The Magical Land of Birthdays

brushed against a slim cookbook. A strange sensation—almost like a spark—tingled up her arm. She paused. Then she picked up the book.
Amirah could tell right away that the cookbook was old. The cover had begun to peel, shedding shimmery gold flakes on her palms. The title, though, blazed as brightly as if it had just been printed. It read:
Amirah’s eyes grew wide. The Power of Sprinkles? she thought in surprise. She believed in the power of sprinkles more than anyone else she knew—in their ability to make just about any dessert taste better, or to turn even the gloomiest afternoon into a cheerful party. And now, she was holding a whole cookbook that followed the same philosophy?
Well, there was no doubt about it.
That cookbook was meant for her!
Amirah was even more convinced that it was a very special cookbook when she realized every single recipe was for a delicious-sounding cake. Amirah loved cooking, but baking was her true passion because she got to use her imagination every time she decorated a cake. Each recipe in this cookbook sounded so delectable that Amirah wanted to make them all. And as far as she could tell, it was the only cookbook in the entire pile that contained recipes for desserts only. Somehow that made it feel even more special.
Amirah slipped The Power of Sprinkles into her backpack and stood up. She was just about to ask Mrs. Maria where she had gotten that particular cookbook when a loud clang from the kitchen made her jump.
“Mrs. Maria!” she called out as she ran into the kitchen. “Are you okay?”
“Sí, sí,” Mrs. Maria replied. “I’m fine. I just dropped the ladle. Luckily it hit the floor instead of my foot! It made a little bit of a mess, though!”
Amirah immediately grabbed a wad of paper towels from the counter to clean up the splatters from the floor so Mrs. Maria wouldn’t have to bend down.
“Do you need some help?” Amirah asked after the mess was all cleaned up. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to make your pozole. It’s so good that we never have any leftovers.”
Mrs. Maria smiled and made room for Amirah behind the counter. “That’s the highest praise a humble cook like me could ask for,” she said. “Now, I’ll tell you a little secret about my pozole. It’s all in the seasoning. Watch how I crumble this oregano . . .”

That night, Amirah was so engrossed in The Power of Sprinkles that she didn’t even hear the tap-tap-tap on her bedroom door.
“Amirah?” Mama’s voice sounded muffled. “Are you in there?”
“Sí, Mama!” Amirah replied. “Come in!”
“What are you reading?” Mama asked as she sat down on the end of Amirah’s bed.
“Mrs. Maria had a bunch of old cookbooks that she doesn’t need anymore,” Amirah explained. “She said I could help myself to them and when I saw this one . . . well, I felt like it was meant for me!”
“The Power of Sprinkles?” Mama said. Her eyes twinkled. “Are you sure you didn’t write this one?”
“Yes—but I wish I did!” Amirah replied. “Look, there are recipes for all different types of birthday cakes—Mei’s Birthday Cake and Ziggy’s Birthday Cake and Elvis’s Birthday Cake and on and on. Every single cake sounds amazing. I want to try them all!”
“Reading cookbooks has the same effect on me,” Mama replied. Amirah scooted over in the bed to make room for Mama so they could flip through the book together. The pages of the old cookbook were stained and tattered; some even had notes written on them in faint pencil that Amirah could barely read. But she could tell that the notes were not all written in the same handwriting, and that made her wonder who had owned the cookbook before Mrs. Maria. Were any of the notes from Mrs. Maria, or just the previous owners of the cookbook?
Amirah leaned her head against Mama’s shoulder as they turned the pages of The Power of Sprinkles. Then Amirah saw something that made her sit up straight. For half a second, she almost thought she’d imagined it. Amirah shook her head—blinked—
She hadn’t imagined it. The words were right there, printed clear as day:
“Look!” she exclaimed, pointing at the recipe name.
“My goodness!” Mama said. “How surprising!”
That was the understatement of the year. Amirah’s name was Arabic, not Mexican, which meant she never stumbled across it. There were no other Amirahs at school, no characters named Amirah in her favorite books, no key chains or hair clips or T-shirts with Amirah printed on them in stores. As far as Amirah knew, she was the only Amirah in the whole country. Normally, that didn’t bother her one bit. She loved that her name meant princess in Arabic, almost like a secret that only Amirah and her family knew. Now that Amirah saw a recipe that shared her name, though, something stirred deep in her heart. It was a feeling of connection.
Amirah’s fingers reached out to touch the page. And then—that spark she’d felt before, that tingle in her fingertips—well, this time she saw it.
No, Amirah thought.
It wasn’t possible.
Yet as Amirah rested her hand on the page for Amirah’s Birthday Cake, she could see it. Not just one spark but dozens—hundreds—of specks of golden light, glittering around her fingers, over her hand, up her arm—
Amirah pulled her hand away from the book and looked urgently at Mama, who was casually glancing at the page. It was obvious that she hadn’t noticed a thing.
Amirah’s hand inched closer to the page. Once more, the bits of light began to gather at her fingertips—
“Listen to this,” Mama was saying as she read the recipe description. “‘The magic is in the sprinkles. Amirah’s Birthday Cake, a unicorn cake baked with plenty of surprises, is truly fit for a princess.’”
Mama paused to smile at Amirah. “Hear that?” she asked. “Magic . . . sprinkles . . . unicorn . . . surprises . . . princess! This really does sound like the perfect cake for you!”
As the