Frogs & French Kisses

by Sarah Mlynowski

  I sit down on her desk. “Do you think she’s gone a wee bit off the deep end? She used magic to do laundry.”

  Miri sighs. “Yesterday she pretended she made those Mexican tofu tacos from scratch. But I so saw her zap them up.”

  “What is up with her?”

  “She’s been acting weird ever since Dad got married. Dating, letting me do magic. And then you convinced her to use a spell or two. Or a million. And I found an empty pack of cigarettes in her room. On top of everything, she’s smoking again.”

  She has gone a bit overboard. My mother obviously doesn’t know the meaning of moderation. Speaking of which, the waistband of my pants is digging into my stomach. I ate too much pizza. And tiramisu. And Will’s licorice at the theater. Good thing I didn’t partake in that popcorn; I wouldn’t be able to breathe. A yawn escapes my lips.

  “You look exhausted,” Miri says. “Why don’t you go to sleep?”

  “I will. What about you?”

  “I just have one more spell to find tonight. The bushfires are seriously endangering lives in California,” she says. “Remember last year? How many people were hurt? I need to stop them now.”

  I pat down her soggy and tangled hair. “Moderation? Hello?”

  She gives a small shrug. “At least I know where I get it from.”

  “Ready to work?” asks my irritating sister as she yanks the covers off my half-asleep body. This is known in our apartment as the Wake Up by Freezing Technique. She discovered it way back when she was three and has been using it to torture me ever since. I mumble a very bad word into my pillow.

  “We have lots to do today!” she sings.

  I pull the covers back over my head. “Come back later. Go bother Mom.”

  “Get with the program, deary. Mom is already long gone on today’s breakfast date. And from there she goes straight to her lunch date. It’s just you and me. All day.”

  I groan. Think fast. “I have to—”

  “Don’t go making things up.”

  I roll into a sitting position. “What are your plans for us, precisely?”

  “First we’re making a TV for your auction. Then we’re making rain in California.”

  Sounds fair. “One project for me and one for you?”

  “If you mean one for the pathetic prom and one for the betterment of humankind, then yes.”

  After a shower and a bowl of cereal, I’m ready to work. I sit myself down on her desk, swinging my legs. “Zap it up, baby. Give me a whopper of a TV.”

  She pushes me off her notebook. “I found the perfect spell. It’s called the incarnate spell.”

  “Creepy sounding. How does it work?”

  “We need a picture of what we want to create, a half cup of broken mirror, a half cup of crushed peanuts, and two cups of dirt.”

  “I can find that.”

  “Good,” she says. “Go to it while I work on the rain spell.”

  My first stop is the apartment building’s mail room off the lobby downstairs. There I search through the recycling bin for one of the millions of flyers and catalogs that get tossed out daily. Win a Million Dollars! Yeah, right. Free CDs! Sure. Carpet Cleaning! No, thanks. Circuit City electronics! Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner! I carry the catalog back upstairs, plop myself onto the couch, and search for the perfect TV. Hmm. There are an awful lot of terms that sound like a foreign language. Like plasma. Composite video. S-Video. Aspect ratio. And many acronyms that I don’t know the meanings of. Like LCD. HDTV Non-CRT. RGB+H/V. How about T.I.V.C? This. Is. Very. Confusing.

  “Miri, what kind of TV should I chose?” I scream.

  “Busy saving California!”

  I flip and flip and flip through pages. Finally, I find a TV I like: 50’’ HDTV Plasma Display Wide-screen. It looks larger than our apartment. Possibly the size of Times Square.

  I like this one the best because the image on the screen is a scene from The Sound of Music, and most of the others feature football. In the picture, Maria (aka Julie Andrews) is sitting on the green grass with her guitar, singing to the dressed-in-curtains von Trapp children. I love that part! This must be a good omen. And the blue of the Austrian mountains and the green of the grass are quite vivid; I bet this TV is top-of-the-line. “Doe, a deer, a female deer,” I sing happily. “Ray, a drop of golden sun. Tee, a television, I found myself ”—ha-ha—“far . . .”—hold the note, you can do it!—“a long, long way to run . . .” I run, giggling, into my sister’s room. “Found it!” I say, shoving the catalog under her nose. “You like?”

  “Well done. Now find the other ingredients.”

  No fun. “How do you solve a problem like my Miri-a?” I sing all the way back to the couch. Next! A half cup of broken mirror. That sounds sketchy. Am I supposed to break a mirror? Won’t that give me lots of bad luck? “Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrriiiiiiiii?”

  “I’m wooooooooooorking. Figure it out!”

  What is luck, anyway? I bet my mom has a hand mirror somewhere. Ten minutes and a large mess later, I find a small one under the sink. Now, where best to break it?

  Kitchen table? Nah, don’t want to eat glass shards by mistake. Bathtub? Don’t want to bathe in them either. Hmm. I’d better do it out in the hallway. (Though if anyone comes off the elevator as I’m in midshatter, they might have me arrested; is this vandalism?) I lay out the remaining catalog papers on the floor and place the mirror on top. I’m about to give it a good heeling when I realize I’m not wearing shoes. Brilliant. Back inside I go.

  Oops. A key would be so helpful. Ring. Ring. Ring! A drop of golden sound . . .

  Miri opens the door, scowling.

  “Sorry. Just need a shoe. And a key. Wanna watch me break the mirror?”

  She hands me a pink sneaker and grumbles, “Fine.”

  “Not that shoe. Give me one of Mom’s.” She hands me a high heel (another new shoe? Mom is unbelievable), and I slip it on. Very nice. I should wear these things more often. They’re so glam. “Ready? Set . . . go!” I smash my foot down. Crunch. “Yay! See? I have everything under control; no need to give me that look.” I bend over to pick up the large shards. Oh. “Can you pass me something to put these pieces in too?”

  By three o’clock, I have collected all the necessary ingredients. “Operation Wide-screen TV for the Auction, known in TV lingo as OWSTVA, is primed and ready to be turned on. Tuned in. Booted. Energized. Channeled . . .”

  “Can you stop with the bad TV puns, please?” Miri begs as she dumps the soil I harvested from the dead kitchen plant into the cauldron.

  “But it’s fun. Try it. Are you ready for prime time?”

  She throws a peanut at my arm. “Why don’t you help?”

  I sit cross-legged next to her. Tigger rubs his face against my knee. “What should I do?”

  “Crush the peanuts, shred the image, and mix ’em together with the mirror pieces. Then plant that concoction like a seed in the earth. Then I’ll add water, say the spell, and wait for the TV to grow. And can you take Tigger out so he won’t attack our TV tree?”

  Wow. “That is the coolest spell I have ever heard. Will it grow anything?”

  “I guess.”

  The possibilities are endless. Where to start? What are my favorite things? Raindrops on roses? I lift Tigger up and try to carry him out. He tries to scrape my chin with his need-to-be-cut claws. Whiskers on kittens? Those I can do without. “Can I have a new prom dress?”

  “Can’t you wear the dress you bought for Spring Fling?”

  Duh. “It’s not fancy enough.”

  “Why don’t we raise money for the prom first and then worry about what to wear to it?”

  I drop Tigger outside, slam the door shut before he can sneak back in, stick out my tongue at Miri, and start crushing peanuts. This is going to be so awesome, as long as we don’t somehow screw it up, which I’m sure we won’t. The spell seems pretty straightforward. What could go wrong? I’m about to give the page a solid rip in half when I freeze. If the spell creates w
hatever is in the image, I should check what’s on the back! I am so clever that it kills me. I flip the image over to find a picture of a man’s hand holding a remote. Good save, Rachel! Imagine if we grew someone’s hand! And what if it attacked us? Strangled us? Tickled us? “I’m going to color this hand in with black marker, to avoid conjuring up severed body parts.”

  Miri giggles. “Nice catch.”

  Nice catch, indeed. What would she do without me? I find a permanent marker in the kitchen, and then as well as getting ink all over my fingers, I manage to cover up the hand. “Let’s do it,” I say. I rip up the image, drop the pieces into a plastic bowl, and add the shards of broken mirror. Then I crush the peanuts with a tablespoon and add them to the bowl. Using the same spoon I mixed the stuff with, I scoop up the mixture and dump it into the cauldron of earth.

  “A mirror’s reflection

  For your own detection

  Planted in the depths of the earth

  Solidify, congeal to a birth.”

  Miri sprinkles a few drops of water on top and I feel the familiar rush of cold.

  Yes! Wide-screen TV! When we do the multiplying spell, I’m so keeping one for us. “Hey, why don’t you split the lump into two so we can have one for the living room?”

  She considers the idea, then shakes her head. “What if that only makes half a TV? Or two twenty-five-inch ones instead of a fifty?” She carries the bowl to my room, places it carefully on the floor under my window, and opens the blinds. “It needs sunlight,” she explains. “And I think we should let it grow here, because your room is bigger.”

  Yeah, sure. She’s trying to avoid a repeat performance of what happened with the oranges. Her room still smells. “Never mind,” I say. “One will do.” For now. I poke the cauldron with my big toe. “How long does it take to grow?”

  “Two moons. Forty-eight hours.”

  “Then on to the next spell!” I wiggle my fingers in the air. “Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day.”

  “Rachel, we’re trying to create rain in California, not banish it. And we have to concentrate. This one’s hard. It’s a five-broomer.”

  Rolling up my sleeves, I follow her back to her room. I’m ready to rumble. “What do we need?”

  Miri flips to her sticky note in A2. “A glass of water, pepper, and a pot. As soon as the water starts to boil, we say the spell.”

  That’s it? Puh-lease. “No problemo. That’s all it takes to make it rain? We could do that one with our eyes closed.”

  “Except we have to do the spell in California. We’ll have to build a bonfire.”

  “I’m bringing marshmallows!”

  Miri frowns. “At least we won’t be taking a toaster oven for you to burn down the entire state.”

  I hoist myself onto her back. “Where exactly are we going in California? Can we go to Rodeo Drive? Wait! Let’s go to the Kodak Theatre.”

  “Where?”

  “Where the Oscars are! Maybe we’ll see a star!”

  “Can you be quiet?”

  Humph. I cling to Miri as she does her stuff, and the next thing I know, we’re in—

  The sky is blue. The air is hot. And I smack my elbow against a red minivan. Are we in a parking lot? “Where are we?”

  “Disneyland,” Miri says sheepishly. “It was the only place I could think of in California.”

  “We couldn’t go to Rodeo Drive, but we could come here?”

  “It has to be something I can picture!”

  “But how are we going to light a fire in a parking lot?”

  “We’ll have to find an empty spot. I brought along a reflective shield we can use so no one can see us.”

  We walk around aimlessly until we find the most deserted area. Miri pulls a newspaper out of her bag, shreds it up, and lights it with a match. When the flame catches, she fills the pot with the glass of water and pepper, puts on an oven mitt, and holds the pot by the handle over the flames.

  Her technique concerns me on many levels. “Let me hold it,” I say, grabbing it from her and holding it far above the flames. “Put up the shield!”

  She reaches into her bag, then pulls out and opens what appears to be an umbrella. An enchanted one, I’d guess. Four seconds pass. Miri stands on tiptoe to peer into the pot. “Is it boiling yet?”

  I don’t see any bubbles. “Nope.”

  Thirty seconds pass. “Now?”

  “Nope.”

  Twenty seconds. “Now?” she asks, exasperated.

  “Miri, if you keep asking, it won’t boil.”

  “That makes no sense. It’s going to boil regardless. And I have to say the spell at the sign of the first bubble.”

  “Get ready,” I say, watching the water. “I think it’s about to pop.”

  She jumps closer, picks up the book, and recites the spell:

  “Sweet expansive sky,

  Dress yourself in clouds that cry.

  Let the heavens shower a tear,

  Over yonder by and near.”

  Cold blows against my cheeks. Yes! “I felt it; it must have worked.”

  She peers into the blue sky. “But I don’t see any clouds.”

  “It probably takes a few minutes.”

  “But most of the weather spells work immediately,” she says. “We should have brought those marshmallows to pass the time.”

  “Whoops. But I have a better plan. Let’s go on Space Mountain! By the time we’re done, it’ll be pouring.”

  “Well . . .” She hesitates. “Okay. Since we’re here.”

  Wahoo! “Can you zap us to the front of the line?”

  Miri shrugs. “I can try.”

  Two Space Mountains, three Mad Tea Parties, and one Big Thunder Mountain later, it still hasn’t rained, so we decide to monitor the weather from home.

  While I study for a bio test, Miri writes an English essay, taking breaks every few minutes to check AccuWeather. But so far—nothing. The sun is proudly beating over California, fully mocking us.

  “I hope I didn’t mess anything up,” she says nervously. “It was a five-broomer. Maybe it sent the rain somewhere else?”

  I open the blinds. It’s a gorgeous day. “It’s not raining here, either.”

  “I have to pee,” Miri says, and disappears into the bathroom.

  “I’m going to check on the wide-screen!” Unfortunately, the cauldron of dirt and broken glass hasn’t morphed into an electric appliance yet. “Nothing?” Miri asks when she joins me.

  “Nope. Now I have to pee.”

  “Me too,” Miri says.

  “You just went!”

  “I didn’t get it all out.” We size each other up and then race to the bathroom. Luckily, because I’m taller and therefore have longer legs, I make it there first.

  I don’t notice the hot steam until I’m sitting on the toilet. The shower sounds like it’s on full blast. Did I leave it on? Is my mom inside? “Hello?” I squeak.

  No answer.

  I pee quickly, wipe, flush, and open the flowery shower curtain.

  The water is on with no one in the stall. Weird. I must have left it on by accident. Ouch, it’s hot.

  I reach to turn it off and attempt to revolve the handles. And attempt.

  Hmm. The water is off. But then . . . why is it on? “Did you do something to the shower?” I yell.

  She pounds on the door. “Don’t shower! You are so mean. I said I had to pee again so you take a shower? What do you want me to do, pee in the sink?”

  A splash of hot water scalds my hand. Ouch. I unlock the door. “I’m not showering, you doofus. The water is stuck. Did you not notice how hot it was in here?” How can someone with so much power be so clueless?

  “Are you sure?” She pushes me out of the way and proceeds to burn herself on the handle. “Owwww. The shower is busted.”

  No kidding. Let the heavens shower a tear . . . Oh, man. “I think the spell worked. It just took the word shower literally.”

  Miri’s fingers go straight
into her mouth. “Uh-oh. I knew it was a tricky one. I can’t believe I screwed it up! What do we do? We’re going to use up all the hot water in the building!”

  “Call the super?” I suggest.

  “What for? It’s not like he can fix it.”

  It’s getting seriously steamy in here. “Do you have any clothes you want de-wrinkled?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day?”

  She sits on the closed toilet lid and rests her head in her hands. “I don’t think that will work.”

  “I thought you had to pee.”

  “It got scared away.” She looks at me miserably. “Maybe we should just let the water run out. It isn’t going to rain forever, right?”

  “Can’t you do a spell reversal?”

  “Perhaps, but I told you, it’s a five-broomer. Plus I don’t have any of the materials. . . . I guess I can if I have to.”

  “Let’s give it a few minutes. Eventually the sun comes out again.” It feels like the sun is beaming in here right now, it’s so hot. “I have to get out of this room; I’m sweating up a storm.”

  I close the door behind us. “What do we do now? More homework?”

  “I guess.”

  We open our respective assignments and take our respective places (me on Miri’s bed, Miri at her desk) and are about to dig in when Miri sprints back to the bathroom.

  “Still running,” she says, sitting back in her desk chair. “Or raining.”

  The downstairs buzzer goes off. Miri jumps up again. “Expecting anyone?”

  “Nope.”

  We both approach the buzzer. “Hello?” she says.

  “Hi! It’s Lex! I’m here to pick up Carol.”

  Too bad Carol is MIA (Mom in Absentia). And it’s not like Lex has time to waste. He’s already, like, a hundred.

  “What do we do?” Miri whispers.

  “Why are you whispering? He can’t hear you. Audible range lowers with age. And you’re not pressing the buzzer. Call Mom. I’ll buzz him up.”

  “Hi, Lex!” I say a few seconds later, opening the door.

  He’s holding a bouquet of daisies. “For you and Miri.”

  “Thank you!” As I gather the flowers from his arms (second bouquet in less than a month! New record!), I notice that he has nice hands. Long fingers, filed nails. Big palms. I would have expected them to be old and wrinkled, but they’re not. Last year I bought my dad leather gloves for his birthday. When he put them on, he was swimming in them. They were at least two sizes too big on him, but on Lex? I bet they would have fit like a glove. Oh, yeah, they are gloves. Lex is taller than I remembered too. Although maybe his cowboy hat gives him an extra few inches.