“The story of my life. In Latin, it means, ‘I came, I saw, I pickled.’”
Abner points at another wall that has shelves covered with knickknacks. “I was so poor when I was a kid, I never had anything to play with. Now that I’m grown up, I try to collect every pickle toy that’s ever been made.”
How many pickle toys can there be? But when I look closer at the shelves, there are dozens. A pickle piggy bank. Pickles with red Santa hats. Pickle flashlights. Stuffed animals—I mean, stuffed pickles. Pickle cars. Pickle Christmas ornaments. It’s a peck of pickles.
On the middle shelf, there’s a whole miniature carnival, where all the rides—none of them more than a couple of inches high—are shaped like pickles. There’s a little Ferris wheel with pickle gondalas. A pickle teacup ride. A pickle merry-go-round. A pickle Tilt-a-Whirl.
“Oooh, look,” Martin says. “There’s even a roller coaster!”
Abner flicks a switch, and a little pickle bobsled moves up a track and then plunges down. “I named the coaster The Terrifica.”
“Because it’s so terrific?” I ask.
“No. Terrifica is Latin for terrifying. A good name for a roller coaster, don’t you think?”
Abner motions toward the chairs in front of his huge desk. “Have a seat, kids.” We sit down, and Abner walks to a cabinet and opens it. Only it’s not a cabinet—it’s actually a refrigerator that’s filled with jars of pickles. “I have every variety of Abner’s Pickle products right here.” He pulls out a freezer drawer at the bottom, and cold air drifts up. (Which reminds me of my bedroom.) Abner hands both me and Martin ice-cream bars.
Green ice-cream bars.
“My newest concoction,” Abner says. “Try it.”
I hesitate. It looks like a pickle. It smells like a pickle.
“EW! YUCK!” Martin blurts. “It tastes like a pickle.”
Abner looks crushed. “All my product people told me pickle ice cream was a great idea.”
Martin shakes his head. “Sir! One thing I’ve learned from my own inventions: some ideas are just bad.” He holds up the green ice-cream bar. “And this is one of them. You need to move on to your next idea.”
Yikes! If I’d known Martin was going to say that, I would have jabbed him with my elbow. Now it’s too late. But maybe Abner will appreciate an honest opinion.…
He doesn’t. Abner’s face slowly turns red, and then he takes the ice-cream bars away from us and throws them in the trash. (I’m sorry he’s mad, but I’m also kind of happy I didn’t have to eat the pickle ice cream.)
Abner sits down. Before, he was kind of like a friendly grandfather showing off his cool stuff. Now, thanks to Martin, he’s got an expression I recognize from Katarina: cranky. “So…” he says. “You two are here to write a history of pickles in America.”
Abner looks so un-friendly that I know Martin and I need to be really careful about what we say next. We’ll chat for a while, and then, finally, carefully sneak in our idea that Abner could help our school.
“Actually…” Martin says, “we’re hoping you can give us some money for Lincoln Middle School. You see, I wrecked the water tower, which ruined the carnival, which canceled the field trips. If you could pay for all that stuff, it would be excellent. Or, as the elves say, maar!”
“Well, as I say…get out of my office! I should have known you were here to talk about money, not pickles.” Abner stands up. “I’ve worked very hard for a very long time. And this is my advice to you children: get out there and work hard, just like I did. No one’s going to give you a handout.”
“But your jars say you give money to good causes,” I tell Abner. “And Lincoln Middle School is a good cause.”
He walks over and opens the study door. “My foundation handles the charitable donations. Mrs. Gibbs will give you the number—the grant process usually takes about a year.”
I ask him, “Could they do it faster? Like, by next weekend?”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry; that’s not possible.” He calls into the house, “Mrs. Gibbs! Escort these two youngsters out! Mrs. Gibbs!”
And our meeting with Abner is over.
Martin and I jetpack home, neither of us talking much. This time there’s no loop-the-looping or happy shouting in Elvish. Even our jetpacks’ pink sparkles seem a little less bright and twinkly.
I was so sure that Abner would help us. But it’s almost like what happened with Paige—I tried to use Abner, and he got mad. Sure, Martin was the one who blurted out the stuff, but I was the one who should have planned things better. “I’m really sorry, Martin,” I say. “I thought talking to Abner would work.”
“Nothing’s going to work. My life is going to stink forever.”
“No, it’s not! It’s like Abner says—we just have to work hard and help ourselves.”
“How? I can’t pay for a new water tower. Or the carnival. Or the field trips.”
Blink! Blink! Blink! The idea lightbulb over my head is back on, and I suddenly see exactly what we can do. And it doesn’t depend on Paige. It doesn’t depend on Abner. It just depends on plain old fairy godmother me. “Martin!” I shout. “We can put on our own carnival! A big one! We’ll raise a lot of money and rebuild the water tower and get the field trips back!”
I’m disappointed to see that Martin’s not nearly as excited as I am. “My Cub Scout troop held a carnival two years ago. We worked like Romulan salt miners, and we only made forty-three dollars.”
“That’s because you didn’t have this!” I pull out my magic wand. “It’ll be a magic carnival! The best carnival anybody’s ever seen.”
Martin thinks about it. “You can do that?”
“I know things haven’t worked great so far. But yes, I can do that! We can plan it this week, and hold the carnival on Friday and Saturday. And we’ll be making real money, not funny money.”
“That might work,” Martin says, thinking. Then he breaks into a big smile. “That will work!” He’s so excited that he does loop-the-loops in his jetpack again. “Yes! We’ll put on a magic carnival at the school and make enough money to fix everything!”
“Right! And you can get the credit and be a hero for all the kids so your life won’t stink anymore!”
A few minutes later, we’re flying over the parking lot at Lincoln, which is empty because it’s Saturday.
I zoom down until I’m hovering just above the pavement. “Next weekend, the Ferris wheel can go here.”
Martin zips down next to me. “And the Tilt-a-Whirl over there.”
“And bumper cars over there!”
“And don’t forget a roller coaster,” Martin says.
“That can go way in back. There can be games in the middle, over there.”
“Like video games?”
“No—carnival games. You know, like the ring toss thing where you spend a lot of money trying to win a little toy.”
“You sound like an expert.”
“Last summer at the state fair, my dad spent over twenty dollars trying to win Madison a troll doll.”
Martin smiles. “Bring on the trolls! But not the real ones, okay?”
“Got it. No real trolls.” Then I point to the far end of the parking lot. “I’ll do spells to make booths for the food court all along that side. At the fair, everybody ate like crazy.”
“How are we going to explain where the carnival came from? We can’t tell them it’s magic.”
“You’re the third person I’ve been a fairy godmother for, and you know what I’ve learned? People never think it’s magic. We’ll just say that the stuff was donated for the weekend, and people will believe it. We’re good to go!” I’d pat myself on the back if I weren’t wearing a jetpack.
There’s suddenly a loud, clattering sound right behind us. We both look over and see Makayla, who’s holding a metal trash can and staring at us with her mouth hanging open.
What’s she doing at school on a Saturday? Makayla’s the last person I want to meet when I’m flying with a sparkle
-spewing magic jetpack.
“Makayla,” I stammer as I float ten feet above her head. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Makayla points at us and shrieks: “You have jetpacks!”
Hmm…I guess it is what it looks like.
Makayla runs toward the outside cafeteria doors, waving her arms over her head. “You guys have to come see this! You’re not going to believe it!”
Oh, geez—the kids must be back today cleaning food off the walls.
I shout, “Jetpacks, please turn off!” The sparkles disappear, and Martin and I both drop the remaining couple of feet onto the ground.
A second later, two dozen kids and Mrs. Brinker stream out of the cafeteria, led by Makayla. Makayla points at us and shouts, “Here they are!”
The group stops in front of us, staring. And Martin and I stare right back.
“I thought you said they were flying,” Mrs. Brinker asks Makayla.
“They were! They were ten feet off the ground! And there were lots and lots of pink sparkles coming out of their backpacks.”
Mrs. Brinker rolls her eyes. “Okay. Everybody back to work!”
“I’m telling the truth,” Makayla says. “I saw it!” Makayla tugs first on my backpack and then on Martin’s. “Make them fly!” she tells us.
Martin makes the crazy sign by circling his finger near his head. There are snickers from the kids.
“Stop that!” Makayla shrieks. “You were flying! And there were sparkles everywhere!”
Mrs. Brinker says, “Makayla, I’ve heard enough. I mean it. Everybody back to work!”
The kids hesitate, and Mrs. Brinker blows her whistle. “Back to work or you’re all going to be here tomorrow, too!”
“But…but…I saw them! I’m not lying!” Makayla says.
I need to do something before Makayla has a total meltdown. And I really need to make sure that no one believes her flying story. So I say, “Makayla, you really saw a lot of sparkles?”
“Yes! All around you and Martin!”
I turn to Mrs. Brinker. “This happened to me once at the Hungry Moose. It’s from the cleaning fumes! She should probably lie down!”
Mrs. Brinker, looking worried, puts her hand on Makayla’s forehead. “You are clammy.”
Blaine Anders clutches his forehead dramatically and says, “Mrs. Brinker! I see pink sparkles, too!”
“That’s not funny, Blaine,” Mrs. Brinker says, but she still looks worried, not mad. She tells the kids, “That’s enough cleaning for the day!”
The kids don’t need to be told twice—they scurry away. Makayla looks at me and Martin uncertainly, as if she’s starting to doubt what she saw with her own eyes.
Mrs. Brinker puts an arm around her. “Come on, dear. I’ll drive you home.”
As she leads Makayla away, Martin gives me a high five.
It was pretty clever, if I do say so myself.
Instead of using the jetpacks, Martin and I walk back to his house. We don’t need anyone else to see us flying this afternoon.
But four people do see us—walking, not flying. It’s Scott and the terrible trio: his three bratty little brothers. One of them is riding on his shoulders, and the other two are pulling him along by his sleeves.
“Hi, Lacey,” Scott says. “I thought you were working at the restaurant this afternoon.”
That’s the problem with lying—sometimes you get caught. I tell him, “Uh…I had to help Martin with something.”
The little boys smirk at their brother, and the one on Scott’s shoulders says, in an annoying singsongy voice, “Scott’s girlfriend has a new boyfriend!”
The other two boys start repeating, “Scott’s girlfriend has a new boyfriend! Scott’s girlfriend has a new boyfriend!”
I told you they were terrible.
I blush. Scott blushes. Martin blushes.
Scott and Martin both say at the same time: “She’s not my girlfriend!”
And I just blush some more while the little boys laugh at us.
Scott tells me, “I have to get the monsters to the park. See you guys later.”
After he races away, Martin looks at me. “Are his brothers always like that?”
“No. Usually they’re much worse.”
Back at Martin’s house, I turn the jetpacks on to get us up into his bedroom. The violin is still magically playing, but it stops the second we go into the room. (My “Pick up the slack, till Martin gets back” spell really worked.)
There’s a knock on the bedroom door. “Martin? May I come in?” his mother asks.
Martin whispers, “Hide!” and I dive under the bed. It’s dusty down here, and I come this close to sneezing. Martin opens the door and lets his mom in.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were practicing,” she says. “But I’ve been listening all afternoon.”
“Oh, really? Did I sound okay?”
“More than okay. Martin, you sounded fantastic!” she says.
“Uh. Thanks!”
My nose itches again. I pinch it with my fingers. Next time I have to hide in somebody’s room, I’m going to try the closet. At least there’d be less dust.
Then Martin’s mom tells him, “So I’ve decided you’re ready. I just got off the phone with Maestro Chaliapin, and he’s agreed to hear your audition next Saturday.”
“But Mom! I need to practice a lot more!”
“No, from what I’ve heard today, you’re ready. I’m so proud of you!” She gives him a big hug…
…and I sneeze.
She pulls away and puts her hand on his forehead. “You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?”
“No! I’m fine! But I really don’t want to audition!”
“Don’t be silly.”
After she leaves and the door is safely closed again, I scramble out from under the bed.
“You can’t audition on Saturday,” I say. “We’ve got the carnival!”
“Don’t worry. On Saturday, I predict that I’ll have the worst cold in the history of colds.” Martin pretends to sneeze.
I suddenly feel a little guilty. “Are you sure you want to miss your big audition? You’re really good.”
Martin pretends to sneeze again. “But I’ve got this terrible, terrible cold.” He smiles. “My mom will pull a few more strings and reschedule. She’s good at that. So what do you and I have to do next?”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we’re in great shape! Take tomorrow off!”
Wow, a whole day off! I’ve never been able to take a break in the middle of my assignment before. Maybe I’m getting better at this whole fairy godmother thing.
When I get back to my house, Mom and Madison are in the backyard, gardening. For Mom, that means pulling weeds and trimming things; for Madison it means dancing around and pretending she’s a ladybug.
“Did you have a good afternoon with Martin?” Mom asks me.
“Yes. We’re going to put on a carnival to raise money for the school.” Mom has to find out about it sometime, so I might as well tell her now.
“But I thought the carnival got canceled because of the flood.”
“We’re going to make the stuff ourselves,” I say, leaving out the part where I use magic to make it.
“That’s a great idea!” Mom says. “If you need any help, let me know.”
Since I’ve got a magic wand, I won’t need any help at all. But I just nod and tell Mom, “I sure will.”
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! is the first sound I hear when I open my bedroom door. It’s a warning alert coming from three pink snowplows, each about the size of a Tonka trunk, that are shoveling the snow that’s streaming from the portal.
It looks like Katarina’s got things under control. Sort of; my room is colder than the walk-in freezer at the restaurant. Thick frost covers the windows, and icicles hang on the furniture. Not only that, there’s a little igloo on my dresser. I lean down and peer into the igloo’s entrance tunnel. “Katarina? Are you in there?”
Katarina crawls out wearing the pink sweater she’s been knitting. (It’s got special holes in the back so her wings can still stick out.) But the sweater’s not doing much good—her teeth are chattering. “Where have you been?” she asks.
“Helping Martin,” I say. “It’s freezing in here! Mom’s going to notice this for sure!”
Katarina pulls her sweater closer and shivers. “Only you and I can feel the cold. It’s our own private winter. You might as well get used to it!”
“We don’t need to get used to it. I’ve got a great plan! We’re going to—”
Katarina says, in a peevish voice, “Why bother including me now? I’m only your teacher. I’ve only sacrificed my entire life to be here in your room.”
Oops. Maybe I should have taken her along this afternoon. “I’m sorry your feelings are hurt.”
“My feelings aren’t hurt. What makes you think my feelings are hurt?”
Her feelings are definitely hurt.
“Now, excuse me while I crawl into my igloo and stare at the wall.”
Even though she’s being way too dramatic, I sympathize. Once Sunny had a karate demonstration and didn’t invite me. Later, I found out she thought I would be bored, but I would rather have been bored than left out. And that’s probably what’s going on with Katarina right now.
WHAM! My window slams up, and both Katarina and I jump at the sound.
WHIRRR! The Frisbee-unicycle I made at the zoo, which I’ve completely forgotten about, zooms through the window and heads straight for us.
We both shriek and dive out of the way.
CRASH! The spinning wheel of the Frisbee-unicycle knocks into Katarina’s igloo and smashes it into a million pieces.
Then there’s an angry little voice from my windowsill: “If you’re going to make a flying unicycle, Lacey, you need to keep it under control!” It’s Augustina, who’s so mad that blue sparks are coming out of her fingertips.
Katarina flies up near my face. “Now what have you done?”
Augustina flies over, too, and snaps at Katarina. “You’re her teacher. Why don’t you know what she’s done?”
The Spell Bind Page 9
