Frogs & French Kisses #2 (22 page)

After dinner, we tested the transformer spell. How? We made me a prom dress. A beautiful, long, emerald green silk gown. We borrowed/stole one of Prissy’s Barbie outfits and transformed it into a perfect prom dress. And the best part of the spell is that it works immediately: the cloth stretched itself into a size four and grew taffeta right before our eyes. The dress fit me perfectly. If I were ever in another fashion show (which no one would ever let me do), I would want to wear this.

This plan might actually work. The lights of the Queensboro Bridge are twinkling below us; the full moon is glowing overhead. The wind in my face is warm, the helmet itch is minimal (Miri packs these babies wherever we go), I have the best prom dress ever. . . . I think I might be happy. I know I complain a lot, but the truth is, I’m one of the luckiest girls in the world. I live in an amazing city, I have two (plus one) parents who love me, and I have a younger sister who not only adores me but is also a witch. I do well in school, and I have a boyfriend and a fantastic best friend. So I have to spend the summer as a mosquito snack. I’ll deal. At least Miri will be with me.

Suddenly, the tricycle swoops a few feet, and my stomach shoots into my throat. But then we stabilize.

Did I mention I’m happy I have my health?

As we fly high over the city and above the buildings, I peer down at the miniature taxis and people, who look like game pieces on a Monopoly board. And then, before I know it, the ride is over and we’re landing on the home plate of the JFK baseball field. (It’s a miniature field; we’re in Manhattan, after all.) No matter how much fun flying is, it’s always nice to feel the grass under my shoes. By the time I take off my helmet and shake out my hair, Miri is already at the door working her magic.

I roll the tricycle and meet her at the gym entranceway, just in time to watch her toss the sesame seeds at the door handle and say,

“Slack to slick,

Talk to tick,

Believe and see,

Open sesame!”

The door springs open. “Good work!” I say, and happily skip into the building, the tricycle trailing behind. It’s very dark in the hallway. We don’t want to turn on any lights for fear of attracting attention. Why did I take off my helmet? I could really use the night vision.

“Where should we put it?” Miri wonders out loud.

“In the auditorium. Follow me.” As I creep through the empty hallway, every sound makes me jump. Being in the school alone at night is super creepy.

I open the doors to the auditorium and see the rows and rows of seats. Now, where do we put the car? “Let’s do the transformation on the stage,” I say, and climb up the steps and pull back the curtain. It’ll be the grand finale! This is really the best plan I’ve ever had. From the Mercedes Web site, we learned that Jennifer’s car cost sixty thousand dollars. So even if the highest bidder offers only a quarter of the money, fifteen thousand, I save the prom almost single-handedly (with the help of Miri and her magic, of course).

Miri climbs onto the stage and removes the ingredients from her satchel: sunflower seeds, raisins, flour, and lemon juice. She tosses them into the purple plastic container we borrowed/stole from the house. Once the ingredients are mixed, she says, “Ready? I have to pour it on the tricycle.”

“Go for it!” How cool is this going to be? She’s going to whip up a Mercedes. And some lucky person is going to buy it and drive the car right out of the— “Wait!”

She stops in midpour. “What?”

“How will someone drive the car outside?” I point to the four walls. “There’s no garage door.”

She places the container back on the creaking stage floor. “Oops. I guess we have to do it outside.”

“We’d better wish up a car alarm, or the Mercedes will be gone by Monday.”

A few minutes later we’ve dragged the tricycle and the ingredients back through the hallway and outside and set up the bike in the outfield next to the school gate. Miri then begins to pour, chanting:

“Transform this being,

With the cycle of life,

To become its destiny.

Like a caterpillar into a butterfly

(“This is the part I added,” she says, smiling.)

A Mercedes from this tricycle.”

Her lips purse, the air gets cold, and I take a giant step backward so I won’t get run over. Good-bye, sweet bike! You served me, Miri, and Prissy well. We had a fantastic time together in Central Park. But now you’re being turned into your destiny. Or at least something that could get a higher price at the auction.

Nothing happens for the first few seconds, but then my front tire expands, like gum being blown into a bubble. When it’s fattened to car-tire size, it suddenly splits in two and separates. With an earth-shattering squeak, the metal frame of the bike starts expanding into the body of a car. Cool! The small triangular seat transforms into five seats of plush black leather, and the handles grow into a steering wheel. As the interior completes itself, the car’s exterior grows upward in liquid form and then hardens into finished, shiny steel.

Thirty seconds later, a complete canary yellow Mercedes roadster convertible is assembled in front of us. “It worked! It worked, it worked, it worked!” I can’t stop myself from jumping up and down.

Miri jumps up and down with me, equally amazed. Wow. A prom dress is one thing, but
this
is a car. My baby sister just built the world’s coolest car from practically birdseed. The hood glistens in the moonlight, and I give the side mirror a pat.

“Let’s make sure it works before we get too excited,” Miri says with caution. “I don’t want this to be another fiasco.”

She’s right. We’ve had a lot of fiascos lately. I’m barely able to contain my excitement. I hop toward the front seat. “I’m driving!” I’ve always wanted to say that. “But you can have shotgun,” I add.

I jump over the side window, like they did in the fifties. Ouch. They must have made the cars shorter in the fifties. Yes! The keys are lying on the seat. Magic is so clever.

“Where are we going?” Miri asks, opening the passenger door. “You know you don’t know how to drive, right?”

I fasten my seat belt. “Back to Long Island?”

She starts biting her fingers.

“I’m kidding! I thought we would just spin around the field. How hard can it be? Millions of morons do it.” Now if I can only figure out how to start the engine.

“Put the key in the ignition,” Miri advises.

Obviously. I lean toward the ignition and insert the key. Done. Still not on. “Do you think it’s broken?”

She laughs. “You have to turn it.”

Right. I turn the key and the car roars to life. Fun! Now, let’s see. Hit the gas? How do I know which is the gas? I press down my right foot. The engine revs but nothing happens. “It must be broken,” I say, deflated.

“I think
you’re
the moron,” Miri says, still laughing. “You have to take the car out of park. Put your foot on the other pedal.” I do as I’m told. “Now move your foot back to the first pedal. Gently. I said, gently!”

We tear a few feet forward before I slam on the brakes. Yikes. “I declare the car working!” We check the reverse, the air-conditioning, the heating, the windshield wipers, the convertible top, the power seats and windows, and of course the CD player. Céline Dion’s voice blares from the speakers.

“It’s perfect!” Miri says. “And it smells so new and leathery. Just like Jennifer’s car. Too bad she already bought hers, or we could have made her one for free.”

“Oh, how you’ve grown, little tricycle,” I say, like a proud parent.

We get out of the car, taking the keys with us. (I’ll leave them in the student council lounge on Monday morning.)

“Perfect,” Miri says. “Let’s get back to Long Island.”

I climb on her back, and away we go.

“It’s gone! It’s gone! We have to call the police!”

That’s what wakes me up the next morning.

Miri and I both jump out of bed and run to the two-car garage, which is where my dad, Jennifer, and Prissy are standing.

My father’s car is still there. But in the spot where Jennifer’s car used to be is my old tricycle. At least, I think it’s my old tricycle. It looks exactly the same except it’s . . . silver?

Tears are streaming down Jennifer’s cheeks, and her hands are flailing above her head hysterically. “Someone stole my car! Right out of ”—she lets out a loud wail— “my garage!”

My eyes lock with Miri’s. This is not looking good. If my bike is here and Jennifer’s car is gone, does that mean that on the school baseball field is Jennifer’s car?

“Did anyone hear anything last night?” my dad asks, scratching the bald spot on his head.

“No,” Miri and I say simultaneously.

Jennifer sobs, shaking her head.

“I did!” Prissy chirps. “It was after I climbed into your bed, and you were both sleeping. There was a noise, and I tried to wake you up, but, Mommy, you told me I was being a big baby and I should go to sleep. When am I going to camp?”

“I’m calling the police,” my dad says.

“At least I hadn’t put a car seat in yet,” Jennifer says.

“Was anything else in the car?” Dad asks.

“Just my Céline Dion CD,” she sobs. “I love that CD.”

It’s official. We stole our stepmother’s car. And to add insult to injury, the spell reversed the colors.

Miri and I retreat back into our room as our father files a complaint.

“I knew it looked like her car,” Miri says.

“How did that happen?” I murmur. “We have to transport ourselves back to school right away and switch it. Now.”

“We can’t disappear in the middle of the day,” Miri says. “Don’t you think Dad will wonder where we are?”

“So we’ll tell him we have to go home.
Now.
I’ll pack up. You tell Dad that you forgot about an assignment due tomorrow and you have to get back to the city. And that I’ve offered to go home with you. Go.”

Six hours later, we’ve taken the train back to the city (Dad insisted on making sure we were on), stopped at the apartment for the spell reversal, snuck back onto the school baseball field, and reversed the spell. By the time the police arrived at my dad’s, the car was back in their garage, causing, I’m sure, much confusion.

The thing is, it’s Jennifer’s car—they could tell by the serial numbers—but it’s still canary yellow.

“I kind of like it this way,” Jennifer said.

I didn’t dare ask about the tricycle.

At the moment I’m pacing up and down my room. I failed. All I had to do to save the prom was come up with something to auction off, and I have nothing. And now we won’t make enough money on Monday and Will is going to lose his deposits and there won’t be a prom and it’s all my fault.

But that’s not what’s bothering me the most. What’s scratching at my brain is how Jennifer’s car ended up at JFK. Isn’t magic creating something from scratch? What about all the other stuff we zapped up? Like the oranges?

I pace right into Miri’s disaster of a room. “Have we been stealing?” I ask.

She continues writing without looking up. “I screwed up a spell. Get over it.”

“Nothing comes from nothing, you know? Remember when you zapped the cows to safety? And they ended up in the gym? If everything has to go somewhere, it’s only logical that it has to come from somewhere.”

She adamantly shakes her head. “You’re wrong. Can you stop wasting my time, please? I have real people to help. Starving people.” And with that, she stands up, pushes me out of her room, and slams the door in my face.

I turn on my computer. I type
orange shortage
into the search engine. Two hundred and thirty thousand hits.

I click on the most recent. Maybe no one would notice a few oranges missing.

“Tristate Grocery Stores Missing Fruit.” Oh, no. It’s dated Saturday, April 24. The same day we zapped up the oranges. How weird. And reportedly, all the crates of oranges in the tristate area inexplicably went missing. Did we cause the shortage? I feel sick to my stomach.

Funny that the oranges went missing from the stores and not a grove. Maybe because Miri’s an urban witch?