The Magical Land of Birthdays

by Amirah Kassem

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-3743-5

  eISBN: 978-1-6833-5576-2

  Text copyright © 2019 Amirah Kassem

  Book design by Hana Anouk Nakamura

  Flour Shop branding by TPD Design House

  Published in 2019 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

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  To everyone with a birthday!

  Here’s to wishing you find your B-Buds and spread joy one sprinkle at a time!

  Keep believing in the magic of birthdays and friendship—a pocket of sprinkles can change the world!

  “Happy New Year!” Amirah sang out.

  Her parents looked up from their morning coffee. “Happy New Year, princess,” Baba said.

  “You’re starting the new year off in a good mood,” Mama added.

  “Well, you know what January first means,” Amirah replied.

  Mama pretended to look confused. “The first day of the new year?” she teased Amirah.

  “No!” Amirah replied with a laugh. “Well, yes! But it means my birthday is in one week. Just one more week to go until I turn eleven!”

  “Oh, of course!” Mama replied. “How could I have forgotten?”

  Amirah and Mama exchanged a big grin. They both knew that she hadn’t forgotten—not for a minute. Birthdays were a very big deal in Amirah’s family—and Amirah wouldn’t want it to be any other way. All year long, she looked forward to her birthday on January 8. Not just because of the presents or the delicious cake—though she definitely loved those parts of her birthday. No, the very best thing about her birthday was that it gave Amirah the chance to celebrate with all her favorite people. She invited everybody in her small town in Mexico to her birthday party every year, from her friends to her neighbors to the principal of her school!

  “Want some chocolate con leche?” Mama asked as she stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Your brother will be awake soon and I know he’ll want some.”

  “Yes, please,” Amirah said. The warm, sweet drink was one of her favorites, especially at breakfast time. It was a traditional beverage in her country, but Amirah always liked to add an unusual ingredient: a smattering of sprinkles from the container she kept in her pocket. No matter where she went or what she did, Amirah made sure to carry some sprinkles with her. She was a firm believer in the power of sprinkles and their ability to make magic happen just about anywhere.

  While Mama measured out the ingredients for chocolate con leche, Amirah walked over to the little desk in the corner of the living room where she kept all her favorite art supplies.

  “How are the invitations coming?” Baba asked as he sipped his coffee.

  “Almost done,” Amirah replied. “Mrs. Maria’s will be the first one I deliver. I’m bringing it to her later.”

  “I’m sure she will like that,” Baba said. “I know your visits brighten her whole day.”

  “I hope so,” Amirah said, reaching for her favorite pink glitter pen. Making personalized invitations for her party guests was one of her special traditions, and Amirah had been spending a lot of time at her desk over the last few weeks as she worked on them. Amirah had spent twice as much time on Mrs. Maria’s invitation as all the rest. Mrs. Maria, one of Amirah’s elderly neighbors and a close friend, treasured the handmade invitations that Amirah had brought her over the years. She kept them on display year-round!

  “Oh good, the paint’s dry!” Amirah exclaimed. Mrs. Maria’s card had a birthday cake on it, covered in colorful sprinkles, of course. A single candle in the cake burned brightly with a flame made from red, orange, and gold glitter.

  Amirah carefully tucked Mrs. Maria’s invitation into the last envelope and added a handful of shiny confetti. She loved birthdays so much that she even wanted her invitations to feel like a party when her friends and family opened them!

  Amirah could tell from the delicious smell of chocolate wafting from the kitchen that her drink was almost ready, so she wandered into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

  “Your invitations turned out beautifully this year,” Mama said as she stirred the pot of chocolate con leche on the stove. “I noticed you painted a lot of birthday cakes. Any ideas about your birthday cake?”

  Amirah sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know why I can’t decide,” she replied. “I want it to be delicious—and different—but beyond that, I’m just not sure.”

  “Try not to worry, princess,” Mama said. “You still have a whole week to figure it out. I know the perfect cake will come to you!”

  Amirah hoped so. She had already worked out all the other details for her party, from the type of piñata she was going to have (unicorn shaped) to the outfit she was going to wear (rainbow striped dress, denim jacket, and silver glitter sneakers). The candy bags Amirah would hand out to all her guests were even planned out! Every little detail had been finalized, except for the cake.

  After breakfast, Amirah spent the next few hours working on the last batch of party invitations. Finally, when they were all finished, she left them to dry on her desk. She grabbed her backpack and her pink sweater and hurried down the path to the sidewalk. Her neighbor Mrs. Maria lived just two doors down. Mrs. Maria’s grandkids all lived in the United States, so she treated Amirah like an unofficial granddaughter. Amirah didn’t mind one bit. She loved to visit her for an afternoon of stories and conchas. The sweet, seashell-shaped treats were more of a breakfast food, but Amirah loved that Mrs. Maria liked to serve them in the afternoon too!

  As she stood on the doorstep, Amirah knocked on the door—rap-rap-thud-thud-tap-tap-tap! The special knock was a code to tell Mrs. Maria that she’d come to visit. And sure enough, Mrs. Maria swung open the door just moments later. Her bright smile smoothed out all the lines in her face.

  “Happy New Year, Amirah!” Mrs. Maria exclaimed, holding open the door for her.

  “Happy New Year!” Amirah replied. “I have something for you!”

  Mrs. Maria’s eyes sparkled. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked as Amirah handed her the envelope. “Oh good, I was hoping to get one this year!”

  “You’ll get one every year!” Amirah said with a laugh. Then her eyes widened as she realized that Mrs. Maria’s gray hair had a little something extra in it—a lacy cobweb! Luckily, there were no spiders to be seen, and Mrs. Maria laughed as Amirah brushed the cobweb away.

  “I’ve been tidying my attic,” she explained. “I always like to begin the New Year with a fresh start. And that includes the house too.”

  Amirah thought about the clutter under her bed and knew she should follow Mrs. Maria’s example.

  “Come, sit,” Mrs. Maria said. “I want to open this invitation properly, with
a nice cup of horchata. And I don’t suppose I could interest you in some?”

  “Always!” Amirah replied.

  Mrs. Maria bustled off to the kitchen and soon returned with a pitcher of cold, creamy horchata and—Amirah grinned—a plate of conchas. As she poured the horchata, a frown flickered across Mrs. Maria’s face. She shook her head.

  “Ay, me. Something is missing.” She sighed. “What would make this food even more festive?”

  Amirah raised an eyebrow. “Are you thinking of something . . . colorful? And sweet?”

  “Sí, sí, that’s exactly it!” Mrs. Maria replied.

  “I have just the thing,” Amirah said as she pulled the sprinkles out of her pocket. Ever since Mrs. Maria had discovered that Amirah always carried sprinkles with her, she found a way to ask for them whenever they shared a snack or a meal.

  “Wonderful! You are ready for anything!” Mrs. Maria said.

  Once their cups of horchata were topped with a rainbow of sprinkles, Mrs. Maria opened the envelope and carefully pulled out the invitation that Amirah had made. As soon as she opened it, shiny bits of confetti fluttered through the air.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Maria exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. “Even the invitation feels like a party!”

  “Well,” Amirah said, “you know how I feel about birthdays.”

  Mrs. Maria laughed. “The whole town knows how you feel about birthdays,” she replied. “It’s a gift, you know. To remember the joy of your special day and carry it in your heart all year long.”

  “Doesn’t everybody feel that way about birthdays, though?” Amirah asked.

  “I’m not sure that everyone does,” Mrs. Maria replied. Her face broke into a smile as she reached across the table to give Amirah’s hand a gentle squeeze. “But lucky for everyone who has ever met you, you are a wonderful reminder of just how special birthdays are!”

  Amirah grinned back at Mrs. Maria.

  “Now, this cake you painted,” Mrs. Maria continued. “Is this a hint about your birthday cake, eh?”

  “You know I can’t tell you!” Amirah replied. “It’s a secret until the party!” And so far, it’s a secret even from me, she thought—but didn’t say.

  Then Amirah noticed a stack of books on the table. “What are all these?” she asked.

  “My old cookbooks,” Mrs. Maria said. “I’m getting rid of them, once and for all.”

  Amirah looked up in surprise. “You are? Why?” she said.

  “Because I have been cooking for so long, I keep all my favorite recipes up here,” Mrs. Maria said, tapping her temple. “I haven’t even opened those cookbooks in ages! Some I never even touched, they were just things I picked up through the years.”

  “You just ‘picked them up through the years’?” Amirah repeated, confused.

  “Yes, exactly,” Mrs. Maria laughed. “I would buy secondhand cookbooks at yard sales or flea markets, or friends would give them to me as gifts. When you like to cook as much as I do, for as long as I have, you just accumulate a collection of cookbooks and you don’t even know how!” Mrs. Maria took a final sip of her horchata. “You can help yourself if you want any of them.”

  “Wow, really?” Amirah asked.

  “Sí! Take as many as you want,” Mrs. Maria said. “They served me well when I was young like you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to start making some pozole for my supper. And you know what? I think I’ll make a little extra. Then you can take some home and surprise your sweet mother. Tada! Dinner is ready!”

  “She’ll love it,” Amirah replied. “And so will I!”

  Mrs. Maria’s cooking was legendary in their neighborhood. Like Mrs. Maria, Amirah’s mother was also an outstanding cook and baker, and she never seemed to need a recipe either. Somehow, Mama just knew what a particular dish needed . . . a pinch of this, a spoonful of that. Amirah longed to be so skilled in the kitchen, but she’d never been bold enough to cook without a recipe before.

  Maybe if I use Mrs. Maria’s cookbooks, I’ll learn all her recipes, Amirah thought to herself. She carefully sorted through the stack of cookbooks. There were cookbooks for dinner parties and cookbooks for holidays; cookbooks for everyday meals and cookbooks for special occasions. Amirah’s mouth started to water as she flipped through the books. From the kitchen, the delicious smells of sizzling onions and chilies wafted through the dining room as Mrs. Maria prepared a big pot of pozole.

  Amirah’s fingers brushed against a slim cookbook. A strange sensation—almost like a spark—tingled up her arm. She paused. Then she picked up the book.

  Amirah could tell right away that the cookbook was old. The cover had begun to peel, shedding shimmery gold flakes on her palms. The title, though, blazed as brightly as if it had just been printed. It read:

  Amirah’s eyes grew wide. The Power of Sprinkles? she thought in surprise. She believed in the power of sprinkles more than anyone else she knew—in their ability to make just about any dessert taste better, or to turn even the gloomiest afternoon into a cheerful party. And now, she was holding a whole cookbook that followed the same philosophy?

  Well, there was no doubt about it.

  That cookbook was meant for her!

  Amirah was even more convinced that it was a very special cookbook when she realized every single recipe was for a delicious-sounding cake. Amirah loved cooking, but baking was her true passion because she got to use her imagination every time she decorated a cake. Each recipe in this cookbook sounded so delectable that Amirah wanted to make them all. And as far as she could tell, it was the only cookbook in the entire pile that contained recipes for desserts only. Somehow that made it feel even more special.

  Amirah slipped The Power of Sprinkles into her backpack and stood up. She was just about to ask Mrs. Maria where she had gotten that particular cookbook when a loud clang from the kitchen made her jump.

  “Mrs. Maria!” she called out as she ran into the kitchen. “Are you okay?”

  “Sí, sí,” Mrs. Maria replied. “I’m fine. I just dropped the ladle. Luckily it hit the floor instead of my foot! It made a little bit of a mess, though!”

  Amirah immediately grabbed a wad of paper towels from the counter to clean up the splatters from the floor so Mrs. Maria wouldn’t have to bend down.

  “Do you need some help?” Amirah asked after the mess was all cleaned up. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to make your pozole. It’s so good that we never have any leftovers.”

  Mrs. Maria smiled and made room for Amirah behind the counter. “That’s the highest praise a humble cook like me could ask for,” she said. “Now, I’ll tell you a little secret about my pozole. It’s all in the seasoning. Watch how I crumble this oregano . . .”

  That night, Amirah was so engrossed in The Power of Sprinkles that she didn’t even hear the tap-tap-tap on her bedroom door.

  “Amirah?” Mama’s voice sounded muffled. “Are you in there?”

  “Sí, Mama!” Amirah replied. “Come in!”

  “What are you reading?” Mama asked as she sat down on the end of Amirah’s bed.

  “Mrs. Maria had a bunch of old cookbooks that she doesn’t need anymore,” Amirah explained. “She said I could help myself to them and when I saw this one . . . well, I felt like it was meant for me!”

  “The Power of Sprinkles?” Mama said. Her eyes twinkled. “Are you sure you didn’t write this one?”

  “Yes—but I wish I did!” Amirah replied. “Look, there are recipes for all different types of birthday cakes—Mei’s Birthday Cake and Ziggy’s Birthday Cake and Elvis’s Birthday Cake and on and on. Every single cake sounds amazing. I want to try them all!”

  “Reading cookbooks has the same effect on me,” Mama replied. Amirah scooted over in the bed to make room for Mama so they could flip through the book together. The pages of the old cookbook were stained and tattered; some even had notes written on them in faint pencil that Amirah could barely read. But she could tell that the notes were not all written in the same han
dwriting, and that made her wonder who had owned the cookbook before Mrs. Maria. Were any of the notes from Mrs. Maria, or just the previous owners of the cookbook?

  Amirah leaned her head against Mama’s shoulder as they turned the pages of The Power of Sprinkles. Then Amirah saw something that made her sit up straight. For half a second, she almost thought she’d imagined it. Amirah shook her head—blinked—

  She hadn’t imagined it. The words were right there, printed clear as day:

  “Look!” she exclaimed, pointing at the recipe name.

  “My goodness!” Mama said. “How surprising!”

  That was the understatement of the year. Amirah’s name was Arabic, not Mexican, which meant she never stumbled across it. There were no other Amirahs at school, no characters named Amirah in her favorite books, no key chains or hair clips or T-shirts with Amirah printed on them in stores. As far as Amirah knew, she was the only Amirah in the whole country. Normally, that didn’t bother her one bit. She loved that her name meant princess in Arabic, almost like a secret that only Amirah and her family knew. Now that Amirah saw a recipe that shared her name, though, something stirred deep in her heart. It was a feeling of connection.

  Amirah’s fingers reached out to touch the page. And then—that spark she’d felt before, that tingle in her fingertips—well, this time she saw it.

  No, Amirah thought.

  It wasn’t possible.

  Yet as Amirah rested her hand on the page for Amirah’s Birthday Cake, she could see it. Not just one spark but dozens—hundreds—of specks of golden light, glittering around her fingers, over her hand, up her arm—

  Amirah pulled her hand away from the book and looked urgently at Mama, who was casually glancing at the page. It was obvious that she hadn’t noticed a thing.

  Amirah’s hand inched closer to the page. Once more, the bits of light began to gather at her fingertips—

  “Listen to this,” Mama was saying as she read the recipe description. “‘The magic is in the sprinkles. Amirah’s Birthday Cake, a unicorn cake baked with plenty of surprises, is truly fit for a princess.’”