The car backs out of the driveway. I roll down my window and let the cool air hit my face. I love the morning. It’s the best part of the day.
“Thanks for letting me have this party, Mom,” I tell her softly. “I feel so grown-up.”
She smiles as she turns the corner. I think she likes mornings, too. “How many kids are coming?” she asks.
“Well, I passed out twenty-five invitations. Fourteen kids gave me their RSVP pages and said they could come. A couple of kids will be out of town, some have other stuff to do next Saturday, and Miss Armstrong and Mr. C both had other plans.”
“Hmm. Fourteen. Plus you and your sister and brother. I guess we can handle that.” She turns onto Jasmine’s street.
“I hope it’s fifteen,” I tell her.
“How come?”
“There is a new girl in our class named Lillian.”
“Yes, you’ve told me about her. The girl in the limo.”
“She is the only one who has not answered. And I really want her to come.”
“Well, maybe she’ll let you know on Monday. I’d like to meet her.”
We pull into Jasmine’s driveway, and she is already yelling into her house to tell her mom she’s gone. She runs to the car and hops in the backseat. I move to the back to sit with her.
“This is so cool!” Jasmine says as we snap on our seat belts. “Hi, Mrs. Sanford.”
“Good morning, Jasmine. We can’t get you girls up for school, but for a Saturday shopping trip you’re awake before the birds!”
“Duh!” I say. “Shopping beats sleeping any day! Even at a grocery store.”
“How many boys are coming to the party?” Jasmine asks me.
“Five. Travis, Rusty, Ricky, Charles, and Abdul.”
“Boys eat a lot,” Jasmine comments.
“Tell me about it. My brother, Sabin, can eat a whole box of Frosted Flakes in one sitting. And then he still says he’s hungry!”
Jasmine laughs. “What about the girls?”
I pull a notebook from my sack and check my list. “Let’s see. Carmelita and Misty. Iris, Princess, Basima, and Josephina. Holly, Tandy, and you. That’s nine girls, so far, not counting me.”
“What about Lillian?”
“When I saw her at school yesterday, she said she was still trying to get permission. She looked really sad when she got in her limo after school.”
“What’s up with that?” Jasmine wondered. “If she is rich, it seems like she’d be happy, right?”
“I used to think if I had like a zillion dollars, I’d be too happy. But now I think maybe not,” I tell Jasmine.
“Well, I really hope she can come,” Jasmine says.
“Me, too.”
We pull into the supermarket lot, jump out, and grab a cart.
“Wait!” I say, just as Mom is locking the car door. “We forgot the reusable grocery bags!”
“Thanks, Sassy,” Mom says. “I always leave those things in the car. I remember that I have them when I get to the checkout!”
I grab the bags from the trunk and throw them into the cart.
But before we move even an inch, we hear Squeak! Thunk! Squeak! Thunk!
“What’s up with this?” Jasmine asks.
“We found a shopping cart with issues!” I tell her with a laugh.
“Here’s another one,” she says as she gets a new cart. This one rolls smoothly.
“Much better!” Mom says with relief.
“I’ll push!” Jasmine says with glee.
We head for the sliding glass door.
“And I’ll grab what’s on my list!” I tell Mom.
“And I get to pay?” Mom replies with a smile.
“I’ll give you all the allowance money I’ve saved up,” I offer sweetly.
“And how much is that?” she asks.
“Almost eleven dollars!”
“Well, I can just retire and go live on an island!” she tells me with a laugh.
The store is brightly lit and faint music plays in the background. If I squint my eyes, the color I see most is red. Red potato chip packages just as we walk in. Red candy wrappers on the left. They look so good I want to toss them in our cart.
But I pull my list from my sack. I printed it out at school. I know exactly what we need. “Let’s go to the fruit and vegetable aisle first!” I say.
Jasmine zooms the cart in that direction. Mom follows behind us. I can’t believe how cool she is about all this.
“Look at all this stuff!” Jasmine cries. “Somebody must stay up all night long stacking tomatoes in pretty little mountains.”
“Tomatoes are on my list,” I say.
“Ooh, yuck!” Jasmine points to a rotten, squashed tomato right on top of the pile. “Red juice is oozing out!”
I touch it and more juice erupts from it. We crack up.
“Okay, girls,” Mom says. “Grab a couple of onions from that pile over there. And get five firm tomatoes. We’ll leave the squishy one to its fate.”
“Can I take a picture of it?” I ask, checking tomatoes off my list.
My mom looks at me like I’m nuts. “Whatever for?”
“I’m going to put everything in my project — pictures of rotten tomatoes, stacks of potatoes, and Jasmine riding on the shopping cart!”
I take a disposable camera from my sack and snap a close-up of the disgusting tomato. Then Jasmine jumps on the back of the cart and I take a picture of her waving and holding a stinky onion to her nose.
“Get some lettuce,” Mom says.
I grab a round green thing that looks like a giant, leafy softball.
“That’s cabbage!” Mom tells me. “Lettuce looks similar, but it’s not as heavy. Cabbage on sandwiches is pretty awful.”
“My bad!” I tell her as I make the switch.
Jasmine and I then pick out blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries in little plastic cartons. We place them carefully in the cart.
“I think we better wait on the berries, Sassy,” my mother says.
“How come?”
“Berries go bad really quickly.”
“But I’m going to make the food ahead of time,” I protest.
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
When we get to the strawberries, I tell Jasmine, “I’m making little mice out of strawberries! If you close your eyes, can you imagine a little mousy nose on the pointed front of one of these?”
Jasmine tries. “Not really. I have to see you do it. What are you going to use for a tail?”
“Red string licorice!” I tell her with glee.
“Ooh, yummy.”
“You should spend the night at my house on Friday. We can make the little strawberry mice.”
“Ooh, yeah! Can I, Mrs. Sanford? I can help Sassy do lots of stuff to get ready.”
“Sure. I’ll call your mom this afternoon.”
Jasmine and I hook pinkies and wink.
We add kiwi and grapes and peaches to our shopping cart. I take a picture of Jasmine sneaking a taste of a grape, and she takes a picture of me sticking a banana in my ear.
Mom shakes her head and tries to pretend she doesn’t know us.
We get walnuts and granola and almonds from the health food aisle. We find chocolate chips and chocolate topping and licorice from the not-so-healthy part of the store. We also find ice cream and yogurt and several kinds of pudding. And cheese. Lots of cheese.
“Which package of chunk cheese should I get, Mom?” I ask her.
“Which one gives you more cheese per ounce for the price?” she answers.
“I don’t know. I’d need math for that!” I complain.
“Well, start figuring,” she says.
I look at the prices carefully. I do some calculating in my head. Finally, I pick the big package of chunk cheese. The package is decorated in plain black and white. Boring but cheaper.
“Good job, Sassy!” Mom says, nodding her head in approval. “This one is the best buy!”
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br /> “Don’t tell Mr. Olsen I did that,” I tell Jasmine. “He’d never believe it!”
“You got it. I hate it when teachers are right,” she says. We continue down the aisles.
“Ooh! Look!” I cry out. I stop at a display of ice cube trays and cookie cutters in all kinds of different shapes. Triangles and animals and even worms. Exactly what I need!
“Get the one that looks like a snake!” Jasmine suggests eagerly. “And the dragon one!”
I grab several more. A bear. A star. A kangaroo. A palm tree. Awesome.
Our cart is filling up fast.
“You’ve got mostly dessert foods,” Mom observes. “What about the main meal part of your feast?”
“I almost forgot!” I go back to my list, which has lots of ingredients checked off in purple marker. We take the cart to the lunch meat section.
“Chicken!” I say, reading from the list.
“Check,” Jasmine says as she grabs a package of sliced chicken.
“Turkey.”
“Check, but what’s the difference?”
“I think it tastes better,” I tell her.
“Okay. Check.”
“Ham.”
“Check.”
“Roast beef?”
“Check.”
“No, get that brand instead,” Mom says. “I have a coupon for it.”
“Okay. What about bologna?” Jasmine asks.
“Oh, yes! To make bologna bowls!” I tell her. “Get three packages!”
“You’ve got me making those things at my house!” Jasmine tells me.
“And aren’t you glad I did?”
Mom has a coupon for bologna. She finds a clipping for several other items in our cart.
We also get jam and jelly and food coloring. Bread and milk and several kinds of juice. Popsicle sticks and paper plates and napkins. Our cart is getting heavy.
I take a picture of the stuffed cart. Mom’s face looks serious as we get to the checkout. She pulls out her coupons and hands them to the checkout lady.
I give the lady our reusable bags.
As the woman slides each item across the scanner, Jasmine and I check out the rack of candy and bubble gum right next to us.
“Mom, can I —”
“Not a chance,” she says before I can finish.
Jasmine and I look at each other knowingly. We know when to push a mom and when to shut up. So we don’t say anything else about candy.
When the total amount is tallied, Mom sighs and slides her credit card through the machine. “Oo-wee! I sure hope this party is worth it,” she says.
“I promise, Mom. I’m going to do it all myself. Well, Jasmine is going to help me, but we’re going to make you proud. Nothing will go wrong. Promise. Promise. Promise.”
I snap a picture of Mom as she rubs her forehead. That’s a sure sign that she is worried.
We roll our heavy cart out to the car.
When I get home from school on Monday, even though it is raining outside, I’m in a terrific mood. Lillian can come to the party! I place her RSVP on our refrigerator door with a pink, shiny butterfly magnet that I found in my sack.
“Mom! Can I start making stuff for the party?” I ask.
“Have you done your homework?” Mom always asks that question.
“This is my homework!” I tell her.
“Which recipe are you going to make first?” she asks me.
“The frozen stuff,” I tell her. “It can stay in the freezer all week.”
“Tell me what you’re going to do,” she says.
“I call this one Sassy’s Red Frozen Sparkle Sickles,” I tell her. “I have decided to give every recipe a name. I’m going to give the kids a menu when they get here. Just like in a real restaurant.”
“Do you need my help?” Mom asks.
“I don’t think so,” I reply.
“I’ll just sit here at the table and read the newspaper, okay? You go right ahead.” Mom opens the newspaper and acts like she is ignoring me. But I know she is watching.
I get my recipe list from my Sassy Sack and get out each ingredient. Pineapple juice and fruit punch from the refrigerator. Applesauce and crushed pineapple from the cupboard. Sugar.
“I really like these cool-shaped ice cube trays we got,” I say as I remove their plastic coverings. “Should I use the blue bowl?” I ask Mom. I also find her measuring cup.
“The red one is bigger,” she comments without looking up.
I pull the red one from the cupboard, and just as I’m ready to open the bottle of pineapple juice, Mom says, “Wash your hands, Sassy. And be sure to shake the juice before you pour it.”
I sorta want her to leave me alone, but I’m kinda glad she’s sitting there. I wash my hands, shake the juice, and open the bottle.
I measure out one cup of the pineapple juice. I pour it carefully into the bowl. Not one drop spills. Then I measure one cup of the fruit punch and add that to it. It looks delicious.
“What do I do with the leftover fruit punch?” I ask Mom as I replace the top.
Sabin barges into the room. “I’ll drink it, Sassy!” he says loudly. He reaches for the fruit punch.
“No, Sabin!” I cry out. I snatch the bottle from him. “I might need more. Drink some soda instead. But not the one in the green bottle. That’s for my party.”
Sabin makes a face, but he grabs something else to drink. Then he puts a spoon into the freshly opened jar of applesauce. “Yummy!” he declares.
“Sabin, quit!” I tell him. “I need that for my recipe! Mom, make him stop messing with my stuff!”
Mom looks up from her paper. “Give your sister a break, Sabin,” she says. “If you let her finish making everything, I’m sure she’ll let you sample the finished products.”
“Okay. Okay.” Sabin opens a package of cookies. “Are you using these, too?”
“No. Help yourself.”
He takes about five of them, then saunters out of the kitchen.
I glance out the kitchen window. It’s really dark out, even though it’s still early afternoon. I hear thunder rumbling in the distance. But that’s far away, and I’m here in Mom’s kitchen, and I’m rocking!
I take a deep breath. “Where was I?” I say out loud. I add the applesauce and crushed pineapple to the mixture in the bowl, and about a quarter cup of sugar.
I stir and stir and stir. I taste a little with my finger. Heavenly! And it really does look sparkly. Just perfect for me!
I rinse the funny-shaped ice trays. Very carefully, I pour the red sparkle mixture into containers shaped like stars and animals.
I pull my camera from my Sassy Sack. I take a picture of the shimmery red stuff in the trays. I can’t wait to eat a Sparkle Sickle!
Then I open the freezer.
“Mom!” I tell her. “There’s no room in here!”
“Move some stuff around, Sassy. Take that roast out — I’ll make it for dinner tomorrow. Then arrange everything else so you have a free shelf.”
It’s cold in the freezer. Really cold. By the time I finish, my fingers are almost numb. But I carefully place my molds and close the door. One recipe down. A million more to go.
Being a famous chef is hard work!
“Can I make my pie next?” I ask Mom. “It goes in the freezer also. This one is called Sassy’s Orange Supreme Frozen Pie.”
“Go for it,” Mom says. She is working on a crossword puzzle.
This time I get out a graham cracker crust. It is already made and stuck to a pie pan. “Cool!” I say.
Then I laugh to myself because the next thing I take out of the freezer is the Cool Whip.
Next I get out a can of mandarin orange slices and a couple of containers of orange yogurt.
I rinse a bowl, and this time I pour in the yogurt and the topping and stir it up. The color is a pale orange, and it tastes soft and light and creamy.
“Don’t forget to drain the juice from your oranges,” Mom warns me. “You need the sieve.
”
“I know, I know,” I tell her. But I really had forgotten. I would have had a soupy, sloppy mess in the bowl.
I drain the juice into a little bowl full of holes, called a sieve. I think sieve is a funny word. It sure is a funny-looking bowl. I toss the oranges into the mixture. I stir for a couple of minutes, then pour it into the pie crust.
“Easy breezy!” I say out loud.
I snap another photo. This one looks like an orange cloud.
I cover the pie with aluminum foil. One more recipe in the freezer. I’m doing great!
More thunder rumbles. It’s getting closer. I see flashes of lightning.
“Okay, Sassy,” Mom says. “Wash your utensils now and let me make dinner. You’ve done a great job.”
“I told you I could do this, Mom,” I tell her proudly.
“So far, so good,” she says.
I hardly ever volunteer to wash the dishes, but I carefully rinse my bowl and spoons and clear away all my trash.
The rain is coming down really hard outside.
Sadora rushes into the kitchen, her hair dripping and her clothes soaked. Daddy is right behind her.
“What a mess!” she cries out. “I got drenched just running from the car!”
“You ought to see your hair,” I tell her.
She runs to the hall mirror. “Eek! What if somebody sees me like this?”
Mom and Daddy look at each other and roll their eyes.
Sadora rushes upstairs to fix her hair.
I help Mom set the table. It’s getting darker and darker outside.
Thunder booms and lightning flashes.
“It looks like nighttime,” I say to Mom.
Sabin is in the family room, playing a video game. I can hear Sadora’s blow dryer upstairs. Mom pops a casserole into the microwave. Daddy dries his face and hair with a towel, then clicks on his favorite news show.
That’s when another huge flash of lightning brightens the dark sky outside. Suddenly, the whole house goes dark.
The microwave stops. The blow dryer goes silent. The newsman on TV halts in midsentence. Sabin’s game stops beeping.
Everything has lost power.
“What happened?” Sadora cries as she runs down the steps in her bare feet.
“It seems the electrical storm has knocked out a power line,” Daddy says.
“But what about my hair? I didn’t get to finish drying and styling it!”
The Sassy Collection Page 25
