odd family, Adilene thought. She glanced at her dad, who raised his eyebrows as if he had been thinking the same thing.
“If you like baking, we could make brownies,” Adilene suggested, leading the way into the kitchen. She had planned to make a treat later that afternoon anyway.
Cadence scrunched her nose. “Maybe, but I thought we could go to your room first.”
“And do what?”
Cadence shrugged. “Whatever you want.”
Adilene scratched the back of her neck, her eyes drifting down to the bag dangling at Cadence’s hip. “I know what we could do!” She checked around the corner to make sure her mother wasn’t nearby and lowered her voice. “We could make potions together.” Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Cadence curled her lip into a smile and nodded. Adilene almost cheered. “My room’s upstairs, third door on the right,” she said. “I’ll gather my things and meet you there.”
The Transparency Tonic Page 10
