“Hollywood got a few things wrong,” I explain.
“Clearly,” Trey says. “Is wearing just one shoe a genie thing?”
“I don’t think so,” I tell him. “But I only found out today that I’m a genie.”
“Ugh,” he says. “A newbie? I got a newbie?” He’s shaking his head. “No wonder I’m in a Dumpster. Patricia should’ve picked a bottle with a genie that actually knows what he’s doing.”
“I’m doing my best,” I say. “I climbed in here after you, even though I didn’t have to. I only did it to be nice and helpful. And you could’ve made it easier. Like, you could’ve popped your head up or waved your arm or shouted or something when they left, just to let me know you weren’t dead.”
“It’s not my job to do you any favors.”
“Or you could’ve said something when that teacher came around,” I say.
Trey’s chin drops, just slightly, but I know I’m onto something.
“That guy, Mr Gaspin, he would’ve helped you out for sure,” I go on. “And it’s not like you knew I’d be waiting here to rescue you. Unless . . . unless you were afraid they’d get you even worse next time, if you ratted them out. That’s it, huh?”
“I’m not afraid of them,” Trey says, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m not afraid of anyone.”
“Yeah, right,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Right. They only do that stuff to me because they’re afraid of me.”
“They didn’t look so afraid,” I tell him.
“Trust me,” he says. “They’re terrified. You should be, too. Do you know who I am?”
“We weren’t formally introduced,” I remind him. “But I know your name is Trey.”
“I’m pretty sure that you’re supposed to call me Master.”
And that would make me his servant? Uh-uh. No way. No how. If he thinks that, he has another think coming.
“Maybe I should just call you twerp,” I say.
“I wouldn’t if I were you. Trey is short for Preston Hudson Twendel the third.” He pulls a plastic card out of his pocket and flashes it in front of my face.
“What’s that?”
“My key card to my dorm,” he says. “It has my name and my picture—see?” He flashes it again.
“Twendel,” I say. “That name sounds familiar.”
He shifts his weight and stuffs the card back in his pocket. “It’s the name of this construction site we’re on right now,” he tells me. “My grandfather was Preston Hudson Twendel the first, and my dad is the second. You know who they are, right?”
“Am I supposed to?”
“Everyone does,” he says. “My grandfather is the guy who started PHT Capital, which happens to be the biggest bank in the world.”
“Huh,” I say. “My mom has an account there.”
“Of course she does,” Trey says. “And my dad is the president of the whole thing. When I grow up, it’ll be MY bank. So what do you have to say to that?”
I shrug. “That’s cool for you and your dad,” I say.
“That’s right,” he says. “It is. Money makes you powerful.”
I remember that Uncle Max said being a genie does, too. If only I could figure out how to make that work in my favor!
“My dad has more money than anyone,” Trey goes on. “He basically owns Millings Academy. It’s the best boarding school in all of California.”
Hold up. Did he say California? I’m in California? That’s clear across the country from Pennsylvania!
“If my dad wanted to, he could get Oliver and Jake kicked out.” I know he means Shaggy and Buzz. “He could get them kicked out like that.” Trey snaps his fingers. “My dad doesn’t tolerate losers. He just gets rid of them. If he knew those two losers threw me in a Dumpster, he’d get rid of them for sure.” He pauses, for just a second. “And then he’d get rid of me for being the loser who let them.”
“So you are afraid of someone,” I say. “Your dad.”
“Maybe I am. But I bet you’re afraid of your dad.”
“He’s dead,” I say quickly. I’ve learned that’s the best way to say those words, like you’re ripping off a Band-Aid. It hurts, but then it’s over with.
For a split second there’s a flash of panic in Trey’s eyes, the same look everyone gets when they first hear. After that, they either become really curious and want me to tell them all the sad and scary details, or they want to get away from me as fast as possible, like having a dead father is catching or something.
But Trey recovers quickly. “So are you going to do any magic, or do I have to get out of here myself?”
“Uh,” I start.
“Never mind, newbie. We’ll just climb out.” Trey stands and reaches up toward the top of the Dumpster. “I’ll go first. You spot me from this side. It’s the least you can do.” He stands up and holds on to the side of the Dumpster, looking over his shoulder at me. “You’re lucky anyway, about not having a dad,” he says. “I might have you get rid of mine.”
“I wouldn’t get rid of anyone’s dad,” I tell him.
“I think you have to do whatever I tell you. And just so you know, my dad’s not a good person. He’s not even a good dad. Every single teacher here sucks up to him. Gaspin would’ve reported straight to him if he’d found me here. The trouble Oliver and Jake are going to be in is nothing compared to what I would’ve faced. So, about my first wish.”
Oh no. Something’s happening. My toe is itching and burning. What if he makes the wish to get rid of his dad? And what if I can’t control myself, and I accidentally grant it?
“I wish,” he starts.
All right, Zack, it’s time to think outside the bottle!
Ooh, the bottle—that’s it!
“Hold up,” I tell Preston Hudson Twendel III. “Those kids left the bottle on the ground, and I need it before I do any wish granting.”
I don’t, really. At least I don’t think I do. But this twerp doesn’t know that, and I have a plan: (1) get out of the Dumpster; (2) grab the bottle; (3) run as far away as possible; (4) get sucked up and get home.
I’m not sure how to make the getting-home part happen, but I’ll deal with that after I’ve completed the first three parts of the plan.
Trey is out of the Dumpster now, so it’s my turn. One foot over, then another, and now a jump down to the ground. Oomph.
But when I stand up and wipe the dirt off myself, the bottle is nowhere in sight. “Where is it?” I ask.
“The bottle? I don’t see it. Does this mean I don’t get my wishes? That is SO UNFAIR!”
9
WHY ME?
We have no choice but to head back toward the school buildings in search of the bottle. I take off my remaining shoe, because it’s easier to walk when my feet feel more balanced, and follow Trey as he mutters complaints about getting stuck with me—the worst genie in the world. I don’t know how he knows that. I mean, sure, there’s room for improvement. But how many other genies has Trey ever met? And better ones, at that? I’m willing to bet the answer is exactly zero.
Trey is kicking at the ground as he walks, sending sprays of dust and rocks into the air. Every so often I pause to stare at them, trying to get them to hover in the air like a galaxy, the way they did before. But the magic seems to be gone. Above us, the clouds start to thicken and send shadows across the vast lawn and large buildings of Millings Academy. I wonder if a thunderstorm is coming. Thunderstorms often mean lightning. Each year an average of fifty-one people are killed by lightning strikes in the United States. It’s especially dangerous to be outside in an open field, which we happen to be in right now. “Let’s go faster,” I tell Trey.
“You’re the genie, and I’m the master,” he replies. “We’ll go as fast as I want.”
He slows his pace so he’s traveling at the speed limit of your average snail. “Fine,” I say. “But the longer it takes to get there, the longer it takes to get the bottle, and the longer it takes—”
“What are you doing?” Trey asks.
I cock my head to listen. Where there’s one roll of thunder, there are usually more. But now the only sound is Trey’s heavy, impatient breathing.
“Get up,” he says, and I do. We finally make it across the field to a building with the words TWENDEL HALL II carved out above an imposing red door.
“Aren’t you going to open it for me?” Trey asks.
Uncle Max didn’t tell me that being a genie would feel so much like being a servant. I wonder what I did to deserve this. Why is this happening to me? Why did I have to be born with a genie bite? Why did my bottle have to end up in the hands of the worst kid in the world? (If he gets to call me the worst genie, then I get to call him the worst kid. And you know what? Even if I haven’t met all the other kids in the world to form that conclusion, I think I’m probably pretty close to the mark.) Why did he have to rub it and summon me on my very first day on the job?
Why do bad things always happen to me?
My limbs feel suddenly heavier. Not that Trey cares. “I’m waiting,” he says.
I let out the world’s biggest sigh and pull open the door. Trey goes inside and I scoot in after him. At least this building is safer than an open field. Plus, I don’t know my way around Millings Academy. Which means I have a better chance of finding that bottle with Trey than without him.
I’m stuck with him, which may be the most depressing thing of all.
I wish I could turn back into the kid I was just this morning. Sure, I didn’t have many friends to invite to my birthday party or a pile of presents to show for it. But, boy, do I miss being in my old, boring life.
We’ve stepped into a room that’s so big, I think you could probably fit my entire house inside it. It’s way fancier than my house—fancier than any house I’ve ever been in. It’s fancy enough to be a hotel lobby, or maybe the lobby of a museum. The windows have deep-rose-colored drapes tied back with matching rope tassels. The bottoms of the drapes brush the floor, which is black-and-white checkerboard marble. Gold chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The ceiling itself is like looking up at the sky. Really—it’s sky blue with clouds that seem to pop off like they were painted in 3-D. The walls are painted maroon, a shade darker than the drapes, and on the far wall there’s a huge oil painting of a stern-faced old man. It’s framed in the same dark gold color as the chandeliers. I step closer to it and see the matching gold plaque under the painting: P. H. TWENDEL.
“That’s my grandfather,” Trey tells me. “He commissioned this building for Millings Academy.”
“I don’t know what ‘commissioned’ means,” I admit.
“What do you know?” Trey says with an eye roll. It’s the kind of question I know I’m not meant to answer. “It means he paid for it to be built.”
Holy smokes, how rich would you have to be to build a building like this?
“I’m sure he wouldn’t want a useless newbie genie staring at his portrait,” Trey says. “Come on.”
I follow him out of the room and down a long hallway. It’s carpeted, and it feels good under my bare feet, extra soft and extra thick. It’s definitely the softest, thickest carpeting I’ve ever walked on. Back at home, the carpet is kind of old and worn thin. And at my school, we don’t have carpet at all. The floors are plain old scratched-up linoleum, and—
BRRRIIIINNNNGGGG!!!! goes the world’s loudest bell.
Is the hallway on fire? Is the building on fire? Those lobby drapes looked awfully flammable.
“Quick, in here,” Trey says, pushing open a door. There’s a sign on it that says, “Under Construction: No Entry.”
In the background, there’s a stampede of footsteps.
My heart is pounding at least as hard. “Nearly three thousand people have died in construction-site accidents in the last twenty-five years,” I say in a rush. “We don’t even have hard hats.”
Trey doesn’t say another word. He just grabs my arm and pulls me in with him.
On the other side of the door there’s . . .
A bathroom.
A really fancy one, of course. The floor is made of sparkly tiles. There are three wooden stall doors that go all the way to the ground, so you can’t peek under them and see who’s in there. Plus, three sinks. They’re not hooked up to the walls yet, and the drains are coming out of the wall behind them. There’s also a big gold mirror waiting to be hung.
“I don’t think anyone’s supposed to be in here,” I say.
“Precisely,” Trey says. “I came in here because no one else will. You need a private place to come up with a plan to get that bottle back. And I need a private place to think of what wishes to make.”
With the mention of the W-word, my big toe wakes up and starts tingling again.
Trey pushes his crooked glasses up the bridge of his nose. The left side sticks up at an even higher angle. “Maybe I’ll wish for Jake and Oliver to come down with a mystery illness that makes them puke for seven straight days,” he says.
My stomach twists at the thought of puking for that long.
“Or maybe,” he goes on, “I’ll wish that no one will be allowed to step into any building that anyone in my family paid to build unless they have my permission—and if they want my permission, they’ll have to do some serious sucking up to get it. Or maybe I’ll wish . . .”
Trey’s still talking. Meanwhile, my foot’s still itching. The worst spot is right on the genie bite. It’s traveling down the line of my toes. I reach down, trying to be oh-so-casual about it, and scratch and scratch. Ooh, that’s better.
“What is it with you and your foot?” Trey asks.
“It’s an old genie ritual to formulate a plan to find one’s bottle,” I tell him. “Scratch your toes and the answer will come to you.”
Trey’s mouth twists like he’s just sucked on a lemon. “The answers better come fast,” he says. I keep on scratching, even though it’s not making the itching go away. Trey pushes open the heavy wooden door of the stall on the far right. “If my dad saw they’d used oak on these doors instead of walnut, he’d have a fit.”
“They seem fine to me,” I tell him. “Did your family pay for all this, too?”
“Affirmative,” Trey says.
I’ve never heard anyone say that word before, but I know without asking that it means yes.
“Jake and Ollie are probably still in Heddle’s office,” he says.
“Heddle is the head of the school?” I ask. Trey nods. “Is that the same as a principal?”
“Yup,” Trey says. “And I can think of some wishes about getting rid of him, too.”
Itch. Itch. Itch.
“Once we get the bottle back, if Heddle gives us any trouble or tries to call my dad, I’ll just wish him away. I’ll wish them all away.” Trey pauses, and looks over at me. “What do you think about that plan?”
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
“I’m still thinking,” I tell him.
“While you’re thinking, I’m going to go to the bathroom.” Trey pauses before ducking into the stall. “It’s a shame for Jake and Ollie. It’s a shame for all the kids at Millings. None of them like me very much, and I’m the one with all of the wishes.”
Trey takes a deep breath, and then so soft it’s almost to himself, he adds, “Actually, here’s my wish. I wish I could turn into someone people like.”
There’s a sound, like a snap. I guess it’s the stall door clicking shut, though I’ve never heard a door sound like that before. But never mind that. Right now my whole foot is itching so badly, it’s as if I stuck it in a tank of mosquitoes that hadn’t had anything to eat for a week. I shake it all about, like I’m playing the hokey pokey, which at ten years old, I am way too old to play.
Ten years old! I remember being home at my birthday
party just a few hours ago, leaning over the cake. I had a wish of my own, and to tell you the truth, it wasn’t so different than the wish Trey just made. Just before I blew out my half of the candles, I said in my head: I wish next year on my eleventh birthday, I have a crowd of friends watching. Even more friends than Quinn.
But I don’t care about my wish right now—or Trey’s, either. My foot is practically on fire. If I were blowing candles out now, I’d wish to make it stop.
I don’t have any calamine lotion with me, but there are three sinks here. Ice-cold water on my foot would feel mighty good right about now.
I hop over—my foot’s too itchy to walk on—and turn the dial. The pipes make a gurgling sound. I turn the dial around a bit more. No gurgling this time. Hmmm. Now what?
I’m about to turn around, thinking maybe I’ll stick my foot in the toilet water. Quinn would think that’s the grossest thing I’ve ever done, but everything in this bathroom is brand-new, never used before. And besides, desperate times call for desperate measures.
Gurgle, gurgle goes the sink, and then SPLASH! The water comes out in a rush all at once. I twist the knob to turn it off. Water has splattered all down the front of my shirt and dripped down to my pants and my bare feet.
I look in the mirror to assess the damage, and when I catch my reflection, my hair looks so . . . so neat.
Kinda like the way Uncle Max’s hair had looked when he was performing his own magic.
Uh-oh.
I hear Trey unlatch the stall door. He pulls it toward himself and steps out, one brown loafer at a time.
Holy smokes. That’s not Trey.
That’s Quinn.
10
OH, THE QUINNSANITY
My mouth is open but I’ve forgotten how to make words come out. If I could speak, I would say: Oh, the quinnsanity!
Quinnsanity. Noun. Insanity that involves Quinn.
Quinn, meanwhile, isn’t having a problem talking, and her words come out in a rush.
“Where am I?” she asks. “Where’s Madeline? What is this place? And why are these things on my face?” She knocks Trey’s glasses to the floor. The remaining unsmashed lens now smashes, too, making the glasses completely useless. Quinn looks down. “Why am I wearing these . . . these clothes?!”
Zacktastic Page 6
