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“I don’t think the soup was quite what she expected,” I told the waitress, handing her the bowl with my eyes averted so I wouldn’t accidentally make eye contact with the soup. You never want to make eye contact with your soup. “Could we maybe get some plain old chicken noodle?”
The waitress studied the soup bowl like she couldn’t see anything wrong with it. Now that she was holding it, I couldn’t see anything wrong, either, but I suspected Mom had lost her appetite for matzo balls, judging by the sickly green shade of her face.
Idris was still giggling. I’d have loved to read him the riot act about playing magical practical jokes, but I couldn’t do that without spilling the beans to Mom. Fortunately, Mom could more than take care of herself. “Young man, it’s rude to laugh at other people’s discomfort,” she scolded. “Do they not teach manners up here? Really, Katie, I question your choice of friends.”
“I never said he was my friend,” I muttered while trying to get my leg into a position where I could kick him in the ankle under the table without stubbing my toe on the metal post supporting the table. Then I pushed my sandwich over to Mom. “Here, why don’t you eat this? I guess the soup was a little too exotic for you.”
Mom didn’t even argue, which told me how upset she was. Normally, she’d play the suffering martyr role to the hilt, gladly (and noisily) starving. I had no doubt that she fully believed matzo balls were really eyeballs, and she’d be telling everyone back home all about it.
She took a tentative bite of the corned-beef sandwich—like she expected it to moo at her. I held my breath, not sure what to expect, but I soon realized that his next prank had nothing to do with food. One by one, the other patrons in the deli stood and formed a chorus line. With precision to rival the Rockettes, they launched into a synchronized dance number. All I could do was stare openmouthed as elderly women, paunchy middle-aged men, teenaged girls, and every other type you might find in a Midtown deli at lunchtime tapped and shuffled their way across the floor like it was the most normal thing in the world.
om! I thought. That apparently wasn’t the reaction Idris was expecting. To be perfectly frank, I wasn’t sure what he was after. This seemed to be merely a nuisance call, something intended to keep me off-balance. Well, I wasn’t going to let it work. “Yeah, I needed a day out. Things are getting so busy and hectic at work,” I said, then waited to see how he’d respond.
“Yes, I imagine they are. And things will probably get busier very, very soon, so I hope you’re up to the task—in every possible way.” He emphasized every other word or so, like he was embedding extra meaning into his simple statement. He might as well have swirled his cape and said, “Mwa ha ha!” That would have been more effective as a threat. As it was, I had no idea what he was talking about, but I suspected that my theory about him just wanting to throw us into chaos was proving accurate.
“You can bet Katie will be up to any task,” Mom said. “She’s our little go-getter.” I turned to stare at her in shock. Did it take being forced to sit with the bad guy for her to praise me without qualifiers? I almost felt like I owed Idris a favor.
The waitress brought my sandwich and Mom’s bowl of matzo ball soup. Mom picked up her spoon, then shrieked and shoved the bowl away. “Mom, what is it?” I asked, trying to see what was wrong but distracted by the way Idris was smirking.
She was beyond words, which is really saying something when it comes to my mother. All she could do was point with her spoon at the soup bowl. I couldn’t find anything wrong with her soup. “Those are just matzo balls,” I explained. “I guess I didn’t describe them right. They’re not the kind of dumplings we make back home.”
“Are they supposed to blink?” she asked.
Idris giggled, and I turned to glare at him. As I did so, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the matzo balls were, in fact, blinking. They weren’t matzo balls at all. They were eyeballs. I screamed almost as loud as Mom had. The really gross thing was that if Mom and I saw the eyeballs, it wasn’t just an illusion. There really were eyeballs floating in the soup bowl. Ewwww. I’d never be able to eat matzo ball soup again.
The waitress came over, probably drawn by the screams. “How is everything?” she asked. Then again, maybe not. Either she hadn’t heard the screams, she was tuning them out like a good New Yorker, or Idris was blocking out the fun at our table from the rest of the deli. In the latter case, I was grateful to him, but the good deed was more than mitigated by the trick he’d played on Mom.
“I don’t think the soup was quite what she expected,” I told the waitress, handing her the bowl with my eyes averted so I wouldn’t accidentally make eye contact with the soup. You never want to make eye contact with your soup. “Could we maybe get some plain old chicken noodle?”
The waitress studied the soup bowl like she couldn’t see anything wrong with it. Now that she was holding it, I couldn’t see anything wrong, either, but I suspected Mom had lost her appetite for matzo balls, judging by the sickly green shade of her face.
Idris was still giggling. I’d have loved to read him the riot act about playing magical practical jokes, but I couldn’t do that without spilling the beans to Mom. Fortunately, Mom could more than take care of herself. “Young man, it’s rude to laugh at other people’s discomfort,” she scolded. “Do they not teach manners up here? Really, Katie, I question your choice of friends.”
“I never said he was my friend,” I muttered while trying to get my leg into a position where I could kick him in the ankle under the table without stubbing my toe on the metal post supporting the table. Then I pushed my sandwich over to Mom. “Here, why don’t you eat this? I guess the soup was a little too exotic for you.”
Mom didn’t even argue, which told me how upset she was. Normally, she’d play the suffering martyr role to the hilt, gladly (and noisily) starving. I had no doubt that she fully believed matzo balls were really eyeballs, and she’d be telling everyone back home all about it.
She took a tentative bite of the corned-beef sandwich—like she expected it to moo at her. I held my breath, not sure what to expect, but I soon realized that his next prank had nothing to do with food. One by one, the other patrons in the deli stood and formed a chorus line. With precision to rival the Rockettes, they launched into a synchronized dance number. All I could do was stare openmouthed as elderly women, paunchy middle-aged men, teenaged girls, and every other type you might find in a Midtown deli at lunchtime tapped and shuffled their way across the floor like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I chanced a nervous glance at Mom, sure this would be enough to send her straight over the edge (not that she was all that far from the edge to begin with), but she was staring at the impromptu chorus line in delight, her eyes shining. I looked back at the dancers, dreading the high kicks that were sure to come at the end of the number. Most of these people looked like they’d need traction if they tried something like that.
The funny thing was, although I couldn’t hear any music, I felt like I was listening to the same catchy tune all the deli patrons were dancing to. I couldn’t help but tap my feet under the table. I forced myself to stop, stubbornly wrapping my ankles around the chair legs so I could resist the urge to join the chorus line.
I had no doubt that Idris was behind this. It looked a lot like the results of that control spell he’d been selling earlier, the one I saw Owen and Jake testing and that had been used during the wine dinner. I forced my eyes away from the dancers, who were moving into a Busby Berkeley formation that probably looked stunning from the ceiling, and turned toward Idris. He was pale, and sweat ran down his face, but he looked more caught up in the happenings than Mom was. He moved his fingers and the formation changed. All we needed now was a fountain rising from the middle of the deli, or maybe a giant staircase for showgirls to float down.
The waitress came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray loaded with food, then froze in shock. Idris caught my eye and grinned—a non-sneering, nonthreatening grin, for a change. “Watch this!” he said. A moment later, the waitress’s tray turned into a feathered fan, and she began darting in and out of the line of dancers with surprising grace, waving her fan in front of her.
Idris laughed in delight. “Ooh, and how about this?” he said, still grinning. Soon the sounds of cookware being banged in rhythm with the dance came from the kitchen. “Good one, huh?” he asked. He looked like a little kid with a new toy. “Maybe they should dance, too.” One by one, the cooks came out of the kitchen, still banging pots and pans, to join in.
Idris must have improved the spell, for it seemed to work better than the earlier versions had. I waited for him to spring the big surprise on Mom and confront her with the evidence of magic, or maybe to blackmail me into quitting MSI, but all he did was add more and more details to his extravaganza.
Then it hit me: our evil archvillain had a raging case of ADD. He had the attention span of a toddler on a sugar high. He couldn’t maintain a good threat long enough to do any real damage before he got sidetracked by something shiny. The real danger wasn’t that he would take over the world. It was the chaos he could stir up while entertaining himself. He was more Dr. Evil than Dr. No.
Finally, he let out a gasp, then slumped onto the table, drenched in sweat. Around the deli, the patrons stopped dancing, returned to their seats, and collapsed, rubbing their temples. The waitress’s fan became a tray once more, but she didn’t get it settled before the soup hit the floor. She sank into the nearest chair, looking weary. The cooks joined her. I remembered the headache Owen had after a spell much like this one had been tested on him, and he’d only been under the influence for a few seconds. I could only imagine how these people must feel.
I was trying desperately to come up with a way of explaining what had happened when Mom rose from her seat, applauding. “Bravo!” she shouted. “That was wonderful. Thank you so much.” They all looked at her like she was crazy, then returned to rubbing their heads. Mom sat down, still beaming. “It’s just like in the movies,” she gushed.
I blinked at her in disbelief. She didn’t see anything weird about an entire deli breaking into a spontaneous dance number? Then again, her view of New York was largely shaped by television and movies, and she did have a fondness for old musicals, so people doing dance routines in public might not have been all that shocking to her.
