The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball

by Risa Green

  Fourteen

  Mom!”

  The word is a shriek. I am standing in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door, still wearing the size XL Barry Manilow T-shirt (to be used as sleepwear only) and a pair of old sweatpants that my cousin sent me years ago from Penn State. Panic sets in. Either circus clowns came into my room in the middle of the night and switched out my regular mirror for a fun house mirror, or there is something seriously wrong.

  “Mooooooooom!” I yell again, more urgently.

  “What?” she yells back. I can hear the sound of her bare feet slapping on the wood floor, and then she opens the door to my room, still tying her robe around her waist. “What is wr—” She stops mid-sentence to take me in. “Oh my God, Erin, what happened to you?”

  “I don’t know…I just woke up and when I looked in the mirror, I looked like…like this!” I lift my swollen fingers up toward my swollen face. It looks like it’s been injected with whatever it is they use to put the puff into corn puffs.

  My mom comes closer to examine me. She touches my cheeks, she makes me stick out my tongue, she presses on my lips (which, I will admit, look kind of sexy and Kaydra-ish).

  “Lift your shirt up,” she instructs.

  “Mom,” I protest.

  “Erin, I’m a doctor. And your mother. There’s no need to be modest.”

  Fine. I lift up my shirt and stare straight ahead while my mother pokes my abdomen.

  “It looks like you’re having an allergic reaction to something,” she concludes. “Did you use a new soap or lotion yesterday, or did you eat anything different?”

  I take a second to think about yesterday. Yesterday, yesterday…I went to school, I had a sandwich, I came home, Lindsay and Samantha came over, we ordered dinner…oh my God. The dim sum.

  “We had Chinese food last night. Samantha ordered it. She told us to trust her. I have no idea what was in it.”

  My mom gives me her you-should-know-better-than-to-trust-Samantha look. “Well, whatever it was, don’t eat it again. I’ll get you some Benadryl and you should be back to normal in a few hours.”

  “A few hours! I can’t go to school looking like this.”

  She stares at me. “You don’t have a fever. You’re not missing school just because of a little swelling. End of discussion. Now get dressed.” She tries to hide a smile, then gives up. “And anyway, look on the bright side—you went up about three bra sizes overnight.”

  I stop in my tracks. “What did you just say?”

  But she’s already out the door.

  I pull my shirt off and stand sideways in front of the mirror. Whoa…They really did get bigger. I glance at my swollen arms and my swollen feet. It’s just too bad the rest of me did too. I look over at the ball, sitting innocently on top of my desk.

  “Okay,” I say to it, “if this was your doing, it was not exactly what I had in mind.”

  ***

  Jesse Cooper is fifteen feet down the hallway, heading straight for me and my swollen self. I look around, hoping to discover a heretofore secret passageway or a vortex to another dimension—preferably one in which I do not resemble a female counterpart to the Pillsbury Doughboy. (Although, I wouldn’t mind keeping the lips. And, of course, the boobs.) Unfortunately, however, I am surrounded by nothing but closed lockers and unflattering overhead lighting. And since I was late for school as a result of my impromptu appointment with Dr. Mom this morning, the hallway is also completely devoid of people. Except for me. And Jesse Cooper.

  “Erin?” he asks tentatively, as he gets closer. “Oh…hey?” It still sounds like a question.

  “Hey,” I say back to him, as casually as possible. In all of my excitement about the fact that I could actually fit into a bra, I decided I should flaunt it for the few hours that it’s going to last. So I went deep into my closet and pulled out every single item of clothing that I own (also a contributing factor to my lateness), and settled on the tightest, lowest-cut top that I could find: a bright red V-neck sweater. At home it made me feel like a 1950s Hollywood starlet. But now that I am here in an empty high school hallway, face to face with Jesse Cooper, I’m feeling less Marilyn Monroe and more Trashy Ho.

  “We need to go to the museum again,” he says. “Do you think you could go today? After school?” I notice that he’s trying to keep his eyes from looking anywhere but at my sweater, and I wonder if this is what it’s like all the time for girls who have boobs. I can see how it might get annoying on a daily basis. But as a first timer, I’m kind of enjoying it.

  “Today?” I ask. “Hmm, yeah, I don’t think I can go today.”

  This is a total lie. I could easily go today, but I don’t want him to think that I have no social life (even though I don’t). I mean, he shouldn’t assume that I just sit around at home every afternoon (even though I do), or that I’m available whenever it’s convenient for him (even though I am). Also, I am a little anxious about how long this puffy-coat of an allergic reaction is going to last (Mom says longer than twenty-four hours and she’s taking me to the hospital). “What about the day after tomorrow?” I ask.

  He thinks for a minute. “Could you go tomorrow? My band has practice the day after…” He doesn’t finish.

  I raise my eyebrows at him. His band? I didn’t know he was in a band. I didn’t even know he played an instrument. When did that happen? “Yeah…I mean, I guess I could move some stuff around. That’s fine.”

  “Cool. Well, I’d better get back to class.”

  “Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow.”

  “Right. See you tomorrow.” I’m about to start walking again, but he hesitates.

  “Hey, what, um, what happened to you, anyway? Your face is like…” I can tell that he is searching for a word that won’t offend me, and I feel bad watching him struggle. If Samantha were in this situation, she would just stand there and let him suffer.

  “I had an allergic reaction to some Chinese food,” I explain. “But my mom said I should be back to normal in a few hours.”

  He nods, then glances at my sweater again.

  “That’s good. I mean, not that you look bad or anything,” he says, his cheeks flushing red. “You just, you know, you look better the other way.”

  Fifteen

  I find Lindsay and Samantha in the hallway as soon as class is over. Lindsay is in her usual school attire: a long sweater, skinny jeans, Converse slip-ons (no laces). Then there’s the ever-present “healing crystal” on a red leather string that she got from Veronica at the Metaphysical Shoppe. Samantha, meanwhile, is decked out in a gray loose-fitting belted dress over black jeans and green suede high-heeled shoe boots.

  “There’s something you need to see,” I whisper. I grab them both by the arm and lead them around the corner, to where the tenth grade lockers are located.

  “Um, hello, we’re not blind.” Samantha smirks at my sweater.

  “Oh my God!” Lindsay shrieks. “Look at them! They’re huge! I mean, okay, they’re not huge. They’re still probably an A cup, but they’re huge for you. Oh my God! I knew it! I knew that crystal ball was really magic!”

  “Shhhh!” I hiss. “It was an allergic reaction. To the dim sum,” I add, glaring at Samantha. “And anyway, I am not talking about my boobs.”

  Samantha cocks an eyebrow. “Really? Because everybody else is. Lizzie McNeal and Cole Miller are practically foaming at the mouth.” She turns to Lindsay. “I wonder what Jesse Cooper thinks of them. It seems that he and Erin had a little tête-à-tête in the hallway this morning.”

  I have to laugh. “How do you even know about that? It just happened, like, half an hour ago.”

  Samantha smiles. “I’m an information ninja, people. You’d be shocked at the things I know.”

  “Okay, well, I bet you don’t know about this.” I reach into my backpack and pull out my English paper. I turn it to the last p
age and hold it out for them to see.

  Excellent work, it says, in Mr. Lower’s red scrawl. Well researched and insightful.

  Samantha shrugs. “I’d rather talk about your boobs.”

  “Come on, you guys, don’t you remember?” I ask them. “Those are the exact words that I used with the ball last night.”

  Lindsay squeezes my swollen arm. Her eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them. “You’re starting to believe it, aren’t you?”

  I look down at the floor. I spent all of English class struggling with that very question (that is, when I wasn’t replaying my run-in with Jesse). I mean, I am not the kind of person who believes in things like this. I’m just not. It’s how I define myself. The logical one. The rational one. The one who believes in math and physics, not magic and psychics. But at the same time, I can’t explain it. Really, how many coincidences can there be? So, do I? Do I believe that this ball is really magic? And more importantly, if I do, then does that mean that I have to change my whole definition of myself?

  I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe.”

  Lindsay smiles and puts her arm around my shoulders. “Welcome,” she says. “I knew you’d come around one day.”

  I shake her arm off of me. “Okay, just so you know, I draw the line at the ball. I still do not believe in your voodoo doll, or your crystals, or any—”

  “Whatever,” Samantha interrupts. “Can we focus on what is important here? I mean, do you guys understand the power that we have with this thing? Do you realize what you can do with a magic Pink Crystal Ball? You could ask it to make every guy in school only want to date the three of us. You can ask it for straight As. You can ask it for a new car—”

  “You can ask it to make me popular,” Lindsay interrupts, in a voice so quiet we can barely hear it—and quickly follows up with a “Kidding.”

  “Wait, you guys,” I say. “I don’t know about all that. It doesn’t always work when I ask it things, remember? We have to figure out how to use it.” I pause. “You know, I was thinking about it in English class before…and I think that the list my aunt left me is really a set of instructions. Or clues, maybe. I don’t know. But you’re right, Lindsay. It has to mean something. Why else would she have written it? Until we figure out what it all means, though, I don’t think we should ask the ball anything serious.”

  “She’s right,” Lindsay agrees. “Remember in Back to the Future, when Michael J. Fox started changing his parents’ story, and then his brother and sister disappeared from the picture he had in his wallet? It could be like that—”

  The warning bell rings before either Samantha or I can laugh.

  “To be continued,” I tell them as I slam my locker door shut.

  All three of us jump when we see that Chris Bollmer is standing there. He’s wearing the same thing he always wears: jeans, a T-shirt, and a black long-sleeved hoodie. Not that I pay that much attention to Chris Bollmer, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him not wearing that black hoodie. I once overheard someone say that he wears it because it covers the burn scars on his arms from when he blew himself up in that manhole.

  “Jeez, Bollmer,” Samantha mutters. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  Lindsay glares at him. “Were you eavesdropping on us? How long have you been standing there?”

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping on you. I’ve only been here for a couple of seconds.”

  I study his face. I’m not sure I believe him. He looks like he’s telling the truth, but then again, he always looks like such a lost little puppy when he’s near Lindsay, so it’s kind of hard to know what’s really going on in that head of his.

  “Then what do you want?” Lindsay demands.

  Samantha and I exchange glances. But I wonder what Samantha’s thinking. I know what I’m thinking: I’m relieved I’ve never had a stalker.

  “I just need to know why,” Chris says.

  “Why what?” Lindsay asks.

  “Why do you let Megan treat you the way she did yesterday? Why don’t you ever stand up to her?”

  She furrows her brow, and then lets out a laugh. “Are you kidding me? Stand up to her? That just makes her want to do it more. You should know that. Look, I appreciate that you want to help me, Chris, I really do. But unless Megan Crowley moves or gets kicked out of school, she is never going to stop picking on me. If I just lay low and stay out of her way, I can manage. And that is why I don’t stand up to her. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but that is the truth.”

  “No,” Chris argues. “You’re wrong. If you roll over every time she starts in on you, she’ll never stop. But if you show her that you’re not going to take it, she’ll back down. I’m telling you.”

  As Chris is saying this, people start spilling into the hallway before the next bell. Lindsay’s eyes are darting around in all directions, and I know she’s checking to see if Megan or any of her cronies are around. She’s too late, though. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Megan at the other end of the hall, and she’s strutting toward us with her well, well, well, what do we have here? look on her face. I swear, it’s like Megan can smell when Lindsay is vulnerable.

  “Aw, look at this,” Megan announces in an extra-loud voice. “Are we having a lover’s quarrel?” She inserts herself between them, putting an arm around each of their shoulders. “You know, if you’re having problems, all you have to do is kiss and make up.” She puts her hand on the back of Lindsay’s head and pushes it toward Chris’s face, but Lindsay ducks out from under her arm. When she stands back up again, her face is bright red and her eyes look wild, as if she’s been possessed.

  “Don’t you touch me!” Lindsay screams. She hesitates for a split second, then stands up tall and gets in close to Megan’s face. “Are you still peeing in your pants, Megan? Because they make diapers for grown-ups, you know. I’d be happy to pick some up for you the next time I’m at the drugstore.”

  Megan’s face flushes, and the corners of her mouth turn up in a snarl. “You do not want to start a war with me, Fart Girl.”

  Lindsay laughs, even though her eyes are daggers. “You started one a long time ago, Soggy Bottoms.”

  A small crowd has gathered around us. Megan glares at Lindsay as people laugh out loud at her joke. Samantha and I exchange a secret smile.

  “You have no idea what you’re in for,” Megan growls. “I’m gonna make you sorry you were ever born.” She spins around on one heel, elbowing people out of her way as she storms off.

  Lindsay slumps back into the lockers behind her, looking shaken and pale. Her hands are trembling. “Are you happy now?” she hisses at Bollmer.

  “Yes,” he says, oblivious to how upset she is. “You were awesome. Are you kidding me? Soggy Bottoms? That’s like, the greatest line ev—”

  “Chris,” I say, putting my hand up. “Just stop.”

  Lindsay’s eyes start to tear up. She’s going to lose it any second. Samantha reaches out to try to calm her down.

  “Linds, come on. Let’s just go to class.”

  But Lindsay ignores her and looks Chris right in the eye. When she opens her mouth to speak, her voice comes out choked, and so soft that it’s almost a whisper.

  “You always say in your emails that you just want to help me, right?”

  Chris nods. “I do want to help you, Lindsay. You don’t deserve to be treated this way.”

  “Then the best thing that you can do for me is to stay away from me. Okay? Just stay away.”

  Sixteen

  I can’t find Lindsay anywhere for the rest of the day, and when I get home from school I call her house to see if she’s okay. And to let her know that I have (half sadly, half to my huge relief) depuffed. Everywhere.

  Her mom picks up on the second ring. “Oh, hi, Erin. Actually, Lindsay is sleeping. She came home from school early today because she
wasn’t feeling well. She said she had a headache. I would think you would’ve known. Aren’t the two of you joined at the hip?”

  I let out a polite laugh. “Yeah,” I say. “I knew she wasn’t feeling well, but I didn’t realize she’d gone home.”

  I want to tell her that Lindsay didn’t have a headache at all. I want to tell her all about Megan Crowley—and how, as Lindsay’s mother, she needs to step in and do something. She needs to go talk to the principal and make him put a stop to it, because God only knows what Megan is going to do to her after what happened in the hallway today.

  But I can’t. Lindsay hasn’t told her mom about any of it. Between work and kids and trying to get over the fact that her husband left her for a twenty-six-year-old dental hygienist, the last thing Lindsay’s mom needs is to be worried about Megan Crowley. You’d think she’d notice that something is wrong, though. I mean, Lindsay comes home with an awful lot of headaches. But no. It’s like one of those reality shows: a divorced mom, doing the best she can to work and raise three kids at the same time, yet totally clueless about the fact that one of them is shooting heroin, or puking in the bathroom after every meal…or, well, being verbally abused and spending all of her money on voodoo dolls.

  “Okay, well, will you just tell her that I called?”

  “Sure. I’ll let her know. Oh, and Erin…how are you? Lindsay told me about what happened to your aunt. It’s just awful. I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh…thanks.” I swallow.

  “How’s your mother taking it?”

  “She’s doing okay. She’s my mom. Not really one to get all emotional.”

  “Yes, well, tell her I was asking about her, would you? And I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks, I will. Bye.”

  We hang up the phone, and I stretch out on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. The truth is my mom is not okay. Of course, she’s pretending—going to work, getting dressed up for award ceremonies at the hospital, acting like none of this bothers her—but I know that it’s all an act. When my dad is asleep and she thinks that I’m asleep, I hear her opening and closing drawers, rifling through pictures, and sometimes, I hear her crying.