Free The Flower Bowl Spell by Olivia Boler Page A

newly purchased crackers and
peanut butter from the cupboard and set them up with a cutting
board and butter knife.
    “Who were you calling?” Romola asks. “Our
mom?”
    This question, naturally, pains me. “No,
sorry. Cooper and I have dinner plans tonight. I’m trying to get
someone to stay with you for a little while this evening. You don’t
mind, do you?”
    She licks peanut butter off her fingers and
shakes her head.
    “I’m sure your mother got you babysitters now
and then.”
    Romola nods. “Mostly people from our
church.”
    Their church. Does she mean a real church or
is this code for a coven? I lean my hip against the counter and
cross my arms. “What church is that?”
    “Holy Revival Redeemer.”
    Sounds evangelical, I hope in a good way. I
try to keep an open mind about these things. “How long have you and
your mommy gone to church?”
    Romola makes a face. “Like, forever. We were
baptized.”
    “You remember that?”
    “No. I was a baby. But we’re going to do it
again when we’re fourteen. So we know that we really want Jesus
Christ in our hearts.”
    Don’t get me wrong. I like Jesus Christ. We
could have rolled. As a kid, I asked Auntie Tess about him, and she
said he was very cool (my words, not hers). But I think of all the
dastardly deeds that have been done in his name through the
centuries—particularly to ladies of my ilk—and I get a little
itchy.
    “What about your dad?” I ask. “Does he go to
your church too?”
    Romola looks at me sharply with her eyes just
like her mother’s. She continues to chew her cracker. Cleo, who all
this time has been concentrating on making and consuming little
square sandwiches, looks up at me. “Our daddy is Jesus.”
    Exsqueeze me? “Your daddy—he’s—his name is
Jesus, you mean? Like, in Spanish? Hey Zeus ?”
    Romola swallows her bite. “No. Our father is
Jesus Christ. He’s our only father.”
    Surely she must be joking. But she isn’t
laughing. I consider that I have in my care the daughters of Jesus
Christ—who, I’ve read, probably looked more African or Arabian than
all those European artists would have had us believe for the past
800 years. More Sephardic than Ashkenazi. “Have you ever seen your
father?”
    “Duh,” Romola says, but not in a mean way.
“He’s the holy father. He lives with us.”
    “Is he married to your mom?”
    She rolls her eyes. “Yeah! He’s the
preacher.”
    Wow. Viveka has left the building. And by the
building, I mean the craft.
    Cleo hops down from her barstool and belches.
She looks at me with widening eyes and giggles in that coquettish
way. “Could I have some cold fresh juice, please?”
    I open the fridge and pull out the chilled
grape juice the girls chose at Trader Joe’s yesterday. She receives
the glass I pour for her with a polite thank you.
    I have much to mull.
    Cleo studies the magnet-cluttered
refrigerator door as she sips her drink—bills to be paid, opera
tickets, take-out menus. I always get magnets as gifts, mostly sent
to me by my parents. There are butterflies, flowers, and seashells,
and various tourist destinations— Paris, Bangkok, Tokyo, Marrakech,
São Paulo. Cleo stands on tiptoe and slaps at a photo of Hillary.
It’s her latest school portrait and she is looking like the
blossoming blond California girl that she is.
    “She can babysit us,” Cleo says. She licks
her lips, sighs a wet, rattling sigh, and smiles up at me sweetly.
Portents of doom and promise.
     
     

Chapter Nine
     
     
    Cleo can’t tear herself away from the
jellyfish. They’re in a room, dim and peaceful, lit with black
lights that turn their glowing white flesh a phosphorescent violet.
I don’t mind hanging out in here. It’s more peaceful than any other
place I’ve been in ages, but Romola is eager to move on. She needs
to see the seahorses because that’s what her report is about.
    Auntie Tess is just as fascinated with the
jellies as I am. She stands with her mouth open in a