by Kim Tomsic
Dedication
For Steve ♥
And for my brother John—your kindness knew no bounds.
Epigraph
Some people say there’s no such thing as pink lightning. They also say that curses don’t exist. Those people are wrong.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: December 14
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11: Saturday, December 15
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14: Sunday, December 16
Chapter 15: Monday, December 17
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24: Tuesday, December 18
Chapter 25: Wednesday, December 19
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31: Thursday, December 20
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36: Friday, December 21
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
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About the Author
Books by Kim Tomsic
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
December 14
I hurry to snag the primo spot in Goldview’s school cafeteria, the window seat, and I’m feeling pretty good until I notice that one table over, Priscilla is smiling at me from the second-best spot. Priscilla never smiles at me unless evil is involved.
“A little something for your buns,” she says in a painfully sweet voice.
We’re having hamburgers today, so she could be talking about my sesame-seed bun, but I have a rule—never trust anything said with so much sugar-lace.
Priscilla elbows Jada, and then Jada elbows Gigi. Yep, as in, Gigi who used to be my friend. Gigi has the decency to look down and take a bite of her burger. Then Priscilla whispers something, and the satisfaction that spreads across her face sends a stream of dread down my back.
Still, I refuse to let Priscilla see me sweat. I pop open my orange soda and take a sip, glancing at the cafeteria line. Bailee is third from the register, so I don’t have anyone to whisper with yet. If I did, I’d say there’s no way I'm giving Priscilla the satisfaction of asking why she didn’t take this seat or what her peppy little bun comment means. I take another fake-calm slurp of my soda and survey her lunch tray—iced tea, red apple, folded napkin, and bunless burger (Priscilla doesn’t believe in eating bread). And then I notice that there on her meat patty, between the cheese and the ketchup, are two empty round spots. Her pickles are missing, and I have a good idea where they might be now.
Pasted on my behind.
Most eleven-year-olds on the verge of turning twelve would probably freak out or throw their orange soda right at Priscilla’s gold headband, but that’s exactly what she wants. She’s like a chess player, moves planned in advance. Like two months ago, she tripped me in math class, and right when I was about to tell Mrs. Floss, Priscilla hollered, “Ouch! Mrs. Floss, Sage kicked me.”
Mrs. Floss looooves Priscilla. Plus, my father is Carl Sassafras, and everyone knows what he’s accused of, so everyone expects me to be doing something wrong, too. Needless to say, I was the one who had to apologize.
Today, instead of playing into Priscilla’s sneaky plan, I make my own sugar-laced comment. “I thought today, on account of our shared birthdays, we were having a truce, but apparently, we’re trading bits of our lunch. What would you like from my tray, Priscilla?”
“Huh?” she says, confused by my faux-friendly tone.
“I suppose I’ll have to ‘give’ you something later.” I put air quotes around “give” so she can get an early start on worrying about what I might do.
That drops her grin long enough for me to attempt a clean escape. I take three giant steps away from the table before she hollers at my back, “The pickles are free. No food stamps required.”
She laughs all high-pitched so that the cafeteria quiets and heads turn my way.
As much as I try to squeeze my feelings behind my eyes, they still sting.
Do not, I tell myself, do NOT let them see you tear up.
I force myself to walk with my head held high, one forever-long step after the next—past the sixth graders, then seventh graders, past the frozen yogurt machine and the four gold-sealed Janitor of the Year plaques hanging on the wall. Finally, I push open the cafeteria door. When it slaps shut behind me, I drop the slow-walking act and sprint to the bathroom, praying the paper towels are stocked this time.
When I arrive at the bathroom, there’s a yellow handwritten sign posted on the door. It says “Eighth Grade Girls ONLY.”
I don’t like being bossed, but the sign makes me hesitate, which gives Bailee time to catch up, breathing hard.
“Why’d you leave when I was still in line?” she asks, fixing the crooked slant of her tortoiseshell glasses.
“Godzilla,” I say, like I’m talking about armpits or toe jam. Godzilla is the perfect name for Priscilla since she’s tall and likes to destroy things, and by “things” I mean me.
“I’m sorry.” Bailee nods sympathetically until she notices the sign. Her words fly out in a panic. “Sage Sassafras! This bathroom is for upperclassmen, not sixth graders!”
“Not when it’s an emergency.” I rip the yellow paper from the door, and Bailee gasps as if I just mooned the entire art club.
“You can’t go tearing down signs!”
I narrow my eyes, taking a closer look at my best friend. Sometimes she won’t out-and-out say what she’s worried about, but I’m an experienced guesser, especially because we’ve known each other since we were four. I’d bet the six dollars in my backpack Bailee is worried my sign destruction will give people another reason to accuse me of being just like my daddy.
“We’ll be fine.” I push open the door and go inside.
Bailee follows me, trying to grab the crumpled paper, but I toss it into the trash can. With that, her deep breathing revs, and she drums her purple-painted fingernails against her collarbone.
Shoot. I didn’t mean to put Bailee in the middle of one of her worst nightmares—the one where she stresses over rules vs. germs. Now she’s stuck with a choice: either snatch the sign from the garbage and face staph, E. coli, or whatever contagion she imagines; or leave it in the trash, but risk being caught alongside me—sign-destroyer/rule-breaker.
I touch her arm. “Sorry, Bay.” I turn my butt toward the mirror and look over a shoulder. “Oh, sepia!” I say, because it’s the crummiest color I can think of at the moment. There, on my butt, are two round pickle imprints. The actual pickles probably fell off during my jog down the hall, but the proof of their past is outlined on my white jeans.
“Oh no, Sage!” Bailee’s voice fills with pity. She knows these jeans are my one new piece of school clothing, given to me by Miss Tammy, who lives next door.
I balance on my tiptoes and crane my neck for a better view. The circle marks wouldn’t look so bad if the pickles had traveled straight from the jar to my behind, but these pickles came with ketchup and left a light pink outline. I sigh. “This is my own fau
lt. I should’ve kept a better eye on Godzilla.”
“I’m really, really sorry. But we should get out of here.” Bailee runs her hands down her smooth dark ponytail, darting looks at the door like she’s worried a SWAT team of eighth graders might come busting in. “You can borrow clothing from the office bin.”
“The ugly bin?” I say. “Nooooo thank you.” I reach for a paper towel, but the dispenser is empty.
“Will you please hurry?”
“Chill, Bay. Hazing’s a boy thing. And what would the girls do anyhow? Make us wear ugly nail polish?” I snatch some toilet paper from the nearest stall and return to the mirror.
“A boy thing? What do you call the circles on your butt?”
“A generational feud.” She knows this. I’ve told her a thousand times about Momma and Mrs. Petty, who is Godzilla’s momma.
“Can’t you be done with that stupid feud?”
“Of course not.” I wet the toilet paper. “It’s a family obligation. That plus the curse doesn’t leave me a choice.” I rub on the pickle marks. The pink lines fade into gray circles.
“That’s as good as it’s going to get.” Bailee turns on two faucets and flashes another worried look at the door. “Come on,” she pleads. “Let’s wash hands and go.”
“All right already.” My hands aren’t dirty, but for Bailee’s sake I grab a glob of soap and copy her, speed-scrubbing my palms under the warm water. I look at the mirror and besides noticing that my ponytail has frizzed and could use some fixing, I also see two flyers taped at an angle. One is white and says “Seven days until the solstice.” We’ve already seen that flyer a thousand times today. But there’s another flyer. A lavender one. “Look.” I point with my chin.
The paper’s edges are dotted with stars and sunbursts and the center has a drawing of a store with fancy lettering that reads “Minerva’s What’s-it Shoppe. Everything you could possibly wish for.” I dry my hands on the sides of my pants and snatch the flyer off the mirror. “You heard of Minerva’s?”
“No.” Bailee shakes her hands, air-drying and waving me toward the door.
Then I notice the address. “It’s at Seventh and Elm!” I say loudly. This is a big deal, because that’s our side of the creek. Bear Creek divides the nice houses from the rest of us in Goldview, and there are no real stores on our side of the creek, unless you count the grocery aisle in the gas station. We just have laundromats, mechanic shops, and the Snowy Soda Brewing Factory.
“Uh-huh,” Bailee says, inching me forward. “We need to g—”
The bathroom door whooshes open, my heart leapfrogs to my throat, and in walks the owner of a tight blue shirt. “What are sixth graders doing in here?”
Two friends enter behind her, and I can tell they’re eighth graders on account of their boobs.
Bailee teeters on the verge of a panic attack, so I quickly crumple the lavender flyer into a ball, and in the sweetest voice possible, I say, “We’ve been assigned cleanup duty to keep the eighth-grade bathroom pristine.” I toss it into the garbage. “That about does it, except I’ll let Mrs. Downy know you’re out of paper towels. I hope we’ve done a good job.” I grab Bailee’s arm. “Come on, Bay.”
We hightail it out of there. But not before I hear Blue Shirt say, “No wonder she broke into our bathroom. She’s a Sassafras.”
I curse my family reputation. And then I curse the curse.
Chapter 2
The curse followed me into life, making Priscilla and me enemies before we were even born.
We both made our appearance at Goldview County Hospital exactly twelve years ago this day, December 14, her at precisely one minute before noon and me at a minute before midnight. Momma said the nurses who oohed and ahhhed over my mop of dark hair ignored Priscilla’s bald head. And the nurses who loved on Priscilla didn’t pay mind to me.
But the curse dates back further than our shared birthday. It officially started when our mommas were in sixth grade right here when Goldview was a middle school and not a K–8 campus. Back then, my momma and Candice Petty, that’s Priscilla’s momma, were good friends. Some say they were as close as sisters, until the day they were both struck by the same bolt of pink lightning.
If you don’t believe in pink lightning, let me stop you right there. Pink lightning is real, but it’s rare. To see it, you need a thundersnow, which is when a snowstorm and a thunderstorm happen at the exact same time. People here argue about the possibility of pink lightning in Colorado because thundersnows don’t happen very often. But they happen.
If you’re still doubting that pink lightning is real, you can ask Steven Flores; he loves talking about weather. But if you don’t trust sixth graders, then ask my science teacher. She says lightning can be different colors, depending on what the lightning flash travels through and how close it comes to the viewer. She says haze, dust, moisture, and other tiny bits in the atmosphere mess with how people see it, so lightning usually looks white or blue, but under rare circumstances like a thundersnow, the lightning appears pink.
Momma says she doesn’t remember much about the day of the pink lightning except that it happened on the winter solstice. Others in town have filled in the blanks. The checkers at Sprouts confirm the lightning bolt was as pink as the cotton candy at the county fair. Mrs. Downy says it struck when Momma and Mrs. Petty were cutting across the football field, going home after track practice. And Miss Tammy, who talks to a lot of people since she works at the Goldview Café, says the power in town cut out for a full minute, and that’s when Momma and Mrs. Petty were plagued with the curse—the Curse of Opposites.
Here’s how the curse works: If one feels hot, the other feels cold. If one has a good hair day, the other has to make do with a hat. If one feels particularly brave, the other shakes in her boots.
Of course, some say the curse is baloney, but Mrs. Rimmels, who is my English teacher, says it is real, and Mrs. Rimmels is the smartest person in Goldview. She reads a whole book every week, never says ain’t, and uses fancy words like hors d’oeuvres, which means bite-size snacks.
Furthermore, Mrs. Rimmels is an eyewitness since she’s as old as a bag of dust, and I mean that in the kindest way. She’s not only my English teacher, but she was also Momma and Mrs. Petty’s English teacher, too, so she has seen the curse from the very beginning. Mrs. Rimmels even gave the curse its name—the Contrarium Curse. Contrarium is Latin for “opposite,” and everyone knows all real curses have Latin names.
Here’s what Mrs. Rimmels says about the curse: Back in their school days, when Momma wrote poetry, Mrs. Petty wrote prose. When Momma was dared to swim in the public pool and got the chills, Mrs. Petty broke out with a fever. And when Momma brought her pet guinea pig pup to school for show-and-tell, Mrs. Petty brought in her boa constrictor.
Naturally, after the snake mistook Momma’s guinea pig for an hors d’oeuvre, the friendship took a nosedive.
Mrs. Rimmels isn’t the only one who talks about the curse. Folks at the Goldview Café say that after the snake incident, the girls raced to claim the best parts of the curse first or else suffer the opposite all day long. They say Mrs. Petty made the first move and acted extra, extra dainty, which turned Momma into a klutz. She broke a toe before her track meet. So Momma, who is already quite pretty with her thick nut-brown hair and bright hazel eyes, fixed herself up for the barn dance. That same night, Mrs. Petty suffered a massive case of poison oak—one eye swelled shut and her cheeks broke out in red welts. And in high school, when Momma spent a year learning fortune-telling, Mrs. Petty became a Methodist.
Not everyone believes in the curse. Bailee and her family came to Goldview decades after the pink lightning incident, so they don’t buy into the Contrarium Curse like townsfolk who have lived here their whole lives. Plus, Bailee only likes talking about things that bring on good luck, like finding a penny or shooting stars, but she swears curses are mind over matter. And since she wants to be a lawyer one day, she can’t focus on negative mojo. She says that
might mess her up during a trial.
I try to tell her the Contrarium Curse is why I have a gap between my front teeth and Priscilla’s teeth crowd in her mouth. It’s why I can smooth-whisper nice and quiet and Priscilla sandpaper-whispers all loud and harsh. It’s why I’m good at reading and Priscilla is good at math. Bailee laughs at this. She and her momma call the curse nonsense, and I’m not going to lie—their skepticism is kind of nice. I like hearing them say a person gets to choose their own path. They claim that I’m not tied to the curse or my daddy’s reputation.
I wish that were true.
Chapter 3
Before lunch ends, Bailee and I each grab a cone of tart frozen yogurt. It comes free with lunch, and thank goodness, because I’m starving from skipping my burger. We lick our yogurts and head around the side of the school toward our “specials” class in the library with Mr. Lehman. Under normal circumstances, I might feel miserable after dealing with Priscilla’s pickle attack, but Friday’s special is my favorite—art.
Outside the library door, Bailee swallows the last bite of her cone, probably because of the no-food rule and her loving the law. I take my time and say, “Save us the table on the left.”
“I know,” she says. “Best natural light.”
Bailee goes through the nonfiction section, and I weave through the shelves of picture books and then through the novels, not only so I can finish the yogurt, but also to see what Mr. Lehman has on his display tower. This week’s tower has books about some kind of weather marvel. I pop the final bite of cone into my mouth and reach for a book with lightning on the cover.
“Sage,” I hear from behind me.
I turn.
“You’re not about to pick up that book with sticky yogurt hands, are you?” Mr. Lehman says, lifting a bushy eyebrow above the rim of his glasses.
“Sorry.” I lick my fingers and drop my arms to my sides.
“Happy birthday,” he says sternly, but his eyes crinkle into a smile. Then he looks at his watch. “It’s time.”
We hurry down aisles of tall bookshelves toward the open space with the round tables. Aside from the gym, the library is the biggest room in our school. Once you’re seated at any one of the round tables, you can see the tree-lined mountains that surround Goldview.
