Chapter 13 The Borrowed Spork
The Borrowed Spork
SYLVIE WAS NOW STANDING OUTSIDE THE SMALL PIP CLASSROOM, which happened to be a food truck.
Although, it didn’t look like it had been driven in ages.
Weeds stretched up, wrapping around the flat tires like giant fingers.
A large sticker of a plastic utensil was glued to the side, ready to scoop up the words THE BORROWED SPORK.
So much for her plan to quietly slip inside. How can twenty-four kids even fit in there?
She tried to give herself a pep talk. Even if everyone notices you walking in late, you have a note from Godard.
Still, this wasn’t how she wanted to start her first day of cooking.
On the other hand, her meeting with Godard made all the stares she was about to endure worthwhile.
Thanks to the Bubble & Squeak, I’ve got some valuable clues.
Sylvie checked her watch. After class, she’d head over to the cafeteria to grab a bite and talk to Agnes about Guy Fabre.
Maybe she’ll remember something useful? Plus, there was something else Sylvie wanted to ask her about …
the thing she said about the right recipe being able to break down obstacles.
Was there a spell that could lead Sylvie to the truth?
If yes, why hadn’t anyone used it? There had to be a reason.
Of course, even if there was such a spell, Sylvie’s ability to cook it up was seriously hindered.
First, she lacked access to the necessary magical ingredients.
Second—and most importantly—she didn’t have her own Blade.
Unless … A new idea percolated. Sylvie set the thought aside.
Right now, there was another obstacle facing Sylvie. This one had no solution.
Sylvie took a deep breath and got on with it, yanking open the food truck’s door. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness inside.
“Ah, I see Miss Jones has decided to join us.”
Sylvie squinted past the seated silhouettes.
Boris Bergen stood at the front of the classroom. The only light in the room emanated from the glowing green disk clutched in his hand.
Sylvie stared. It reminded her a bit of the glowing jack-o’-lantern mushrooms she’d seen Flora holding.
But jack-o’-lanterns were toxic. Would they really have them handling poisonous fungi on their second day?
Maybe it’s a bitter oyster, thought Sylvie.
Before she could consider it further, dozens of fluorescent lights flickered to life, bathing the room in an unnaturally bright haze.
“We were just discussing bioluminescent mushrooms,” said Boris. “Since Miss Jones doesn’t need to come to class on time, perhaps that means she is already familiar with bitter oyster mushrooms.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Sylvie pulled out Godard’s note and made her way toward Boris.
Dozens of sturdy desks were neatly spaced apart.
At the front of the room was a lecturing board, a stainless-steel workbench, a demo kitchen, and a dishwasher.
Sylvie loved food trucks. They had tons of them back home in Los Angeles, serving up fluffy pork buns, hot bowls of ramen, and tacos slicked with colorful salsas.
But a food truck classroom? Brindille really is the coolest. “I was with Godard.”
Boris’s bulging eyes roamed across the slip of paper Sylvie handed him. “Very well. Your tardiness is excused. Now please find a seat.”
Sylvie turned around, hoping to find an empty desk tucked in the back. If she was lucky, she’d blend in with the fruit leather posters on the walls. She searched through the sea of faces. There was only one spot left, right next to Georgia. Maybe this is my chance to finally make amends?
“Well, go on, Miss Jones.” Boris waved her toward the empty desk.
Georgia scooted over.
Sylvie made her way to the seat and tried to figure out what to say. Maybe she could open with, “I’m sorry for ruining your blouse, and pulling your hair.” Or would it be weird to just blurt that out?
Sylvie stood there grinning for a moment. “Umm … hello.”
Georgia gave her an odd look, as if she couldn’t believe that was Sylvie’s opening line. Finally, her lips curled into a partial smile. “Hi.”
Hello? Sylvie kept her eyes fixed forward as she silently scolded herself. That’s what you came up with? Like you’re chatting with some random relative on the phone? Now, Georgia probably thinks you’re nuts.
“Toadstools are the backbone of many magical recipes,” said Boris, placing the glistening green disk onto a sheet pan loaded with long knobs of fungi. A slender stem with a white lacy crown was now pinched between his fingers. “Who can tell me what this is and how to use it?”
Thanks to The Giddy Garden, Sylvie knew the answer. She raised her hand.
“Go ahead, Miss Jones.”
“It’s the veiled lady.”
Boris gave an approving nod. “And how do you use it?”
“The mushroom must be soaked in water for two minutes,” said Sylvie. “Like humans, mushrooms need oxygen to breathe. Depriving the fungi of air causes them to suffocate.”
“Very good!” said Boris.
“How did she know that?” Vihaan whispered.
Carlos shrugged.
Boris plopped the mushroom into a bowl of water.
Bubbles drifted to the surface. Slowly at first. Then more.
The white lace thrashed frantically beneath the surface.
Boris glanced at the fizzing bowl. “Drowning mushrooms takes practice. If you want the flesh to stay firm, water temperature and pH must be precise. But that is only half the battle. The right ingredients are the key to every recipe. Use the wrong ones … you could end up like this toadstool.”
The crocheted cap slowly floated to the surface, limp as wet hair.
“So, what sort of recipes can this be used for?” Boris scanned the room.
Sylvie stared at the floating remnants. The Giddy Garden focused on growing plants, not cooking them. Though Sylvie got the feeling she’d seen a dish prepared with this mushroom before. Before Sylvie could give it another thought, the hand next to her shot up.
“Yes, Georgia.”
“The veiled lady can be used in sauce suprême. It’s perfect for a variety of transformation spells.”
A broad smile spread across Boris’s face. “Very good, Miss Shaw.”
Sylvie stole a sideways glance at Georgia. This was the second time Georgia had upstaged her. It was both impressive and unsettling.
“For the next part of class, we’ll break into teams,” said Boris, pulling Sylvie from her thoughts. “When cooking up magic, it is important to learn to use all your senses and to collaborate. Therefore, the person seated to your right will be your cooking partner for this exercise.”
Georgia slowly turned to Sylvie, her face puckered. “So, I guess that means we’re … working together.”
Sylvie tried to ignore Georgia’s look of horror. Naturally, after everything that had happened between them—the insults, the accusations, the destroyed shirt—working as a team might feel a little … awkward. Forget about all that. This is a chance to start fresh, Sylvie reminded herself.
Georgia pulled a pink pen from between her locks. “This pairing will probably go over as well as my mama’s shrimp salad… . She makes it in a ring mold, mixed with strawberry Jell-O.”
Jell-O? Georgia’s parents really don’t know anything about cooking. Sylvie tried to stay positive.
“Actually, I’m all right with it,” said Sylvie. “I mean us … not shrimp mixed with Jell-O. That’s gross.”
“I know.” Georgia started chewing on a nail, then replaced it with the tip of her pen.
“So, you’re seriously okay cooking with me?”
“Seriously. That question Bergen asked about the veiled lady mushrooms was tough… . You know your stuff.”
Georgia gave her a real smile this time. “Thanks.”
“For this exercise, we’ll be using Guy Fabre’s recipe for Nearly Magical Macarons.”
Boris rifled through the pile of cookbooks on his workbench, unearthing a familiar cover: Guy Fabre: Unbelievable Baking. This was the book Guy had given Sylvie for her eighth birthday.
Enthusiastic squeals erupted out of everyone but Sylvie.
She’d made his macarons once. It hadn’t ended well.
She’d overmixed the meringue, then accidentally set the oven to self-cleaning mode.
Instead of crispy, sweet pastels, she ended up with charcoal disks.
Sylvie had been tempted to write Guy and tell him, This recipe should come with a warning.
Epic disasters have occurred when making macarons.
Georgia cleared her throat. “How about I mix. You sift?”
“Sure.”
Sylvie was trying her best to focus on the task.
But preparing one of Guy Fabre’s recipes wasn’t the best way for her to set aside what she’d seen in Godard’s memory.
If Sylvie wanted to get her Blade and stay at Brindille, she had to stop Bass.
Her best shot was to prove her mom was innocent.
But to do that, she needed to figure out what really happened. More importantly, she needed proof.
Sylvie’s desk suddenly started to shake. A mixer shot out of the pencil holder. Wood morphed into polished steel. Once again, magic was transforming the world around her. The right spell really can work wonders. If that was all it took to change a room, maybe one perfect spell could fix her future.