Now You See Me ... by Jane B. Mason Read Free Book Online Page B

the sink again, this time coming dangerously close to getting wet. Abby had a point, Lena realized, and she was being ridiculous. Reaching up, she removed the strap and set the camera on the counter nearby. There. That was better.
    Or was it? In an instant her anxiousness was back, and Lena could feel herself starting to rush through the cleanup. She had to get it done! She finished the washing, then grabbed the dried jars off the counter and carried them into the pantry.
    â€œThere, that’s done,” she declared as she set the final jar in its place. She was about to snatch up the camera when Abby suddenly jumped into her path, a suspiciously sly grin on her face.
    Oh no,
Lena thought.
What now?

CHAPTER EIGHT
    â€œHow many times have you watched your dad make jam?” Abby asked, arching an eyebrow.
    â€œAbout a gazillion,” Lena answered. She tried to duck around Abby’s arm to grab the Impulse off the counter, but Abby shifted again — right into the center of her path.
    â€œSo, you know how to do it, right?” Abby prodded.
    Something in her tone made Lena stop trying to get around her and look into her face instead. “Yeaah …” she said slowly.
    â€œSo, I bet we could make a batch ourselves,” Abby concluded. “To help him out.” A slow smile crept across her face. Any trace of a smile disappeared from Lena’s.
    As if we aren’t already in hot water,
Lena thought. But Lena had been cooking and baking in their kitchen since she was ten, and once Abby had an idea in her head there was no stopping her. Lena had seen Abby’s determination lead to some amazing successes, like first place at the science fair in fourth grade, and the bake sale sellout earlier this summer. But she had also been witness to some spectacular failures, such as (but not limited to) the front yard ice-skating rink catastrophe and the doggie day-care disaster. With the way things had been going lately, she was pretty sure that the great jam session would fall into the “failure” category.
    Forty minutes later, the girls were wrist-deep in peach peeling and pulping. Lena picked up a blanched yellow ball and easily peeled the skin away. She split the peach in half with her fingers, let the peach halves fall into a giant bowl of already-peeled peaches, and dropped the peel and the pit into the compost tub.
    â€œThat’s peach number five hundred and sixty-two,” she groused.
    â€œOh, come on, this is fun,” Abby corrected as she dumped a giant pile of peach chunks into aflat-bottomed dish for mashing. “And besides, I’m already pulping.”
    It was true. With both girls working they were making good time.
    Abby finished her cutting and walked over to the sink, using her elbow to turn on the faucet. Her peachy hands reminded Lena of scrubbed-up doctors, only it was peach juice instead of disinfectant. What they really needed were spikes on the tips of their fingers. Peeling peaches was slippery business.
    â€œYou get back here!” Lena called as a peach slid out of her fingers and onto the floor. It hit the tile with a
sploosh,
skidded across the kitchen, and wedged itself under the fridge.
    Abby retrieved it and rinsed it in the sink. “Nobody has to know,” she said with a giggle as she finished washing up. They were finally ready to make jam.
    Lena measured several cups of peach pulp into a big pot and set it on the stove. Behind her, Abby excitedly ripped open a box of pectin.
    â€œSo, how much of this stuff do I put in?” Abby asked, gazing into the pot of peach pulp. “Mmm, smells good already.”
    â€œCheck the directions,” Lena said. “They’re in the box.”
    Abby pulled out the little paper envelope and peered into the cardboard container. “No directions here,” she said, turning the box upside down and giving it a little shake to demonstrate.
    Lena let out a little groan. No directions?