Page 62 of Wicked Hungry

“Wow,” Dad says. “Our son has grown up.”

“Our Don Juan,” my mother says.

“Don Juan,” Josh says. “Don Juan, Don Juan, Don Juan.”

“Shh, Josh,” my mother says. “Let your brother talk.”

“As I was saying,” I say, “Enrique and I ran really fast today, and the track coach wants us to be on the track team!”

“Your knee, Stanley,” my mother gasps.

But my father shushes her. “How fast?” he asks eagerly.

“Forty-eight seconds for each of us.”

“Wow,” my dad says.

“Stanley is fast?” Josh asks.

“Very fast,” my mother says.

“Wow,” Josh says.

“So we need to do research together, and we also wanted to run and trick-or-treat together. It’s an important part of our training.”

“The trick-or-treating?” my mom asks, looking confused.

“The running,” I say.

“Maybe,” my father says.

“Maybe,” my mother says, nodding.

“Maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all,” my father says.

“Maybe your father is right,” my mother says.

My parents seriously need some assertiveness training.

“So I can go, then?”

“As long as you finish all your homework over there,” my mother says.

“Honey,” my dad says. “He’s got the whole weekend. And anyway, how much trouble can he get into next door?”

My little brother runs off. From the other side of the house I hear him calling out for his cat: “Max. Max! Max! Where are you?”

In my room I stuff clean clothes into my

backpack. In between them goes the grimoire, still wrapped up in its plastic bag. It’s hard to say why it’s remained unopened since we came back from Natural Magic. Maybe I’m scared to find out what’s between its pages.

I call up Enrique.

“Bueno,” he says.

“It’s me, Stanley.”

“You coming over?”