Bite-Sized Magic (11 page)

 

“Real juicy,” said Ty sarcastically. “Where's the stuff about girls?”

Rose flipped a few pages.

 

Day 45

Raymond Kerr and the rest of the Pine Ridge Crew stole my overalls while I was at the swimming hole and gave them to Polly Rainer, and she screamed and dropped them and said cooties. When I got out, they were covered in mud and leaves and I had to walk home with mud inside my overalls. When I got home, Mama scolded me for bringing dirt into the bakery. When I told her what happened, she fed me three Dinky Cakes and told me to calm down.

 

“Seems like he was eating a lot of Dinky Cakes,” said Rose.

“You know who I bet likes Dinky Cakes?” Ty asked.

Sage shrugged. “Who?”

Ty's eyes seemed to twinkle. “Katy Perry.”

 

Day 162

My overalls no longer fit me. Mama took me to the store to buy me bigger overalls, and who was there, of course, but Raymond Kerr. He called me Lardo and pinched my nose. I shed a tear and reached out for Mama, but instead of petting me on the head or giving me a hug, she shoved a Dinky Cake into my mouth.

 

“Fine,” said Ty. “Looks like all the Dinky Cakes caught up to him anyway.”

He sighed. “Let's skip ahead. Raymond Kerr is a jerk. We get the point.”

“Wow, he really wasn't much of a diary writer,” Rose said, reading the dates. “He passes over whole years in just a couple of lines.” She pointed to a series of entries that read simply:
Age 13—HORRIBLE. Age 14—Never mind! Age 15—I got taller. That's something, I guess. But mostly? HORRIBLE
.

She turned a few more pages.

 

Day 2,920

It is my eighteenth birthday today. Papa has asked what I'd like as a present and I told him that I would like him and Grandpapa to retire so that I can take over the chain of bakeries that Grandpapa has built up over the years. Papa and Grandpapa are happy with sixteen bakeries, but they don't have any vision. Maybe because they still eat our baked goods and are still fat and round like I used to be.

Last week I received a letter in the mail from something called the International Society of the Rolling Pin. Apparently, I am a descendant of a great baker named Albatross Bliss. I will join this Society and use the knowledge they give me to build a huge corporation. The people I hire will all be as short and round as I was as a boy, and I will become so important and make so much money that I can make Raymond Kerr work for me and have him do my bidding. Ha ha ha! One day, the world will be at the mercy of the Mostess Bakery.

That is my dream.

 

“That's it,” said Sage, closing the journal. “That's the end. Geez.”

“Wow,” Ty said. “I can't believe that Mr. Butter is a descendant of Albatross Bliss. That makes him sort of like—”

“Don't say it, Ty,” Rose said, cutting off her older brother.

“Family,”
Sage said softly.

“So, wait—has he been using magic the whole time?” Ty asked.

“I don't think so,” said Rose. “He probably wanted to, but he didn't have the know-how. He just had those industrial strength preservatives,” she added, thinking of the historical Dinky Cake. “Then Aunt Lily joined up with him, and she used the Apocrypha to make the Mostess recipes dangerous.”

The grim truth settled over the room. Rose glanced at the far wall, where a tiny ticking cuckoo clock had begun to chime. It was nine o'clock! Mr. Butter said he would be back later—and later was . . . now.

“Guys!” Rose cried out, peering through one of the windows. She felt a strange grumbling in the pit of her stomach. “We didn't find a hotel key, so we need to perfect the Dinky Doodle Donuts
tonight
or our parents are toast!”

CHAPTER 11
Dinky Doodle Donuts of Zombification

R
ose, Ty, and Sage returned to the test kitchen to find that the bakers had graciously cleaned up, and the kitchen was once again spotless.

The giant vats of batter were covered and set off to the side, and the bakers were chatting among themselves, crowded around one of the steel prep tables. Ning and Jasmine were drinking espresso, while Melanie and Felanie were brushing each other's hair. In the corner, Gus was napping, curled into a tight gray ball atop a pile of flour sacks.

Marge saw them first. “There you are! Did you kids get your parents?”

Ty and Sage shook their heads
No
.

“There's a key to the elevator, and we couldn't find it,” Rose said. “But Mr. Butter said we had to perfect the Dinky Doodle Donuts before bedtime. So here we are.”

Something soft butted against her shin, and she looked down and saw the folded ears and fuzzy gray head of the cat. Rose dropped to her knees and gave him a gentle stroke behind the ears. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

“Of course,” the cat replied. “Bored by these ninnies, but fine.” He stood and stretched. “Due to the urgency of our situation here, I abandoned the idea of napping and instead threw myself into our joint endeavor.”

“What?” Rose said.

“I read through the Apocrypha. And I believe I have already located the necessary recipe, Rose.”

Rose gave Gus a quick kiss between his wrinkled ears. “Oh good.” Then she stood, wiped her knees, and rolled up the white cuffs of her baker's uniform, which had unrolled and fallen below her wrists.

“Here are the Directrice's Dinky Doodle Donuts,” said Marge, handing Rose two packages of six mini donuts. Some were covered in white powdered sugar that looked to Rose like chalk dust from a blackboard, and some were covered in a waxy chocolate glaze. All of the donuts were hard and puck-like.

“And here is the recipe.” Marge held out a creamy-colored recipe card that bore Lily's familiar purple-ink calligraphy. The only magical direction listed on the card was to “fold in
the voice of Drimini
.”

Before anyone could stop him, Sage grabbed a donut and took a bite. He immediately spit it out. “It's like biting on a rock,” he complained. “Except not as tasty.”

Rose gave her younger brother a pat on the shoulder, then turned to Marge. “So, what's wrong with them, other than that they have the texture of concrete?”

“Nothing,” said Marge. She wiped a sweaty palm across her forehead. “I've tried them. Dozens of them! I get no magical feeling whatsoever.”

Rose tapped the card. “Where is this ingredient, this Drimini thing?”

“The Directrice used this.” Marge showed Rose a red mason jar, which did indeed appear empty. “Maybe that's why the donuts do nothing. The jar is empty.”

“It's getting late,” Sage said. “I'm tired.”

“You can't be tired,” Rose told her younger brother. “We still have a lot to do.”

Meanwhile, Gus hopped onto one of the prep tables and sat on the Apocrypha, and flipped it open to a recipe. “This was Lily's inspiration,” he said.

 

PUPPETEER'S POPOVERS: For the pulling of strings

It was in 1932 in the Italian village of Montecastello that the nefarious Albatross descendant Vesuvio D'Astuto did bake a basket of popovers that he did serve at the fourth birthday of the boy who lived next door, Arlecchio. Arlecchio and all of his young friends did eat the popovers, whereupon they became puppets, controlled by the person who bade them “pop to my voice”—the nefarious Vesuvio D'Astuto, who did instruct the boys to pick the pockets of the rich and deliver the spoils to him.

 

Rose scanned down to find the magic ingredient:

 

Sir D'Astuto did imbue his batter with the
soothing voice of Grigory Drimini
, the famous hypnotist.

 

Rose compared the recipe with Lily's recipe card. “Why didn't it work?” she asked.

“Maybe this is the wrong Grigory Drimini?” said Sage.

Rose opened the jar and held it to her ear. She heard a lilting tenor singing an aria. She squinted at the label. It was almost impossible to make out, but she was sure that the faded print read
GRIGORY DRIMINI, MUSICIAN
.

“Good thinking, Sage,” said Rose. “Marge, do you have any
other
empty jars?”

 

Twenty minutes later, after the correct red mason jar had been located and the voice of the great hypnotist Grigory Drimini had been added to the batter for the Dinky Doodle Donuts, Rose pulled a tray from the oven and fed a half dozen donuts to the bakers.

Immediately, the bakers' eyes glazed over, and they stood perfectly still, waiting.

“Tell them to do something,” said Sage. Then his eyes widened with delight. “Make them dance. Make them do it Gangnam Style!”

Rose didn't want to take advantage of the bakers, but it
had
been a long day, and well . . . a little dancing never hurt anybody, right?

“Pop to my voice!” Rose said to the bakers, and the six straightened up and gazed blank-eyed at her. “Um, put your arms out straight.”

Immediately, the bakers lifted their arms straight into the air, as if Rose's voice were a set of invisible puppet strings.

“Nice,
mi hermana
,” Ty said, clearly impressed.

Rose had to think for a second before she remembered the next move. “Cross your hands at the wrists,” she said, and the bakers did as they were told. “Now pretend you're riding an invisible horse, tugging at the reins.”

The bakers moved their hands up and down. Some moved their entire arms, some moved only their hands.

“You forgot the leg moves!” Sage protested, squatting up and down.

“This is terrible,” said Rose.

“I know,” said Ty, frowning. “They are the worst dancers in history. They have no rhythm. Worse than Dad.”

“Come on!” Sage said. “There's more to the dance than that!” He raised his right hand into the air and twirled his fist like he was spinning an invisible lasso.

“No,” said Rose, “that's not what I mean. It's terrible that Mr. Butter is trying to turn everyone in the country into an army of zombies who just want to eat Mostess Snack Cakes!”

Ty scratched his head. “Yeah,” he said after a few seconds. “That's bad, too.”

The bakers quietly continued rocking their hands back and forth.

“That's enough,” Rose said. “Everyone stop!” The bakers froze in place, their arms extended.

Rose leaned down and whispered into Gus's ear. “Gus, what is the antidote ingredient?”

Gus flipped the page and placed his paw toward the bottom.

“Ah!” said Rose, turning to Sage and Ty. “We need something called the Capsules of Time.”

Rose turned to zombie-Marge, who stood at attention with her arms extended. “Marge, do you have any mason jars with Capsules of Time here in the kitchen?”

“No, we have none,” Marge said, her voice flat, her eyes as cloudy as marbles.

“Okay, I know where to get these capsules,” said Rose. “Maybe they have a key to the hotel there as well. Ty and Sage and I are going out. You all stay here.” She looked at the motionless bakers. “Drop your arms and relax.” They did as they were told but still didn't seem quite normal.

To Gus and Jacques, Rose said, “You guys are in charge.”

Gus and Jacques looked at each other mischievously. Or rather, as mischievous as a Scottish Fold cat and a French mouse could look.

“Don't make them do anything silly,” said Rose. “They're completely in your power.”

 

A thunderstorm rolled in as Ty drove Sage and Rose toward the cake-shaped multitiered laboratory and warehouse that housed all of the red mason jars.

Ty pulled his shirt up over his head to protect his marvelous spiked hair from the rain. Sage and Rose huddled together under the roof of the golf cart as the evening sky gave way to deep purple storm clouds, with the occasional white flash of lightning and a barrage of fat, cold raindrops.

They sped past the darkened marketing offices and the abandoned graphic design building and slowed as they approached the laboratory/warehouse. The alleyways were filled with parked cars, long rows of gleaming black limousines, and sleek red sports cars.

“What's going on?” Sage asked.

“It's supposed to be a warehouse for magical ingredients,” Rose said as she saw that the outside of the laboratory was fully illuminated, like the exterior of a museum at night. “I'm not really sure why all these people are here.”

A red carpet now led from the street up to the front entrance, where hundreds of men and women in chef's toques, aprons, and pristine white cooking outfits were filing through the front door.

Above, two giant banners sported the glowing rolling pin logo that Rose recognized from Lily's recipe cards. Another cream-colored banner spanned the entire width of the second tier of the building. It read
ANNUAL CONFERENCE
.

“Whoa!” Rose whispered. “It must be a meeting of the International Society of the Rolling Pin!”

“Isn't Aunt Lily one of them?” said Ty. “Do you think she'll be there? Ugh. I shudder at the thought of her, despite how stunning she is.”

“I don't think she'll come back here,” said Rose. “She didn't return after she lost the Gala, and that's why they kidnapped me. And even if she does show up, we have no choice. We need Capsules of Time to make the bakers stop being zombies, and we need the key to floor 34 at the hotel. I think both are in there.”

“Come on, dude,” said Sage. “Don't you want to hear their evil plans?”

“I don't know if I do,” said Ty, crossing his arms and staring up at the dark, cloudy sky. “But I sure don't want to stay out here in the thunderstorm, so I guess I have no choice. This rain is really harshing my hair.”

 

Rose and her brothers pulled on chef's toques and tried to blend in with the crowd of hundreds who had wormed their way through the front doors and into the lobby.

The laboratory was decorated with lavish arrangements of candy and cupcakes and a giant device that made donuts. While the audience watched, rings of dough were deep-fried, scooped out of the oil by robotic hands, rolled down a chute, and sprayed with chocolate, sprinkles, or powdered sugar, before finally dropping down a slide onto a platter.

A stage and podium had been set up in front of the control board. Mr. Mechanico and the men in the hard hats were nowhere to be seen, but the five-story-high cabinet of red mason jars glittered in the bright lights.

Rose pulled Ty and Sage through the crowd toward the circular ramp that spiraled upward around the central courtyard. The ramp was darkened, and the three of them were able to creep up to the second tier without being noticed. They tiptoed up and around until they were near the top of the building, looking down on the crowd in the lobby.

Below, a tall woman wearing a purple sequined gown and white satin gloves took the stage. She had long, wavy hair that was perfectly black, save for two streaks of white on either side of her face. She reached beneath the podium and pulled out a rolling pin made of glimmering gold. Immediately, a hush fell over the crowd.

A giant black video screen descended from the ceiling. On it were the words
INTERNATIONAL SOCIETY OF THE ROLLING PIN
.

“Good evening,” said the woman. She had a deep voice with a thick accent that made each of her vowels stretch like kneaded toffee. “I am Eva Sarkissian, your president!”

Everyone erupted into applause.

“Thank you,” Eva Sarkissian continued. “We decided to hold our annual meeting here at the Mostess headquarters because the Mostess Snack Cake Corporation has done the most in the past calendar year to advance the interests of our organization.”

The crowd clapped and cheered.

“The Mostess Corporation, under the leadership of distinguished Society member Jameson Butter, has made great strides in the arena of irresistible sweets for adults, children, senior citizens . . . even newborn babies! Who is responsible for tooth decay?”

“We are!” the crowd cheered.

“Obesity?

“We are!”

“Sugar rushes?” Eva asked.

“We are! We are! We are!” A mixture of applause and gentle weeping broke out in the crowd. Some of the men bowed, and the women curtsied.

“In the history of the United States, no one has done more to advance our cause than Mr. Jameson Butter,” Eva Sarkissian said. “Thanks to the secret support of his Mostess Corporation, we have at last succeeded in getting Congress to pass the Big Bakery Discrimination Act!”

Rose gasped in horror. “Of course the Society is behind that insane law!”