Trouble's Brewing (Stirring Up Trouble) Page 8

  I couldn’t speak at first. How had Dr. Finnegan and my mother ended up cooking dinner together? “Uh,” I said. “Hi.”

  “Zoe, you are going to love this dinner.” Mom smiled at me, not with her usual smile, but with her all-is-right-with-the-world smile, an expression I hadn’t seen in over a year.

  Dr. Finnegan must have noticed my hesitation, because he said, “I was contemplating yet another warmed-over meal, alone in my apartment, when your mother telephoned and invited me to join the two of you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why would she mind?” Mom waved away his concern as she walked over to check on his progress with the salad. “Looks delicious.”

  “Hope you’re hungry, Zoe,” Finn said.

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Give me a minute upstairs and I’ll be back.”

  “Ten minutes,” Mom said.

  She must have correctly interpreted my ten minutes upstairs as meaning I needed to check my email and Facebook. I was trying not to panic about the whole Mom and Finn situation. If only I had someone to talk to about this! No one would understand. A ninety-five-year-old man in the body of a college kid. Milo knew about Dr. Finnegan but would never be able to interpret this for me. I didn’t want to embarrass my mother for no reason. What I needed to figure out was if there was a reason.

  I needed a diary that would talk back. Maybe an interactive app designed by a combination of Dear Abby and a licensed therapist. Something stand-alone with a great firewall so nobody would ever know what I was asking for help with. Maybe the witch world could come up with something. Regardless, it wasn’t going to help me now. I had a problem and no one to talk to.

  Taking a few deep breaths in pseudo-yoga style, I willed myself to chill out. Mom knew that Finn was probably lonely. She had changed clothes and done her hair because Mom would do that with any company. No big deal. Tonight would be fun. Spending time with Finn and Mom could be fun. I’d like to hear more about Dr. Finnegan anyway, and he had been so focused on my tutoring lately that there hasn’t been much time for asking him questions.

  “Ohm,” I chanted to myself. “Ohm.”

  Ten minutes later, I bounded back down the stairs.

  Dinner turned out to be great. We ate in the dining room on the good dishes, and Finn’s salad was the best I’d ever eaten.

  “Finn was telling me about life in the fifties and sixties.”

  Oh yeah. “That reminds me. I wanted to ask you what it was like brewing potions before the margarine substitution. How could you stand working with dead man’s toe?”

  Finn choked on the bite of salad he’d put in his mouth. He coughed and coughed.

  “Should I get you some water?” Mom asked.

  Finn held up his hand to indicate that she didn’t need to go after water. He held up his wine glass and after another cough, took a long sip.

  He set the glass down, patted his mouth with the cloth napkin, and sighed. “I apologize. I guess that bite went down the wrong pipe.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, dear. I guess this new, young throat doesn’t function as well as the rest of the body.” He took another sip of wine then used the napkin again. “Now what was it you were asking? About brewing potions with dead man’s toe, was it?”

  “Yes. I guess maybe it isn’t a good topic for the dinner table.”

  “I’m sure it was much worse in reality than it sounds in theory, Zoe.” Mom refilled her wine and offered more to Finn who indicated that he was not ready for a refill.

  For all appearances, Finn was underage, and yet, he sat here sipping wine while I dutifully drank my ice water. Of course, he drank wine like a ninety-five-year-old man. No college guy would drink that slowly, casually swirl the wine in the glass, or wipe at his mouth so much. Well, maybe a European who was used to drinking at dinner. Here in the US, us kids were strictly milk with dinner.

  Finn hadn’t answered my question, and after my mother’s interjection, I thought he wasn’t going to, but he surprised me.

  “Zoe, you should know about the history of potion brewing. The challenges involved in working with dead man’s toe, the ethical considerations, even the events leading to the discovery of fat-free margarine as a substitution. You will need to know all of it, understand the significance, and evaluate the impact this history has or should have, on your own expectations for your future.”

  Impact on, huh? Yeah, that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I wanted to know about the nitty-gritty. I didn’t want a bunch of gobbledy-gook about ethics and history. I’d been hoping for something interesting and not for a homework assignment. Was I going to have to write a thesis on this? “How did you get the dead man’s toe? Did people donate their toes to science, er, magic?”

  “Some did,” Finn answered. “Some still do, in fact. There is ongoing research as well as quality control testing. The need for dead man’s toe isn’t great anymore, but the donations continue.”

  “Before margarine, they used a lot of them right?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Did they have that many donations?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “So they had to steal toes?”

  “Had to?’ Interesting turn of phrase.”

  “Well they did have to, right? If they were going to brew an important potion?”

  “How do you define ‘important?’”

  “Um. Maybe life or death?”

  “Sounds reasonable. Life or death. What about preventing people from being hurt? Not death, but maiming?”

  “I guess you’d want to stop that too.”

  “You see where my line of questioning is headed, young Zoe,” the old man in the teen’s body asked. “Where do you draw the line? And who determines where the line is drawn?”

  I shifted in my chair as I realized that I didn’t know the right answer.

  “You don’t have to answer now, Zoe,” he said. “I want you to start thinking about the issue. I don’t expect to fully cover the topic with you until January. However, I can answer your questions to some degree. You want to know about the daily grind in the time of dead man’s toe.

  “First you must remember that we are talking about the late 1800’s and early 1900’s until 1946. We are talking about a time before air conditioning. I don’t remember much of it, but a time before refrigerators. A time when you had to keep things underground to keep them cool. And I’m certain you have read that the dead man’s toe would not work if dried?” He shook his head. “If only dried dead man’s toe would have worked, we probably could have covered the demand with donors.”

  “As passionate as Zoe gets about her potions, I’d never sleep at night for fear she’d be scavenging through graveyards for fresh toes,” Mom said in a tone that indicated she was totally serious.

  Crossing my arms, I snapped, “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom.”

  “I’m not being mean, honey. It’s the truth. You get a little… nuts when you’re working on something.”

  “Kind of like you when you’re working on a room? Like that time you didn’t sleep before the shoot because you drove to Charleston and back to pick up that art piece that got lost in shipping?”

  “Like that, but for much longer periods of time.”

  “Passion and dedication are vital and praiseworthy traits in a scientist!”

  “Yes, Zoe,” Finn said. “But where do you draw the line between passion and obsession, between doing whatever is necessary and going too far.”

  Chapter Seven

  How had the dinner conversation gotten so heavy and deep? I wanted to know about the old days. “I guess Charleston wasn’t too far because Mom got there and back in twelve hours.”

  Mom chuckled.

  Finn did not look amused.

  “I understand, Dr. Finnegan. I promise. I get it.”

  “We know you do, Zoe. Right, Finn? She’s a good girl. She was making a joke.”

  “Of course,” Finn said, nodding stiffly.<
br />
  I had the strangest suspicion that he was disappointed in me, but I didn’t have a clue what I’d done.

  “You guys are going to love dessert,” Mom said in her most cheerful voice. “I have quite a treat. I saw it in a magazine.”

  “Would you like some help, dear?” Finn asked.

  “No thanks.” Mom gathered up each of our plates. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Finn and I sat in uncomfortable silence until she returned with a pie and a tub of whipped topping.

  “You made a pie?” I asked. She never baked.

  “Pumpkin,” Mom said. “It was a practice run for Thanksgiving.”

  “Annie, this looks scrumptious,” Finn said.

  “Mom! You always said you couldn’t bake a pie.”

  Mom placed a slice on a dish and handed it to me. “I have to admit I’m proud of this.”

  “You should be,” Finn said. He took a small bite, the bite of an elderly man, and chewed it a couple of times before swallowing. “Delicious.” And another pat pat with the napkin.

  “Yummy, Mom.”

  Mom cut off a bite with her fork and tasted it. With a bright smile, she said, “Not bad.”

  “You really did this on your first try?” I asked. “I’m impressed.”

  “I didn’t say anything about it being my first try,” Mom admitted.

  “Third?”

  “Fourth,” she said.

  “I’m still impressed,” I told her.

  “Finn, would you like seconds?”

  Dr. Finnegan glanced down at his empty plate. “I have found with my new metabolism that I require a higher caloric intake than I’m used to.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Mom said, taking his plate and serving another slice, bigger than the first.

  “I’ve taken to eating a mid-afternoon meal in order to keep my weight on.”

  I snorted.

  Mom wrinkled her nose in disgust. “That might be something you want to keep to yourself.”

  Dr. Finnegan smiled. “Oh, yes, certainly. If it helps, I went twenty years without being able to tolerate dairy before my transition.”

  “It helps a little,” Mom said.

  “Is there a potion that lets us eat chocolate without getting zits?” I asked.

  “Yes. Although most find the resulting regurgitation to be off-putting.”

  “Never mind.”

  Mentioning dead man’s toe had sure put Finn in a bad mood. I hadn’t expected him to react that way. I hadn’t expected a reaction at all. Finn spoke of lines and ethics. Had he gotten into some trouble over dead man’s toe at some point? Had he had something to do with finding that substitution?

  I didn’t have much time to examine our conversation right now. I had a huge chemistry test tomorrow. I could probably get at least a ninety-three based on the work and studying I’d already done. Since I wanted at least a ninety-eight, I had more cramming to do.

  Anya trailed after Brice like a puppy dog at school on Monday. Whenever I saw her in the halls or in the cafeteria, she was within a few feet of him. He didn’t seem quite as taken with her.

  Brice was average-looking, but he had this whole rock star thing going on. The girls at school responded with whispers and giggles and longing glances. Personally, I didn’t see the appeal. I didn’t want to be part of the pack of groupies that competed for his attention.

  Today he’d had a blonde on his arm. I couldn’t remember her name, but I thought she was pretty. His attachment to the girl hadn’t dissuaded Anya from her pursuit.

  “Sad,” Camille observed after taking a sip of her soft drink.

  “What’s sad?” Jake asked. Typically oblivious, he’d been concentrating on his chili cheese fries.

  “Nothing,” I said. I didn’t know if it would hurt him to see his ex acting so ridiculous, but I didn’t want him thinking of Anya any more than necessary. “Just something Camille and I are going to talk about later.”

  After I got off the bus on Monday, I started working with the chalk again.

  “I got you some cow bone,” Mom said when she got home. “The butcher had a couple of large bones that he had put aside for dog bones.”

  “Thanks, Mom! I didn’t think you’d find it this fast.”

  “They are fairly old, so I think you’ll be able to grind them up.”

  Dad and I had bought a grinding press a few years back to powder some wood. I ran and grabbed it from the cabinet in the library.

  “And to think,” Mom said, “that I doubted you would ever use that thing again.”

  “I’m going to go out to the garage and smash a piece of this bone off with a hammer,” I told her. “Then I’ll have a manageable piece for the grinder.”

  “Don’t smash your finger,” Mom called after me.

  After hammering and grinding the bone by turning the crank on the grinder about a billion times, I got nowhere by adding the bone to the chalk. Not only did my biceps hurt, but I had a strong feeling that I was headed down the wrong path. I tried four different times and then gave up. I didn’t think I’d be able to use my right arm tomorrow.

  “Does Finn like blondes?” Anya asked on Tuesday in class.

  The whole question was so ridiculous that it took me a moment to process it. “Why on earth would that matter?”

  She flipped her hair as she said, “I’m thinking about going blond.”

  Anya had the most beautiful dark hair. Shiny, straight, and easy to style. “Are you kidding me?”

  “You don’t think I’d look good?”

  I thought she’d look like an idiot. “I think you’re nuts.”

  She pulled back at my words. “That isn’t very nice.”

  “I think you have great hair.”

  “Brice likes blondes.”

  Oh. This was about Brice. “Why do you care about Finn if you’re doing it for Brice?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to do it for a guy if it will limit my options.”

  As if she had a chance with Finn anyway. Even if he were a college student, he wouldn’t be interested in a high school sophomore.

  A freshly blond Anya appeared at my locker on Thursday morning wearing a pink dress and heels.

  “What do you think?” she asked as she twirled in front of me.

  I wasn’t sure what I thought. “Give me a minute.” Okay, taking it all in, I was thinking that she was trying too hard. The hair though… Her hair wasn’t bad. Her skin tone worked with the blond, and the three different shades of blond in her hair told me that the new do had cost a fortune. “You look good,” I admitted.

  Anya squealed, clapping her hands together. Then she spun around and ran across the hall to Camille. She was totally channeling Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde.

  I hadn’t wanted it to be flattering. Maybe I was mean, but she was pretty with her own hair color.

  After school, I rushed to the front porch, eager to tell my mother about Anya’s hair.

  “Mom!” I called as I pushed open the front door. “You won’t—”

  My mother sat on the couch with Dave. She had her iPad and he had a laptop.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you guys were working.”

  “We had a few things to wrap up,” she said. “Give me thirty minutes.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I left my backpack by the front door. “Hi, Dave.”

  Dave tore his eyes away from my mother long enough to smile at me. “Hey, Zoe. Long time no see.”

  I guess it had been a while. I tried not to stare at him as I walked by, but I wished I had an excuse to watch them interact for a while. Maybe I had overreacted. Could Dave and Mom actually work?

  Dad picked me up after school on Friday. “Thanks for hanging out tonight, Zoe. I know you would rather be working on your substitution experiments tonight. With all that company coming for Thanksgiving, you won’t have much time for it.”

  “It’s fine, Dad. I haven’t been able to get the chalk to work anyway. I
need to focus and think, but I have too much going on.”

  “Well, let’s talk through it now,” he said as we left the parking lot. “You want to use sidewalk chalk as the base?”

  “Yes. I want it to be harder though. But the chalk idea just seems right. I can almost see the chalk writing on the pavement, but I can’t get the consistency I want. The grinding press worked great for chopping up the bone and for reducing it to a powder.”

  “I’m glad it worked, hon,” my dad said. “I had some trouble identifying the correct mechanism. It wasn’t like I could ask many people about it.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “The bone didn’t work?”

  “No. I don’t have anywhere else to go with it right now.” I blew out a breath. “Maybe chalk was the wrong way to go. I know I could get there faster with rhino horn. I don’t want to do the work without finding a truly feasible solution. Maybe I’m thinking too far ahead. Maybe I need the rhino horn substitution to see the steps to the chalk-based formula. I don’t know, Dad. Every time I start to consider another base, I get this, I don’t know, this sense that I’m about to turn down the wrong path.”

  “You have good instincts, Zoe. I’m not going to lecture you, yet,” he said, eyeing me with a half-smile. “I know you realize exactly how long you’ve been working on the unicorn horn, exactly how short is more like it.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to lecture me.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I believe you should follow your gut. So let’s talk about the chalk. It’s not hard enough? What kind of chalk are you using?”

  “I’ve tried chalkboard chalk, but it’s sidewalk chalk that I feel strongly about.”

  “I understand, but what I mean was, are you using chalk from calcium carbonate or calcium sulfate?”

  Calcium what? The truth hit me like a ton of bricks. “Oh my God. I didn’t research chalk. Dad, how could I have missed that step? I thought chalk was chalk, but I know better than to assume.”

  “Zoe, you need to give yourself a break. You have too much going on. You don’t need to be juggling all these things at once.”