Is there some kind of special weekend event happening that I totally forgot about?
Mom rolls her eyes. “Don’t even try it. You’re not getting out of going to school.”
“But what day is it?”
Mom sighs. “Last I checked it was Friday.”
Friday?
But it was Friday yesterday. Wasn’t it?
“By the way,” Mom says, putting in her second earring. “Do you know where my red lipstick is?”
I stare at her in disbelief. “Why would I know where your lipstick is?”
“Uh, probably because you borrowed it without asking and didn’t put it back.” There’s a strange sarcastic quality to her voice that I’ve never heard before. Not to mention she’s making absolutely no sense. What is she talking about? Why would I borrow her lipstick? She knows I’m not allowed to wear makeup. It’s her stupid rule! Is this her idea of a mean joke?
“Ha ha, Mom,” I say in a snarky tone. “I took your lipstick. Very funny.”
She huffs impatiently. “I don’t understand why you need to borrow my makeup when you have a drawer full of makeup.”
I squint at her like she’s out of focus. And to be honest, she kind of is.
“Look,” she goes on. “I have to leave for work. Just put it back when you’re done, okay?” Then she walks away without another word.
I stand in the doorway feeling stunned and disoriented.
Work?
But she’s a stay-at-home mom. Did she get a job overnight? Come to think of it, she did look really dressed up. Normally in the morning, she wears yoga pants and a sweatshirt, but I’m pretty sure she was wearing a suit.
Mom has suits?
And what’s this nonsense about having a drawer full of makeup?
I walk back to the unfamiliar dresser and yank open the highest drawer, determined to prove once and for all that my mom has clearly gone crazy. But I cover my mouth and let out a huge gasp when I see what’s inside.
It’s not just full of makeup; it’s practically overflowing with it!
And not like the cheap drugstore kind. I’m talking good stuff. All the brands Rory wears, plus a few I’ve never even heard of. I carefully riffle through the containers, growing more and more stunned by the second. There are at least five different eye shadow palettes, countless tubes of mascara and eyeliner, a handful of bronzers and blushes, and like a dozen shades of lip gloss!
What else is in this dresser?
I yank open the next drawer and let out another strangled sound. This one is completely dedicated to nail polish. There’s a bottle of every color known to man.
What is going on?
Whose room is this?
It can’t possibly be mine.
Do I even dare look in the closet? I’m not sure my heart can take it.
I ease open the door and am immediately knocked on my butt by the piles and piles of clothes that fall on top of me. It’s like someone was in such a hurry to clean that they just shoved everything they own inside and slammed the door shut.
I know this tactic well because I use it all the time.
I swim through the heaps of clothes—which are all way too cool and trendy to be mine—until I can finally see the closet behind them. My gaze lands on something on the top shelf and my whole body freezes.
I stand up and gently pull down the blue-and-gold antique jewelry box.
It’s about the only familiar thing in this entire bedroom.
La Boîte aux Rêves Cachés.
A memory flashes in my mind. It’s faint and cloudy, faded with sleep, but it feels like it happened just last night. Or was it longer than that?
I remember writing words on a piece of paper. I remember placing the words in the box. I remember turning the key.
I peer down at the jewelry box in my hands. The keyhole is empty. I try to lift the lid, but it’s locked.
The words on the page come flooding back to me.
I wish I was sixteen.
My chest rises and falls in heavy breaths as I stare numbly at the box. I think about everything that’s happened this morning—the strange bedroom, the strange reflection in the mirror, the strange dog in my bed—and suddenly my brain starts to empty, until I’m left with only one single, mind-blowing thought.
It worked.
No. Of course it didn’t work. That’s crazy talk. The jewelry box isn’t magic. It doesn’t really grant wishes.
Except…what if it does?
I push the thought aside as I return the jewelry box to the top shelf of the closet.
There has to be another explanation for this. A logical one.
I just can’t quite figure out what that is right now.
Maybe I have amnesia. Maybe I hit my head on something last night and I don’t remember my own life. I don’t remember redecorating my room or picking out all these clothes or buying all that makeup, which would be a huge shame because it’s so cool!
Or maybe, I’m dreaming.
I jump on my bed and do a series of kickboxing moves to wake myself up—pow! bam! hi-ya!—but nothing changes.
I turn and stare into my closet at the jewelry box on the top shelf, thinking about the story Mrs. Toodles told me. Maybe she would know what’s happening.
I need to go over there. I need to talk to her.
“Have a good day! Bye!” Mom shouts from somewhere downstairs. Then, a few seconds later, I hear the sound of high-heeled shoes clacking on the wood floors and the door to the garage slams shut.
Did she really just leave? How am I supposed to get to school? If today really is Friday, then it would be our day to drive. Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays we drive. Tuesdays and Wednesdays, Mrs. Harrington drives. Did she trade days with Grace’s mom? She must have. She wouldn’t just leave me without a ride to school.
Speaking of which—I check the clock on the nightstand—I’m totally late!
I start grabbing random items of clothes from the piles on the ground and throw them on, barely even noticing what I’m wearing.
I hurry back to the makeup drawer, greedily feasting my eyes on all my options. If I am dreaming, then I might as well make the most of it, right?
I dive in, sorting through all the palettes and shades. Except I soon realize that I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m going to just have to go with my instincts.
I choose a vibrant shade of blue shadow for my eyes, layering it on thick with a stubby brush I find in the drawer. Next, I draw along the bottom of my lids with a rich purple eyeliner and dust my cheeks with a rosy pink rouge. Finally, I top the whole thing off with a red lipstick, wondering if this is the one Mom was asking about.
Next, I find a brush and run it through my awesomely straight hair, loving how easily the bristles glide through the silky strands. Normally, combing my hair every day is like trudging through a muddy, overgrown field, but this is like swimming through a placid lake.
I find what looks like a schoolbag hanging from the desk chair. It’s much cooler than my polka-dotted backpack. In fact, it reminds me more of an oversized designer purse than a book bag. It’s hot-pink leather with black piping and a single gold snap on the front.
I grab it and head downstairs to find something to eat.
I’m relieved to find that the first floor of the house looks exactly the same. At least something is the same around here. Well, apart from the dog, anyway, who’s sitting on the tile floor of the kitchen, staring intently at a silver dog dish.
At least, I assume it’s a dog dish. It looks nothing like any dog dish I’ve ever seen. It’s round with a white plate thing on the top and a small opening shaped like a piece of pie. The opening is empty. I assume that’s where the food goes. But why is the whole contraption so huge if the food space is so tiny? Maybe it’s some kind of warmer to keep the dog food from getting cold.
Is dog food supposed to be served warm?
Anyway, the whole thing looks like it’s from the future. That’s all I can say. And Buttercup
is watching it obsessively, like it might come to life at any moment and attack her.
“All right, all right,” I say, patting her soft head. “I’ll feed you.”
The only problem is, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to feed her. I can’t find anything in the pantry or cupboards that resembles dog food. So I pour us both cereal and milk, emptying the last of the Cheerios into the triangle-shaped hole in Buttercup’s dish and throwing away the box. Buttercup attacks her breakfast like she hasn’t eaten in weeks.
It’s not until I’m setting my bowl in the sink a few minutes later that I realize how empty the house feels. Dad must have left for work already—confirming that it really is a weekday and I really am losing track of the days and, quite possibly, my mind—but where’s Rory? She’s usually running even later than I am. Did she have some kind of appointment before school?
I fling my bag over my shoulder and check the clock on the microwave. It’s already a quarter past eight. School starts in ten minutes. It’s really not like Mrs. Harrington to be this late. She’s as punctual as her daughter. What if Mom forgot to tell her that she wanted to switch days? What if Grace is standing in her kitchen right now waiting for us?
I’m about to grab the phone from the counter and call Grace’s house, when I hear a strange beeping sound. I spin around, looking for the source. After a second or two, I realize that the sound seems to be coming from me. Or rather, from my bag.
I open up the flap and root around inside until my fingers touch something cold and metal.
SHUT THE FREEZER DOOR!
IT’S A PHONE!
I close my fingers around the device and pull out the most amazing cell phone in the history of cell phones. It’s like some kind of advanced model I’ve never even seen before.
I nearly drop the phone when I look at the screen and find three text messages waiting for me.
All of them from Clementine Dumont.
The Clementine Dumont?
But she never speaks to me. Why is she texting me on a mystery phone I didn’t even know I had?
I scroll through the messages, trying to make sense of them one by one.
Clementine: Where are you?
Clementine:
Clementine: Did you forget it’s your day to drive?
Drive? Clementine and I carpool? But what about Grace? Does she carpool with us?
I quickly send a text back.
Me: I’m so sorry! My mom must have forgotten. She already left!
There’s a long pause before Clementine writes back.
Clementine: Your mom?
Clementine: OMG! Did something happen to your ?
My head is suddenly spinning. I can’t keep the room in focus.
Is that a picture of a CAR?
I reach back into my pink-and-black schoolbag and pull out a matching wallet. With shaking, fumbling hands, I unsnap the clasp and open it. My mouth drops to the floor.
Inside the wallet, behind a clear plastic pocket, is a driver’s license.
With my name and my picture on it.
I dive my hands back into the bag and rummage around until I feel it. The one thing that would make this day even more unbelievable than it already is. My heart starts to gallop in my chest. I hold my breath as I ever so slightly pull my hand out of the bag that could easily kick Mary Poppins’s bag’s butt.
And there it is.
Dangling from the tip of my index finger is a set of car keys.
A driver’s license. A car. A cell phone. A dog. A new room. A new wardrobe. A new body. Makeup!
WHAT IS GOING ON?
Last night when I went to sleep, I was twelve years old. This morning, I woke up and I was this.
I’m finding it hard to catch my breath. I’m finding it even harder to rein in my rambling thoughts. Could crazy, power-smoothie-blender-brain Mrs. Toodles have been telling the truth? Does the Box of Hidden Dreams really grant wishes? Is she really a descendent of an eighteenth-century witch?
“You are a believer. You have magic in the heart.”
But I can’t. I can’t believe. Not when it’s this crazy. Jewelry boxes don’t just grant wishes! People don’t just wake up to find that they’re four years older. That doesn’t just happen!
I really need to talk to Mrs. Toodles. I’m going over there right now and getting to the bottom of this.
But just then the phone in my hand chimes again and I stare down at the new incoming message.
Clementine: If you don’t get your butt over here in 2 minutes…
Uh-oh. She sounds really mad. I quickly type out a reply.
Me: I’m on my way. What’s your address?
A few seconds later, Clementine sends me a response that’s just a long string of question marks and some emoji I can’t understand, but that’s okay. I’m pretty sure I know where she lives. Her house is just a few streets down from Grace’s.
Grace.
What about Grace? Why am I not picking her up? What happened to our carpool? She must have an activity before school or something.
I shout a goodbye to Buttercup, who has disappeared out a doggie door carved into the back door, and race out of the house, my heart doing a little leap in my chest when I see what’s waiting for me in the driveway. Up until this point, I could almost convince myself that this was all some big practical joke. But this. This is real.
The car is magnificent. It’s small and green and adorable. It looks like something you’d see in a chase scene through Europe. My whole body is humming as I unlock the front door and collapse into the driver’s seat. I still can’t believe this is really happening. I can’t believe I’m about to drive for the first time ever. I try to remember all the things Rory does when she leaves the house. She turns the key in the ignition—which I do. She checks her mirrors for stuff behind her. I do that, too. Then she puts the car in reverse and backs out of the driveway.
I pull down on the shifter until the little red R lights up. The car immediately starts going backward. I let out a yelp and slam both feet against the pedals. The engine revs and the car jolts backward before slamming to a stop. I nearly smash my face against the steering wheel.
Seat belt!
That’s what I’m forgetting. And judging from what just happened, I’m going to need it.
I pull on the strap and jam the buckle into the latch. Then I take a deep breath.
Okay, let’s try this again.
This should be easy. It’s just like driving bumper cars.
I gently test both pedals. The left is definitely the brake. I ease down on the gas. The car glides slowly backward. Much better. I keep backing up until I’m off the driveway and in the middle of the street. I should probably turn at some point. I yank the steering wheel to the left, but for some reason the car goes right, the opposite of the direction I need to be facing.
Why is it doing that?
I put the car in drive and inch forward, spinning the wheel the other way. Then I try again. Reverse. Turn wheel to the left. But the car still backs up to the right.
That’s weird.
I inch forward once more and put the car back into reverse, this time turning the wheel to the right. The car goes left.
I have no idea what that’s about but at least now I’m facing the right way on the street!
I press on the gas pedal again, a little too hard this time, and the car lurches forward. I panic and yank the wheel to the left, crashing into a neighbor’s trash can.
Yikes.
A car horn honks behind me and I yelp and leap in my seat. That’s when I realize I’m just stopped here in the middle of Sherwood Drive next to the fallen trash bin and there’s a car trying to get through. I turn the wheel the other direction and tap lightly on the gas pedal. The car leaps forward again. When I finally get to the side of the road, I put the car in park, jump out to pick up the trash can, and then hop back in.
Okay, let’s try to get off the street.
I anxiously put the car back in
to drive, making sure the wheel is straight.
This is nothing like driving bumper cars. The pedals are so sensitive. One little tap on the gas and the car goes zooming, while one little tap on the brake and it feels like I’ve hit a brick wall.
By the time I reach Clementine’s house seven minutes later, I’ve nearly smashed into three more trash cans, a mailbox, a tree, and a kid on a bike, who I think is still crying from the close encounter. I pull up to the curb and kill the engine. My hands are trembling so hard I have to grip the steering wheel to make them stop.
Clementine yanks the passenger door open and collapses inside in a storm cloud of beachy perfume, spearmint gum, and impatience. She’s even more beautiful than the last time I saw her. If she looked sixteen in middle school, then now she looks almost twenty.
“What the heck?” she practically screams. “You’re like fifteen minutes late. And—” She looks at me and freezes, the words falling right off her perfectly glossed lips. “O.M. Lady Gaga. What is on your face? And what are you wearing?” Her hand juts out and grabs mine, ripping it from the steering wheel. “Your nails!” she shrieks, and I glance down, noticing them for the first time.
I don’t know what she’s getting so upset about. They’re really cute! They’re painted to look like tiny cupcakes with white frosting and sprinkles. Did I do that? If so, I have some serious skills!
“You were supposed to film the butterfly nails this morning so we could upload it this afternoon. Did you forget that, too? What is going on with you? We have a reputation to uphold. And followers who count on us to upload daily.”
“I—” I hesitate, not sure what to say since I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. And I’m still shaken up about nearly crashing my adorable little car. Not to mention, I’m kind of mesmerized by Clementine’s hair. It’s simply gorgeous. Her golden-blond locks have been styled into perfect windswept waves that practically glisten in the sunlight. How does she do that?
Clementine snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Adeline! Focus! Talk to me. What’s happening?” Her expression softens. “Oh, no. Did your mom ground you again? Is she mad that you got home late last night? You told her you were with me, right? And that it was totally my fault?”
Addie Bell's Shortcut to Growing Up Page 5
