“Woot! Woot! Shoobedoobedoowhop!” Darbie called. “My ribs are showing, let me at that bad boy.”
I slid the pan out of the oven and set it on a trivet. We all leaned over the dessert and inhaled. It smelled delicioso!
A pile of leaves rustled in a strange way, drawing our attention outside, where Charlotte was standing in the light rain, watching us. When she saw that we’d caught her little spy thing, she headed home.
“She’s unbelievable,” I said.
Darbie pulled the blinds down. “What’s the hold-up?” she asked. “Fork, please.”
“Well,” I said. “I’m dying to taste it too. But, if it’s meant to ‘keep ’em quiet,’ I don’t know if we should. I mean, what would happen to us?”
Darbie said, “You could’ve mentioned that earlier, before I became so weak with hunger that I can hardly rip open a package of Twinkies.”
Suddenly, a crack of thunder shook the house. BOOM!
I asked, “What was that?”
“Just thunder,” Hannah said.
Darbie said, “It’s the warning. I told you that book was cursed. We were warned!”
KABOOM!
We shrieked and Mom came in. “Everything okay?” she asked, shutting the oven door.
“Yeah. The thunder scared us,” I said.
“Me too.” She inspected the dish. “Oh, girls, this looks so good.”
Headlights glided into our driveway. “That looks like my mom’s car,” Darbie said. Even though she lives just a block away, Darbie isn’t allowed to skate home in the dark or the rain. “I’m outta here. Barb is making stuffed meatloaf tonight.” (Darbie was the only kid I knew who called her mom by her first name.)
“Why don’t you grab your books. I’ll get some containers and you can all take some of this scrumptious-looking cobbler home,” Mom offered.
“Ummm.” Darbie looked at Hannah and me. “No. No thanks, Mrs. Q. I’m stuffed.”
“No?” Mom asked, confused.
“No,” Darbie said. “We were thinking . . . thinking, umm—”
“Thinking that you would have it with dinner tonight,” Hannah helped.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mom said. “Thanks, girls.”
We saw another set of headlights pull into the driveway. “That looks like my dad’s car.” Hannah said. She joined Darbie in getting her things and the two dashed into the rain.
It was just Mom and me. She said, “Mrs. Silvers called. She wanted to know if you—”
“I know, I know. I’m going.” I went across the street with an umbrella and a pooper-scooper.
That night’s Quinn Family Dinner was typical, except for the addition of a dish made from a Secret Recipe Book for the purpose of shutting up my little brother.
Rosey ate dry food out of her bowl on the floor next to the table while Mom served dessert. She dished out the cobbler, starting with my brother, who sniffed in a huge breath and let out a huge, spitty sneeze all over the rest of the pan.
Presto! Cobbler a la snot.
“Bud! Cover your mouth!” Mom scolded. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
I passed on eating the germ-infested cobbler. Mom too. Dad scooped a mountain onto his plate.
“Ah, Dad. You sure you want that? I mean, you might get sick,” I said.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Dads don’t get sick.” He shoveled a big bite of cobbler into his mouth.
“Mmmmmm. You and your friends made this?” Dad asked.
“Yup,” I said.
“With the apples from Mrs. Silvers,” Mom added.
Dad stopped with his fork in midair. “Did you check them for poison?
9
Roller Darbie
Coach Richards is both the soccer coach and my science teacher. He’s young, not much older than Vinny Rusamano, Frankie and Tony’s older brother, who’s in his second year of college.
He sat us alphabetically, which put Charlotte right in front and Hannah a few seats behind her. The second row included Darbie, me, Frankie, and Tony Rusamano. Obviously, the second row is the best one—if only “Hernandez” was later in the alphabet.
We stared at Coach, who explained the scientific process while sipping his carrot juice. “You’ll come up with a hypothesis. And then we’ll work in the lab and conduct experiments to either prove or disprove your theory. Any questions?”
None.
“Now turn to page thirty-three,” he said. “We’re going to talk about Newton’s Third Law. Does anyone know what that is?”
No one reacted.
“Newton says . . .” Coach Richards wrote on the board. The room was quiet except for the sound of scratching chalk.
Darbie leaned over. “The only Newton I’m interested in is Fig.”
I got a little giggly.
Coach Richards read what he’d written. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Maybe he could tell that we weren’t impressed by Newton. He said, “Darbie, why don’t you read out loud to us, starting at the top of the page.”
Darbie read, but I don’t think anyone paid attention, except for Hannah, who diligently took notes.
At the end of class Coach Richards invited any interested girls to come to soccer tryouts after school, which was when he transformed from science teacher into fitness maniac.
* * *
Coach Richards jogged around the back of the school to the soccer field wearing shorts and sneakers. We were already there waiting for him. “Have a seat and listen up!” he shouted, tucking his clipboard under his arm. We all think Coach Richards is a ten on the cutie scale, which only added to my stomach butterflies.
“I want to review a few rules for the newbies before we get tryouts started. Number one, you owe me a push-up for every minute you’re late for practice.” He gave Darbie a look. “Number two, you cannot practice or play in any games if you don’t maintain a B average. Number three, if you’re injured, you will come to practice and games suited up and you will stretch with and cheer for your teammates.”
“There are more rules, but that’s enough for now.” He tossed his clipboard onto the grass and bent down to touch his toes. We did the same. “We’ll do a lot of conditioning today. If you spent the summer eating Super Swirleys, this won’t be easy. But we WILL have fun! . . . just probably not today.” He grabbed the backs of his calves and pulled himself lower. The muscles in his forearms bulged like he had spent the whole summer lifting very heavy things. The man probably hadn’t had a Swirley in his whole life. He looked more like the whole wheat type.
“Alrighty then. Let’s start with a six-lap warm-up. The last five girls to finish will do an extra lap.” He led the run. “LET’S MOVE IT, LADIES!”
We all ran after Coach Richards like chicks following their mother hen—a strong, science-y mother hen. He turned and ran backward so he could talk to us. “After the warm-up, we’ll sprint, weave the bleachers, practice throw-ins, and we’ll end with sit-ups.”
I was already out of breath. I looked back and saw that Darbie was the caboose. Everyone was vying for the space right behind Coach, but Hannah had it, followed by Charlotte.
Question: How many laps can Coach
make Kelly Quinn run before she barfs?
I guessed I would answer myself later, but I felt confident that Darbie would toss her cafeteria fried chicken, creamed corn, and Devil Dog before my lunch came up.
“PUSH IT!” Coach Richards yelled. He picked up a plastic orange cone from the sideline and yelled through it. “Push it, girls! No pain, no gain. Come on, Darbie O’Brien!”
Hannah fell back to talk to me. “How’re you doing, Kell?” Even Hannah’s soccer clothes were fashionable: rolled below the waist nylon shorts and a shirt bearing the Nike Swoosh.
“I’m dying, Shoobedoo. You know CPR?” I could hardly get the words out.
Charlotte had finished the first several laps hardly breaking a sweat. “Looking good, Kell,” she said with her classic sarcastic snort. Hann
ah caught up to her and the two of them ran together for the rest of the tryout, which seemed to go on forever. Shockingly, it was only four o’clock when we were done.
Darbie’s mom drove us all home after practice and we planned to reassemble at my house for a cooking club meeting at five.
Take:
1 sore throat
1 honey drop
A bag of frozen peas
A wicked radar system
Directions:
Knead. Let rise until ready.
I dropped my school stuff and sniffed the air. Something yucky lingered. “Mom, what’s that smell?”
“I was trying some new combos with my chili.” She whispered, “Let’s just say, it didn’t go well.”
“I guess not,” I said.
“Shhh,” Mom said. “Buddy came home from school sick with a sore throat. He can hardly talk. He’s resting, so you have to be very quiet.”
“He can’t talk?” I asked loudly.
“Shhh! That’s right. You need to be quiet,” Mom said.
I whispered, “He can’t talk?”
“That’s what I said. When are the girls coming over?”
I looked at my watch, “Any minute.”
Darbie pushed my front door open. She tripped on her Rollerblades and fell on the tile floor.
“Skates off in the house,” my mom whispered, then looked at Darbie more closely. She had blood on her face and her sweatshirt. “Oh my goodness.” My mom rushed over and grabbed Darbie’s face in her hands. “Come over to the sink.”
My mom washed Darbie’s face. “What happened, honey?”
“I was trying to skate fast, but my legs are so tired, I wiped out like a cowboy surfing the coral reef.”
“Man, you’re gonna have a big fat lip,” I said.
“Kelly, please grab a bag of vegetables out of the freezer to put on her eye.” Mom wiped the scratches on Darbie’s legs. I could tell which areas would soon become black and blue.
“It’ll make you look real tough for soccer,” I said, but this didn’t seem to make Darbie feel better. I handed her a bag of peas and searched my brain for something that might cheer her up. “Bud came home from school early today with a sore throat. He can hardly talk.”
Darbie took the frozen peas off her face and looked at me with a twinkle in her swollen eye. “He lost his voice?”
I nodded.
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope.” When my mom wasn’t looking, she gave me a thumbs-up.
“Darbie, maybe I should take you home,” Mom said.
“Oh, can I stay, please? Really, I’m hunky-dory. We have something very important to cook.”
“Well, if you have something very important to cook, that changes everything.” Mom teased Darbie. “I’ll call your mom and see what she says.”
There was a beep in Mom’s pocket. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open to read a text. “Oh, great. Your dad has no voice either. He’s on his way home.” She opened the fridge and took out the two containers of leftover apple cobbler. “I’m sorry, girls. I saved this cobbler for you from the unsneezed-on side of the pan, but I don’t think you should eat it.” Mom dumped the contents into the garbage disposal and flipped the switch. “I’m going to check on Bud. And don’t worry, I’ll keep the germs upstairs.” She opened a small cabinet over the oven, got up on her tippy toes, and reached in for a tiny golden tin bearing a bumblebee logo.
“What’s that?” I asked, studying the label. The bee was interesting because it was wearing a sombrero.
“It’s Moon Honey. I always keep a tin around for just such a situation. My mother swore these little drops would heal anything.” She shook the tin. There was a slight rattle. She looked inside. “Only two left.” She disappeared and Hannah came in through the back door wearing plaid lounge pants and a Gap hoodie I’d never seen before.
When did she get all these new clothes?
Her hair was clean and damp, twisted up in a clip. Darbie and I were still sweaty and in our soccer clothes.
“Eew, what happened?” she asked when she saw Darbie.
Darbie, her head tilted back and her face covered with the bag of peas, quickly filled Hannah in on her fall, but she was more excited to tell her about my dad and Bud.
“Bud ate the cobbler?” Hannah asked.
“Yep,” I confirmed.
“Wow,” Hannah said. “That’s so weird. That’s what the note by the recipe said.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Darbie said. “Which is empty, by the way. And this is a problem because I just got a text message from my stomach saying ‘put food here, por favor.’” She pointed to her stomach.
I unwrapped a stick of string cheese and shoved it under the peas and into Darbie’s mouth. She took a generous bite and held it like a microphone. “Thank you, Shoobedoobedoowhop,” she said into the string cheese.
Hannah squinted like she was concentrating. “And your dad lost his voice too. Why didn’t you?”
I explained the sneeze infestation.
“This is way whacked out, doncha think?” Darbie asked, her mouth full of string cheese. “It happened just like it did for the rooster.”
Hannah said, “I have to admit, it’s a little coincidental.”
“My mom watches a lot of crime shows on TV and the investigators always say there is no such thing as coincidence,” I said.
“This might be a good time for me to point out that we’re not on a TV crime show,” Hannah said. “There could be a million reasons why Bud and Mr. Quinn are sick. Maybe they have a cold. Colds are very common. That’s why they’re called ‘common colds.’ People get them all the time.”
“That’s not a million reasons,” Darbie said. “That’s one.”
“You get the point.” Hannah blew her blond bangs out of her face. She was frustrated with Darbie already.
I tried to change the subject so we didn’t start fighting. “Ready?”
“For what?” Hannah asked.
“We’re a cooking club, aren’t we?” I pulled my apron over my head. “I’ve been doing some thinking and—”
There was a knock on the back door. I saw a curly mane in the door’s window. “You’ve got to be kidding me. She must have some kind of wicked radar system.” I went to the door, but this time I was careful to stand in front of it so Charlotte couldn’t just walk in. “May I help you?”
“Actually, you can. Do you have any clear nail polish?”
“Nail polish?”
“Yeah, I ran out in the middle of doing my nails.” She tried to be nonchalant when she stretched her head to the right and left, but I could tell she was trying to see what we were doing in the kitchen.
I looked at her hands. “They don’t look wet.”
“Um, my toenails.”
I looked down. She wore sandals, and there was some polish on her toes that I suspected was also dry.
“No. I don’t have any clear polish.”
“What’s that smell?” Charlotte asked. “Is that chili?” I didn’t answer. “Gross. Maybe you shouldn’t even bother to enter this year. Honestly, I don’t understand why anyone would go to all the trouble of making something you could buy already made. Seems like a waste of time. And it seems stupid to enter a contest you know you’re going to lose.”
I had successfully blocked Charlotte so she couldn’t see Darbie. But she heard Darbie when she yelled, “Wanna make a bet?”
Charlotte asked me, even though I wasn’t the one who asked the question, “You want to make me a bet that you’ll win the chili contest?”
“Yep,” Darbie yelled.
“Oh, you’re so on. What did you have in mind?” she asked me.
I opened my mouth to answer, but Darbie beat me to it. From her kitchen chair she yelled, “If Kelly wins, you have to rake her yard. If Kelly loses, she’ll rake your yard.”
Charlotte grabbed my hand and shook it. “It’s a bet, Kelly Quinn.” She followed t
he beaten path back to her house.
I slammed the door and walked over to Darbie, whose eyes were buried under a bag of frozen peas. I propped my hands on my hips. “What did you do that for?”
The peas fell into her lap when she lifted her head. “What?”
“That bet. Are you crazy?” I asked.
Hannah chimed in, “Mrs. Rusamano is on a four-year winning streak. You and your mom are good cooks, but Mrs. R. is great.” Hannah was right, but it would have been nice if she was a little more optimistic about our chances of winning.
Darbie picked up the encyclopedia with her bandaged hand. “Have you forgotten that you have an ancient secret recipedia?”
The corners of my lips started to bend, and suddenly I wasn’t so mad at Darbie.
10
Hexberry Tarta
“If the Book can make Bud lose his voice, then it should be able to help you win a chili contest,” Darbie said.
I smiled because I liked what Darbie was saying, but it also gave me another idea. “And, maybe it can take care of a nasty, curly-haired, soccer-playing, chili-contest-betting, clear-nail-polish-needing, head-in-the-back-door-snooping girl?”
Darbie looked right at me. She pointed to me and then to her and to me again. “You and me,” she said. “We think so much alike, it scares me. And I don’t scare easily. Except for vampires, and werewolves, and zombies, and tsunamis, and earthquakes, and—”
“We get it,” Hannah said. “Lucky for you there’s no such thing as monsters and we live in Delaware, so we don’t have those kinds of natural disasters.”
“But I was also going to mention that I’m not too crazy about cryptic warnings,” Darbie said. “Remember ‘You get what you deserve’? Do we deserve something for potioning Bud?”
“You’re taking this warning stuff too seriously, Darb,” Hannah said.
“Lucky for me I have you, Hannah Happygolucky, to bring me back to reality.” Darbie tilted her head back again and dropped the bag of peas on her face. “If you’re not worried, then I’m not either.”
Hannah picked up the Book. I saw her fingertips rub the encyclopedia’s rough cover. “So, what can we cook up for Charlotte?”
Just Add Magic Page 5
