Fairest of Them All Read online

  “Verily, ’tis truth,” I agree.

  Mom doesn’t look 100 percent convinced, but I’ll work on her.

  “I didn’t have any luck finding the location of any currently practicing wisewoman,” Mrs. Solano says. “But I think I can help you despite that.” She removes several colored photocopies from her bag. “It was very naughty of me to copy this because of the risk to the original, but desperate times require desperate measures.”

  We all lean in to look at what seem to be pages from a medieval book, hand-lettered and barely readable—by me at least.

  “I found a grimoire in a little-known collection at the library. It was donated at the turn of the last century by an eccentric gentleman as part of his collection, but wasn’t considered quite proper, if you know what I mean. So we don’t include it in any of our online searchable catalogs. The trustees of the library don’t want to get rid of it, but they don’t really want anyone other than the Rare Book staff to know it’s there.”

  Even though I haven’t got a clue what the medieval book says, Mom, who grew up Once Upon a Time, does.

  “Renata, who needs a wisewoman when we have you?” she exclaims. “You know how to do research, and that makes you the wisest woman of all. You found the potion to counteract the Spelle of the Elizabethan Tongue.”

  “Yay!” Sophie says.

  “Let us hasten to prepare the potion!” I exclaim. “Go to! Go to!”

  I can’t wait to be normal again.

  “If only it were that easy,” Mom mutters, running her finger over the spell as she reads it again. “I’m not even sure some of these ingredients still exist—or if they do, where we can get them. Renata, if you’re willing, we’ll still need your research skills.”

  “Of course I’m willing,” Mrs. Solano says.

  “Snow might have ideas,” Mom says. “She has all kinds of sources for her teas and decoctions product line. Some of them are pretty . . . well, old school, from what she’s told me.”

  It can be either cute or awkward when parents try to use our terms in everyday conversation. Since Mom’s helping me, I decide it’s cute, although I do permit myself an eye roll with Sophie. I’m only human.

  “We’re going to cure you, Aria,” Mom says. “When smart women get together, we can do anything.”

  I look at my mother, Mrs. Solano, and Sophie—their faces all reflect the same determination to find whatever we need to cure me, no matter what it takes. It gives me hope. I just hope Mom is right.

  Chapter Eleven

  THERE ARE TWELVE INGREDIENTS NEEDED for the curative spell. We have to research the medieval names to figure out what they are in modern terminology—assuming they still exist and haven’t become extinct due to destruction of their natural habitat. If they do still exist, we have to figure out where they can be procured.

  Later that night, Rosie Charming, her mom, her seven height-challenged uncles, Sophie and her mom, the entire staff of the Rare Book Division of the New York Public Library, a contact of Mom’s at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, and Dakota, Nina, and Matt are all on Team Research Aria’s Cure.

  “Okay, we’ve figured out that Nose Bleed is yarrow, Swine’s Snout is dandelion leaves, Witch’s Aspirin is willow bark, Lamb’s Ears is betony, and Maiden’s Cheeses are marshmallow,” Mom says, ticking off the ingredients that she’s copied from the grimoire. “But we still have seven more to decipher.”

  Just then her cell phone rings. It’s Snow White Charming. Mom puts her on speaker. “I’ve figured out the Devile’s Dipsticke,” Mrs. W. C. says. “It’s the stinkhorn mushroom. They have them at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. I know one isn’t supposed to take cuttings from specimens, but this counts as an emergency, don’t you think?”

  “Ohmigod, Mom, are you going to embarrass me again like you did that time you needed that thing for a decoction when I had cramps?” I hear Rosie asking in the background.

  “No, Rosie. Because I thought you could help Aria go get it.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line.

  Meanwhile I’m gesturing to Mom to put her phone on mute.

  “Thou wantest me to purloin rare plants from the botanical garden?” I hiss, appalled that my own mother would be encouraging me to commit such an act of lawlessness.

  “Ordinarily, no, but do you want to speak like you’re in a Shakespeare play for the rest of your life?”

  When she puts it like that, it’s amazing how quickly I’m willing to start googling “how to steal plants.”

  Mrs. White Charming and Mom agree that Rosie and I will work out the details of our future juvenile delinquency at school. Both of these things seem incredibly wrong, but who am I to argue when it’s all about getting me better? And to think I was worried about Nina. I’m the one who is so easily led astray.

  Rosie approaches me the next morning when I’m standing outside school with Dakota, Nina, and Sophie.

  “Hey, Aria—I was wondering if we could talk about our . . .” Her voice trails off because she doesn’t know if my other friends have been informed about the Great Fungus Heist.

  “Th’ botany burglary? Th’ herbal heist?” I say, like it’s no biggie and I’m not at all worried about my upcoming life of crime. “Prithee, continue.”

  “Say what?” Dakota exclaims. That’s a pretty New York phrase for a boy from the backwoods of Canada. It’s cute how quickly he’s learning.

  Nina’s mouth is a pink O of dismay. Sophie, on the other hand looks curious and a little excited.

  Adventurous is her middle name. Not really. It’s Claire. But that’s what it should be.

  Rosie explains that Mrs. White Charming worked out the Devile’s Dipsticke is this rare stinky fungus that can be found at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and that our mothers, who are supposed to be our role models for living on the straight and narrow, have directed us to go steal one.

  “But you can’t steal,” Nina says. “What if you get caught? And put in jail? Can’t you just ask them for a sample?”

  “Yeah, like anyone besides us is going to believe a story about Aria pricking her finger on a needle and being under a Shakespeak spell,” Rosie points out.

  “I guess,” Nina admits. “We’re not in Canada anymore.”

  She sounds homesick. I make a mental note to do something fun for her when the current crisis is over.

  Dakota, on the other hand, has already brought up a map of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden on his phone. “It’s a pretty big place. How are we going to find this plant?”

  If I’m an apple that hasn’t fallen far from my mom’s tree, the same is true for Sophie. She’s on that in seconds.

  “Easy peasy. There’s a searchable plant database,” she says, showing Dakota on her phone.

  “Aria—you’re the fashion designer. How do I dress for plant purloining?” Rosie asks. “Camouflage? Top-to-toe black?”

  “This knavery shall be done under the light of the sun, so nay t’black,” I advise. “Although ’tis Brooklyn, methinks peradventure black doth maketh sense.”

  “Aria needs this plant. So we have to go after school today,” Sophie says in her no-nonsense tone. “What you’re wearing now is fine.”

  Thus ends the discussion on the finer points of robbery fashion.

  We meet after school and take the subway to Brooklyn.

  I was nervous about lying to my parents, but this is a whole different kind of wrong I’m about to commit. And I’m dragging my friends into it with me. But strangely, Dakota and Sophie aren’t acting like they’re being dragged. They are strategizing together like Bonnie and Clyde.

  “I’m worried about Dakota,” Nina tells Rosie and me in an undertone. “He seems to be enjoying this life of about-to-be crime a little too much.”

  “Perchance thou knowest how he hath felt about thee falsing to aideth me,” I say.

  The shock on Nina’s face tells me this hadn’t occurred to her.

  Rosie laughs. “I think it’s more that he’s en
joying being with Sophie.”

  Dakota and Sophie?

  But as I look at them plotting, their heads almost touching, sitting on the subway seat just a little closer together than usual, I think Rosie might have a point.

  Just before the entrance gates, Dakota and Sophie reveal our strategy.

  “Rosie, Nina, and I are going to create a diversion,” Sophie explains.

  “Oh, do you want me to do my fairest-in-the-land thing?” Rosie asks. “It’s kind of a two-edged sword, but when Mom pulled it on the guard at the New York Botanical Garden, it worked like magic.”

  “You could do that, and maybe Nina could pretend to faint or something?” Sophie suggests.

  “I’m so nervous I may not have to pretend,” Nina says.

  “Meanwhile, Aria and I will go steal the plant,” Dakota says, giving me an encouraging smile.

  “How dost thou propose to commit such knavery?” I ask. “Rip ’tout the grind? What if ’t be true they hast security cameras?”

  Dakota grins. “Luckily for you, a Canuck backwoodsman always comes prepared. I borrowed some scissors from Ms. Amara. And if there’s a security camera, we’ve got this. Mr. Seale loaned it to me because I said I needed it for an experiment.”

  He pulls out a laser pointer that our science teacher sometimes uses to point on the whiteboard. Mr. Seale has to limit how much he uses it, because kids end up making Star Wars jokes for half the period.

  “When we have our diversion, you and I will enter the conservatory. You shine the laser at the camera to disable it, and I’ll nab the plant,” Dakota says.

  “What if ’t be true I don’t disable th’ thing properly? Alloweth me knoweth and I shall purloin the plant,” I suggest.

  Dakota and Sophie exchange a glance.

  “We figured it was safer to let Dakota handle the scissors,” Sophie says. “Given the circumstances.”

  “Verily, methinks thou hast a point, thou wayward miscreant!”

  Everyone laughs.

  “Good one,” Dakota says.

  We fist-bump for luck and make our way to the entrance.

  Because we have student IDs, we get in for half price.

  “It’s a steal,” Rosie quips.

  “Rosie!” Nina gasps.

  “Lighten up, Nina,” Sophie says. “She’s being punny!”

  Nina is right. I don’t think she will have to pretend to faint. She looks so pale and anxious, she might pass out before we even get to the right place.

  I’m not sure if it’s good or bad that the gardens aren’t that crowded. There’s an elderly couple sitting on a bench holding hands and watching the ducks on the pond.

  There’s a crowd of people with babies in strollers—it’s hard to tell if they’re parents or nannies or mannies. They’re all chatting away as they power walk around the path and the babies either sleep or watch the world passing by.

  “Oh no, there’s a security guard,” squeaks Nina.

  “Just act naturally,” Rosie says.

  Is it my imagination or do his eyes narrow in suspicion as he walks toward us?

  But when Sophie gives him a cheerful “Hi!” and Dakota says “Good afternoon, sir!” he responds with a smile and “Enjoy your visit.”

  Still, I join Nina with a sigh of relief after he walks past.

  When we reach the Warm Temperate Pavilion, I take out my phone. I’ve got a bunch of pictures of the plant we want so I can identify it.

  There’s a security guard near the entrance. Nina, Rosie, and Sophie get ready to start the distraction. Dakota and I pull up our hoodies, then go into the pavilion and locate the security camera.

  I text Package is here to Rosie.

  Play is starting GTG, she texts back.

  “ ’Tis fine,” I tell Dakota.

  I turn on the laser and, covering my face with my other hand, point it toward the eye of the security camera. “Hasten! Away!”

  I hear Dakota rustling around behind me, then a snick. A minute later he’s back with a plastic bag with the strange-looking fungus inside.

  “Mission accomplished,” he says.

  “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

  “Okay, drama queen,” he says. “Let’s make like a banana and split.”

  I turn off the laser, and as we walk out of the pavilion, we both pull down our hoodies.

  “I am SO the fairest of them all!”

  “No WAY! I am. Sherman, TELL HER!”

  I can tell from the voices that it’s Rosie and Sophie. Dakota and I glance at each other.

  “Who is Sherman?” he asks in a low voice.

  I shrug. I have no idea either.

  “I . . . Ladies, please, you are both beautiful. . . . I—”

  “Come on, guys, you’re putting Sherman in an awkward position. Let’s GO!”

  Rosie and Sophie are in the middle of a screaming contest in front of a clearly bemused security guard and a newly energized Nina, who seems to have grown into her role as the long-suffering friend trying to get her embarrassing besties to stop making a scene in a public place.

  Dakota cups his hands together and blows, making an owl hoot noise, which Nina clearly recognizes.

  “We really have to GO now,” she tells Sophie and Rosie. “I mean REALLY.”

  “Bye, Shermie,” Rosie says, blowing him a kiss over her shoulder as she walks away. “I know you really think I’m the fairest.”

  “He does NOT,” Sophie calls back to him. “Right, Sherman? It’s me, and you know it!”

  Sherman has his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth, probably wondering what he did to deserve being in the middle of such a crazy argument.

  As soon as we’re out of sight, Nina asks, “Did you get it?”

  Dakota pats his backpack. “We did.”

  Sophie and Rosie go to high-five, but Dakota warns: “No high fives till we exit the gardens—security cameras, remember?”

  “Oops, I forgot,” Sophie says. “I got so . . . carried away with being the FAIREST OF THEM ALL.”

  She looks at Rosie and the two of them start laughing. The rest of us join in and we don’t stop until we get to the subway.

  By the end of the week we have all the ingredients assembled. Rosie and Sophie come over with their moms, and Nina brings her aunt Gretel over on Friday evening to help make the spell. Since none of us are official wisewomen, Mom warns, “This could get ugly.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. White Charming says. “It’s a recipe. We’ve all cooked before. How wrong can it go?”

  “First of all, you usually have your underlings do the actual cooking,” Rosie points out.

  “And second of all, you should have seen when my mom tried to make a soufflé,” Sophie says.

  “What about that old lady trying to make a pie out of my dad?” Nina adds.

  “Pray, do not finish the vile task th’ mysterious personage didst commence,” I mumble.

  “O ye of little faith,” Mrs. Solano says. “Never doubt the power of smart women determined to make a difference.”

  “Remember—I saved your father by pushing that old lady in the oven. He didn’t save me,” Gretel reminds Nina.

  “He said that he told you to push her in the oven,” Nina says.

  Mrs. White Charming, Mom, Gretel, and Mrs. Solano look at one another and all burst out laughing.

  “That’s what happens when history is told by men,” Mrs. Solano tells us. “Herstory gets edited out.”

  I wonder how my parents’ tale was edited. All I know is that everything I’ve desperately wanted to do in my life has been prohibited because of it.

  We younger wisewoman wannabes are responsible for reading the ingredients while our elders prepare them and place them in the pot.

  I waltz around the kitchen saying, “Double, double, toil and trouble” in a witchy voice, which amuses my friends. That’s actual Shakespeare. It’s from Macbeth. For once this curse has some advantages.

  At least until Mom tells me that whil
e she’s happy to see that my education hasn’t gone to waste, if I don’t stop repeating that right away, she’s going to ask Mrs. Solano to find a silence charm.

  My dramatic flair is so underappreciated.

  When all the ingredients have been added to the cast-iron pot and simmered, the elder wisewomen chant some ancient words written in the grimoire. Meanwhile, the kitchen smells like a landfill on a hot summer’s day.

  “Doth I hast to drinketh yond vile brew?” I ask.

  “If you want to break the spell,” Mom says.

  It looks even worse when Mrs. White Charming gives it one final stir, then Mrs. Solano pours it into a cup, and Mom hands it to me. The stuff is greenish black with strange lumps, as if a giant with a bad head cold blew his nose into my glass.

  I’ve never wanted to ingest anything less—and that includes liver and Brussels sprouts.

  “Come on, Aria—you can do this,” Sophie says. “Just breathe deep and down the hatch.”

  “That’s right,” Nina says. “You’ll be fine!”

  Easy for them to say. But I want to be cured, so I take a deep breath and drink the foul stuff.

  If you’ve ever imagined what the runoff from the subway platform tastes like after a storm—you know, the same dirty subway platform that’s home to rats and cockroaches—the spell cure tastes, like, a zillion times grosser than that. It feels like every disgusting thing in the world is given a moment to dance a jig on my taste buds. I seriously want to hurl. But I have to swallow it down and then worry what it’s going to do to me. Something that evil-tasting cannot be a cure. I bet Mrs. Solano got the wrong spell and this is going to turn me into a werewolf. Wait, you have to be bitten by one for that to happen. Maybe this will turn me into a newt.

  It doesn’t help that everyone’s staring at me like I’m a frog about to be dissected in bio lab—Mrs. Solano’s even videoing the whole thing for science or posterity or the archives of the New York Public Library Rare Book collection.

  I rush to the sink and dry heave a few times.

  “Don’t throw it up!” Mom warns. “We don’t have enough ingredients for another batch.”