Authors: Megan McDonald

The Sisters Club (5 page)

“Like we’re saving the Family Dinner from going extinct around here.”

“Can we make Mac and Cheese?”

“Sure, Duck. We can make whatever you want. Sweet Potato Soufflé, Crêpes Suzette, Jellied Eel, Roast Rat — anything. Just
not
Beef Tornado.”

“And it can’t come from a box.”

Joey and I headed toward the kitchen, a Sisters Club of two. Joey sat at the table and wrote some more in her notebook. She wasn’t exactly helping, but at least I stopped her from living under the piano.

I opened the refrigerator. Three hairy peaches, green cheese, and an art project. “Hey! What are your constellations doing in the fridge?” I asked Joey.

“The glitter nail polish has to get hard.”

“Duck! Go put this on the table.”

Pout-face Joey put down her notebook and took her constellations to the (not-being-used) dining room table. I opened the butter door. “No butter. Just film.”

“Did you know Jell-O is really gooey stuff made from animal parts and they use it in film?” said Joey.

“Gross! Well, we’re not eating film, even if it is made of Jell-O! OK, forget the butter. We’ll use eggs, milk, and cheese. That’s a food group, right?”

“Green cheese? P.U. We’re going to eat green cheese?”

“We’ll cut off the mold. Just like the pioneers!” Joey’s face lit up when I said the magic word.

She scribbled some more in her notebook.

I poured the noodles into the skillet and grated the cheese and beat the eggs and stirred the milk. All Joey did was play with the saltshaker.

“Joey! You’re not helping. Here. Put two drops of hot sauce in.”

“Whatever you say, Betty Cracker.”

“I said two drops! Not a flood! That stuff is really hot. Give it.”

I stirred everything together. “Look. You turned the Mac and Cheese all orange.”

“It doesn’t look right anyway,” Joey told me.

She was right. The macaroni looked too small. And burned. Not plump and fluffy like Dad’s used to be in the good old days (B.B., Before
Beauty
). I’d seen Dad melt the cheese over macaroni in the skillet a hundred times. What had I done wrong?

“Where’s Alex?”

“Not here.”

“Is she still practicing for tryouts? All she cares about is that play!”

“I know,” said Joey. “Hey, let’s make the whole dinner orange! We can have orange Popsicles and orange juice and stuff. Then they’ll think we did it on purpose. Like a theme!”

I wanted to like her idea. I wanted her to feel like she was a big help. “OK, how about Mac and Cheese and orange carrots and orange juice.”

“And don’t forget dessert,” said Joey. “Orange Jell-O!
Orange
you glad I didn’t say banana?”

“Oh, brother.”

“Don’t you mean sister?” she asked.

I spread a tablecloth over the coffee table. “Let’s sit on the floor, Japanese style.”

Joey was in charge of the (all-orange) centerpiece. A half-melted pumpkin candle, a snow globe of the Golden Gate Bridge (minus the snow), a horn-toed lizard she got at the zoo, and socks.

“I hope they like orange in Japan,” Joey said.

Then everything started to happen all at once. Mom yelled, “I’m home!” Dad yelled, “What’s that smell?” Alex made an appearance (better late than never), peeking under pot lids and snitching carrots from the bowl. Some help.

Joey was running around, collecting all the dirty dishes and pots and pans and putting them in the sink to soak. She squeezed like five million gallons of dishwashing liquid in there. I know she was trying to help, but it looked more like she was building the Eiffel Tower in the kitchen sink.

I checked the table. Everything looked OK — pretty good even, minus the Mac and Cheese, which looked super-strange, like astronaut food or something.

“Who made this?” asked Mom (minus any yummy noises).

“Crêpes Stevette,” said Joey, not taking any credit for the orange mess.

“Um . . . why are there socks on the table?” Alex asked.

“Because they’re orange,” said Joey. “It’s a theme!”

Everybody stared at their plates. I caught Joey doing the old napkin-under-the-table trick, feeding everything but the Jell-O to her napkin. Did she think I didn’t know? I invented that trick.

“C’mon, you guys. It’s not like it’s
King Lear
jellied eel and rotten oranges.” I tried to sound cheerful. But my own plate stared up at me, all orange and lumpy.

“BLUCK! What is
this
?” I asked, pulling a particularly disgusting lump from my Mac and Cheese. “Ooh! It’s an
ear
!” Gloppy cheese dropped from its lobe. “Jo-ey!” I couldn’t believe I’d been the victim of the Rubber Ear Trick — me, who invented that one, too!

Alex burst out laughing. “There’s an ear in your macaroni? Yee-uck. I hope there aren’t any elbows in mine.” She poked it with a fork. “Or eyeballs.”

Joey cracked up.

“Very funny, Duck,” I said. “See how hard I’m laughing? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” I said, holding the cheesy ear out to her.

“I can’t hear you,” Joey said.

“Pass the salt,” said Alex. “At least it’s not orange.”

“And it doesn’t have ears!” said Joey, cracking herself up all over again.

Dad was first to take a bite.
Crunch!

Mom tried a mouthful.
Crr-unch!

Alex swallowed. “Wa-ter,” she gasped, holding her throat.

“What’s wrong with everybody? This is supposed to be a Family Dinner,” I told them. “You know, where we all get to be together, have conversation? Not just eat cereal from a box and watch Mom on TV.”

“I think I broke a tooth!” shouted Alex.

Dad wiped his mouth about a hundred and one times with his napkin. Even Dad was using the old napkin trick!

“I’m not one to talk when it comes to cooking —” Mom started.

“I made it just like Dad does!” I protested.

“Stevie, honey, you did
boil
the macaroni first, didn’t you?” Dad asked. “
Before
you put it in the skillet?”

Joey looked at me and burst out laughing. I mean really lost it this time.

“Carrots, anyone?” I asked, not even cracking a smile.

Just when I thought Family Dinner couldn’t
get any worse, Alex said, “Hey, what’s that sound?”

“It’s the fridge gurgling,” said Mom.

“Sometimes it does ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’” said Dad.

Everybody was laughing except me. I wasn’t laughing, because I saw something. Something moving. Creeping out of the kitchen. Right toward me. Inching closer and closer.

Not a disgusting rat or giant termite or million-legged centipede or anything like that. It was a mountain of white, foamy, bubbly, frothy
soapsuds,
floating down the hall like a giant bubble bath coming at us.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, and raced for the kitchen.

Then I screamed.

Alex and Joey came running, with Mom and Dad right behind.

Suds were pouring out of the sink, slithering across the counter, sliding down the cabinets and across the floor, and swimming down the hall like some cumulus cloud of foamy froth.

“Awesome!” Alex said, like she was admiring a work of art. “Which one of you hairy stinkpodes left the water on?”

“Don’t just stand there!” I told her, pawing my way through piles of suds, miles of suds. “TURN! OFF! THE! WATER!”

“This is cool. Like a car wash, without the car!” Alex said.

Joey yelled, “Giant bubbles! Whee!” She picked up a handful of suds and blew on it. Bubbles flew through the air and landed on Alex’s head.

“Not the hair!” Alex said. “OK, you’re in for it now, Little Sister!”

“Look out! Attack of Mr. Bubble!” I screamed in a food-fight voice, and pushed some suds toward Alex.

“Take that!” Alex flicked some back at me.

“Hey! You flicked me!” I yelled. “That does it.” I grabbed a clump of suds in each hand and flung them snowball-style at Alex.

She grabbed two handfuls of suds and flung them back at me, underhand. Before I knew it, I was smack-dab in the middle of a giant bubble bath with my sisters!

“Ooh, I feel some sliding down my back,” said Alex.

“So? I got some up my nose. See?” said Joey.

Mom jumped in, pretending she was on one of her TV shows. “This is Fondue Sue, reporting to you live from the home of the Reel Sisters, where they’ve just made the world’s largest cappuccino, as you can see from the cloud of foam I’m standing in. . . .”

Dad couldn’t stand to just watch. He made himself a bubble beard à la Abe Lincoln and started reciting the Gettysburg Address. “Fourscore and seven years ago . . .”

While Dad was imitating our forefather, Mom was making a soapsuds statue.

“Is it a snowman?” Alex asked.

“Is it a poodle?” I asked.

“It’s Mickey Mouse,” said Joey.

Mom started to laugh. And laugh. Then we all couldn’t help laughing, too.

“Mom, what is it?” I asked, flinging a handful of suds back into the sink.

“I just couldn’t help thinking,” Mom said in between laugh gasps, “our kitchen hasn’t been this clean since Hepzibiah McNutty herself lived here!”