By Rosemarie DiCristo
Transfiguration Church’s Pasta Night was the same every year: an all-you-can-eat Italian buffet, two hundred parishioners cramming the American Legion Hall, old folks doing “YMCA,” and the 50-50 raffle.
My sister Cecily and I always spent every minute in the bar.
Not for the booze. For their large-screen TVs. Cec and I have a huge rivalry. Me, Knicks. Cecily, Heat.
We can affect the games. And other things.
At key moments, I do a wrist-twirl that makes the Heat ball bounce off the rim. Ditto for Cecily with the Knicks. It’s a “talent” that also works for balls going in.
I’d just sent a sure three-pointer bouncing off the Heat backboard when Maria Marrero, who always did the 50-50 raffle, plopped two coils of tickets onto our table.
“We didn’t buy these,” Cecily said.
“Nope. Someone’s treat.”
“Who?” I said.
Maria tapped her nose. “Gotta keep schtum, Annie. Meaning, I cannot tell you.”
Cecily fingered the red cardboard strips. “It’s twenty-five dollars’ worth!”
That was huge. Most years, the 50-50 raised over fifteen hundred dollars. Half went to the winner, half to the church.
“Enjoy it, girls.” Maria winked. “Hope there’s no strings attached.”
While Cecily gaped at the tickets, I made a wobbly shot by Jalen Bruson go swish.
Cecily huffed. “Really?”
My grin nearly split my face. “Pay attention to the game!”
“You’re not slightly curious who gave us these?”
“Father Paul. As thanks for our generous weekly donations.”
Another huff. “They’re not that generous.”
I twirled a hand and a shot by Tyler Herro fell ten feet short.
Cecily twirled her hand and Josh Hart practically gave the ball to Bam Adebayo, who stuffed it in the Heat’s basket. But before I could say spit, Maria handed each of us another twenty-five bucks’ worth of tickets.
“Who?”
“Schtum!” She hustled away.
“I bet it’s Walter the usher,” I said. “He always smiles at me when I drop my envelopes in his basket.”
“Eww. Walter’s eighty!”
“I didn’t say hit-on smiling.”
She said, “I think it’s Jimmy Williams. He hit-on waves at me during the sign of peace.”
My voice was withering. “He’s married.”
“That’s why,” she said with a merry voice, “he’s keeping schtum.”
Maria gave us ten dollars more in tickets.
“At least tell us: male or female?” I begged.
She put her finger to her lips and dashed away.
“This is getting real creepy real fast,” I said.
By now, the American Legion guys at the bar had noticed. “Whoever’s buying those, they’re gonna want something from you,” one said.
“Maybe there’s a pervert in our church,” another said.
Before I could answer, a cocky male voice behind us purred. “Or someone just needs a favor.”
We turned.
People dress up for Pasta Night, but Spark Spaulding was over the top in skin-tight silver pants, a red blousy shirt open to his navel, and a dozen gold chains around his neck.
“Pervert,” Cecily and I said together.
Spark looked offended. “Now, girls…”
But he’d dated both of us at the same time—without telling us—while also dating Diane Rizzo, Ronni Lonergan, Maryann McInerney, and Joanie Crenshaw.
“This isn’t disco night,” I began, but Spark interrupted.
“I gotta talk to you in private. Now.” His voice had lost its usual ooze, and his deep-green eyes, usually brash, looked panicked.
Cec and I exchanged glances. “Private, where?”
“By the buffet tables. The food’s mostly gone, everything’s empty…” He kept glancing over his shoulder. “Please.”
A word I never thought I’d hear from Spark’s lips.
Shrugging, Cecily and I followed him to the now dark-and-deserted buffet tables.
“I need your powers,” Spark blurted.
“Powers?” I said.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Can it. After all these years wandering the world, I sense powers, okay? Besides…” He wiggled a hand in limp circles. “The ball is in, it’s out. Powers. I need your help.”
“How?” Cecily asked.
“Why?” I asked.
He looked over his shoulder again, at the entrance. “I’m cursed.”
“Cursed?” Cecily hooted.
“What, you can conjure up” —he did another hand-wiggle— “victory for your team, but scoff at curses?”
Cec laughed so hard she could barely speak. “Oh, I believe you’d be cursed.”
I added, “I’m just wondering why. Ooh, let me guess. Hit on the wrong lady?”
His lips puckered like he’d tasted something sour. “All you need to know is they send me from place to place, and from time to time. And now it’s time to go someplace new. But I like it here. And the ladies sure like me.” Spark did a pelvic-thrust and shot us his hot-stuff grin.
Ugh.
“Again,” Cecily said, “how can we…?”
“Okay, maybe not you specifically, but I know your dad has seriously bad-ass powers and could—Oh, crap.”
The door burst open, and five men rushed in, although men might be a stretch. They looked human, but like a bad AI generation.
“Get your dad!” Spark’s voice cracked. “Quick!”
We didn’t need Dad. Cecily did a hand-twirl, and suddenly Spark was a dill pickle, which Cec promptly tossed into the leftover salad.
“Eww,” came his tiny pickle-y voice. “Did you have to?”
“Karma!” chortled Cecily.
Oh. Right. Spark hated pickles.
So did his people, apparently. They came within six feet of the table, recoiled, then headed the other way. They searched the packed hall, apparently decided Spark wasn’t there, and left.
Safe.
For now.
“But tell me, Cec,” I said. “What do we do with Spark the Pickle?”
“Not us. Dad. He does have bad-ass powers. Maybe enough to break the curse.”
We looked down at our pickled pal.
I couldn’t tell if he looked back, but he squeaked, “For real? You’ll help?”
“You’re a rogue…” Cecily began.
I cut in, “I’d say ‘weasel.’”
“But a likeable one.”
Maria rushed over. “Girls! You won the 50-50!”
Eight hundred bucks!
“Besides, a thank-you’s in order,” I said, and with Cecily, carried Spark to Dad.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Fun Spark idea!
I kid you not, they turned him into a pickle. He’s called Pickle Spark. Funniest thing I’ve ever read.
The highlight was the pickle.
Oh my gosh, this was such a fun story!