The 11

by Kim Tomsic

  Piper glowed as usual. She and a girl sat on the slate floor in the foyer, yanking off their shoes. The hand-drawn star on the girl’s sneakers told me Piper had met a fashion-lovin’ soul mate.

  “Hey, Pipes. Everything okay with yearbook club?”

  Archie licked Piper’s face as she struggled to remove her Converse. Not the regular-folk Converse, of course, but custom ones she had designed on the internet. They were Hubba Bubba pink with blue crystals on the tongue and stars. The laces were white silk ribbons decorated with super-tiny pink polka dots.

  “Yep. It wasn’t really a meeting. Just a quick sign-up. We’ll have an official meeting tomorrow. I wish you’d come—we’re getting matched with middle school buddies and you could be mine if you join.” She beamed. “And can you believe the snow today? That was amazing.” Piper smiled. “This place is awesome. Everyone says the Scottsdale Fashion Square Mall is a quick bus ride from our school. And all the clubs sound like a blast. My homeroom teacher, Miss Powers, is the yearbook club’s adviser. And she asked if I’d help with Reading Buddies in the younger grades. Oh, and she’s getting married next year, and she has the prettiest hair and wore the cutest jeans ever. Didn’t you think so, Barett?”

  Barett yanked off one of her shoes.

  “Oh, Megan, this is Barett. Her mom drove us home.” My sister didn’t stop until she ran out of breath—classic Piper.

  Barett, practically Piper’s twin with her honey-blond hair and genuine smile, dropped her shoes beside Piper’s. “Wait. You’re the older sister?” She tilted her head sideways, as if Piper was trying to pull a fast one.

  Annoying.

  But I couldn’t blame Barett for wondering. My “little” sister already had an inch on me.

  “Yup,” I answered. “Piper, do you know where I can find scissors?”

  “I think I saw them in the dining room.” Piper grabbed Barett’s hand and headed upstairs. “Come on, Archie,” she called.

  He glanced at me.

  “Go on,” I said, and he trotted up behind Piper and her new BFF.

  I marched back to the kitchen, snatched up the box, and took it into the dining room. I deserved good things, too.

  Large moving boxes labeled “china” were stacked in the corner. Scissors sat on top. I plucked them up and set the package on the table, looking again at the wrapping and words—shimmery twine and beautiful script. I considered Grams’s warning one final time. But this package, warning or not, made me feel like things could be easy for me, just like they were for Piper, if I embraced the magic.

  “I’m game,” I said out loud. “I’ve already moved. I’m already the new girl. I’ve already made more promises. What’s the worst thing that could possibly happen if I use some magic?”

  I pulled on the twine, lifting it so I could slip the scissors underneath, but it was like my words had done an alakazam on the ties, because this time they easily slid apart. Brown wrapping fell aside, revealing a shiny red box. The room felt static-filled. My pulse quickened. I lifted the lid, pushed aside purple tissue paper, and removed the contents.

  All I had in my hands was a magazine.

  I dropped it on the table. All this buildup for a magazine? I’d been duped. Like Grams said, the clockmakers were tricksters. They’d gotten my hopes up for nothing.

  I picked up the magazine, ready to chuck it into the garbage. Then it quivered! Goose bumps traveled up my arms and my eardrums buzzed. With shaky hands I peeled back the cover and a handwritten note fluttered out:

  Hi, Megan! Thank you for choosing Pique Z. & Phair. E. Conservatory as your 11:11 wishing resource.

  If you’ve got a dilemma, we’ve got your back . . . Mean girls? No prob. Beauty help? Yup! Wardrobe? Duh!! Just ask.

  You’ve heard of genie in a bottle . . . well, that’s old-school. We’re your concierge-pixie in a book (or magazine, but let’s not mince words when there’s important magic at hand). As long as you find the problem in these pages, you’re covered. You’ve signed the scroll, so let’s get started!

  I looked at the magazine’s name—Enchanted Teen. And the line under the title read: “For girls who need some magic.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  I ran to my bedroom and hopped on the bed, sending blue and green pillows tumbling. Still clutching the magazine in one hand, I clamped the other over my mouth and held down a squeal. Can this be real?

  Music and the sounds of Piper’s and Barett’s giggles filtered through the bedroom wall. I unclenched my death grip and stared at Enchanted Teen. It had a picture of Hollywood’s rising teen star, Marlo Bee, plastered across the cover, and a yellow blurb that read, “Find Your Five Best Looks.”

  I flipped to the index on the first page: Fashion Advice, Dating Dos and Don’ts, Hair + Skin + Makeup, Fun Stuff, Health + Fitness. One heading asked in green bubble letters, “Do You Have the Best Back-to-School Style?” The next read, “Are Your Lips Kiss-tastic?” It seemed like any other magazine until I turned the page.

  Surgeon General’s Warning: This publication is potent and meant to be enjoyed like a rich dessert. Small tastes are luxuriant and rewarding, but too much in one sitting can leave you feeling nauseous. No binge browsing, please. If you experience dizziness, headache, sweating, or vomiting, close the pages immediately. If symptoms continue, drink sweet peppermint tea and read a few pages of a novel. Normalcy should return within an hour.

  Hmm. Maybe this was the cost Grams had warned me about—nausea, headaches. Big whoop. All I had to do was be careful about how much I looked at the magazine. Done. Now, show me the magic!

  I turned each page carefully, then stopped at a photo of a teen model done up with purple pigtails and dressed like a waitress at a fifties diner. Her name tag read “Mac” and the photo showed her roller-skating down a school hallway, getting pulled by cats. She clutched their leashes in one hand and held a sign in the other. It read: “Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring—Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Sure.” I grunted. “Doesn’t ridiculous equal embarrassing?”

  Currents zipped up my arm. “Ouch!” I rubbed my skin. “What the— I’m just saying who wants to be ridicu—”

  “Owww!” Another shock wave rippled through my arm, making me drop the magazine to the bed. My heart thudded. “Wow. Whoa.” With the caution I’d use to approach a skittish dog, I gently reached for the magazine, ripped out the picture of the model with the Marilyn quote, and tacked it to my wall. “Good?” I looked at Enchanted Teen and waited for some sort of sign.

  Nothing.

  I took a few breaths, working up the nerve to pick up the magazine again. “Okay,” I said in my soothing dog-whisperer voice. “Be nice, please.” With two fingers, I plucked it up. No shocks this time. I let out a breath and plopped back onto the bed, flipping pages with shaky hands. After a few more page turns, I came to another picture of the same model. This time, her eyes were painted like butterfly wings, and she was dressed in layer after layer of purple, pink, and blue sheer wispy fabric with a set of wings on her back. Her warm brown skin shimmered with glitter, and she posed like she might take off. I looked at her eyes.

  And she winked.

  I squinted and blinked. Was it a holograph? Could I make her wink again? I flipped the page back and forth but nothing happened.

  “Okay?” I said to the picture. “You’re giving me a message. Right? With the Marilyn quote and the butterfly wings? Snow was ridiculous, but that turned out great, right?”

  No response.

  “Are . . . are you showing me magic?” I asked.

  Again, nothing.

  I ran my fingers over her fancy eye makeup. The page sparkled and glowed like I’d plugged in a string of LED lights. I pulled my hand back and the lights faded. I touched her butterfly eyes again and this time felt drawn in, like I was being sucked right into the page. My skin rippled and my vision went hazy, then purple, pink, and gold colors swirle
d in front of my eyes. Sounds melted away like I’d dived underwater. My finger felt glued to the picture, but when my head went dizzy, I yanked my hand back.

  A clammy layer of sweat washed over my chest. Wow. Magical-ish.

  But shiny lights weren’t going to help with a new school. I sighed. The sides of my head started to hurt.

  Headache. Sweating. Next could be nausea. According to the Pixie General or whatever, it was time to stop looking at the magazine. I snapped the pages shut. My eyes itched. Sound resurfaced, and I realized my phone had been ringing. I looked at the caller ID and snatched it up. “Hannah!”

  “What’s up, Megs?” she said.

  “Magic” was on the tip of my tongue, but I had to hold it in. Hannah and I had told each other every secret we’d ever had since kindergarten. She told me about her fifty million crushes, and I told her whenever I faked sick to get out of stuff. Stuff like backing out of our sixth-grade play because after the Math Jeopardy failure I’d overheard Ronald Miller and Brooke Sutherland laughing about how dumb I sounded when I practiced my lines. Hannah said I didn’t sound dumb, but that’s what best friends are supposed to say. It was my middle school heads-up not to draw too much attention to myself.

  I had tried. But it didn’t matter. After the first month of sixth grade, the judgy looks had spread like a pandemic, and somehow every student had earned an unofficial label—the athletes, the computer whizzes, the choir kids, and the dorkjobs. Hannah had become popular, and no matter what anyone said, she’d made sure I was included in stuff with her. Whenever I snort-laughed, she’d laugh harder. Whenever I acted like a dorkjob in front of a group and then apologized, assuming I’d embarrassed her, Hannah would put an arm over my shoulder and tell me she wasn’t embarrassed, not even a little bit.

  Now I had the biggest good news of my life: I’d found a magical wishing clock, I was going to reinvent myself, I was going to be impressive—at least I hoped I would. But I couldn’t tell Hannah a thing. I’d given my word to Grams.

  The magazine lit up and flopped. I smacked a shaky hand on the cover and held it down till it stopped moving.

  Hannah continued talking a million miles a minute, telling me about her day and asking about Saguaro Prep and the people I’d met.

  “Can you believe I’ve already made a few friends, sort of?”

  “Yes,” she said, as in duhhh. “You were the only one who worried you couldn’t do it. Are you using that three-step plan of yours? What was it? Be friendly, make ’em laugh, be impressive?”

  “Yep.” It had actually turned into “lie if you need to” and “get yourself into a big jam.” Ugh. Hannah never minded when I dorked out. But she hated—hated—when I lied.

  I went on telling her about Saguaro Prep and Arizona. “And of course, Piper already brought home a new friend.”

  “That’s good. I still don’t think you need that checklist.” Hannah rambled off her usual comments about being myself. “Hey, my mom told me your grandmother is on another one of her adventures.”

  Hannah’s mom was Grams’s travel agent.

  “Yep,” I said. “Paris this time.”

  “I wish that were us. I hear tomorrow she flies to Avignon for a bike tour called Seniors in Provence. How about Teens in Provence? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Bike tour?” A wave of panic swam over me. What if I needed to ask questions? “You think she’ll turn off her phone?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Oh, geez. I hope it’s not going to be like when she went to Machu Picchu. Phones still work in Provence, right?”

  “Probably. Why?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “You know, this move and all. I’ll want to talk to her.”

  Hannah and I chatted for a little longer until I could hear her mom calling her in the background. “Gotta go, M. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” When I clicked end, a group text popped up from a number with an Arizona area code.

  Pizza and study party, tomorrow nite 6:30 pm 4142 e. becker lane. xoxo Rhena

  An invitation! From Rhena? She must’ve gotten my phone number from the student office helper. Still, that didn’t make sense. Rhena was annoyed with me about the zap. Now she was inviting me to her house?

  Maybe I didn’t just get a magazine; maybe magic had helped me land this invitation, too.

  There was a knock at my door. I yanked out homework papers from my backpack and threw them on top of the magazine. “Come in.”

  Piper sprang into my room. “Hey, I’m going—whoa. How did you do that?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your makeup. It’s awesome. Look, Barett.”

  Barett poked her head in the doorway. “Wow! Will you do me up like that one day?”

  “Yeah. Both of us,” Piper said.

  “Ummm.” I’d barely worn anything, a little pinkish-gold shadow on my lids. The rest of my makeup was in an unpacked box in my closet—new and still in its packaging. I scratched at my eyebrow.

  “Ack! Don’t mess it up,” Piper said.

  I stopped mid-scratch. Why was she being so weird?

  “So listen. I called Dad and he said it was okay that I go to Barett’s house for dinner. Unless you want me to stay?”

  “That’s okay. Thanks, though.”

  “All right. Later,” Piper said. “But will you make sure Dad has something healthy to eat?”

  “I always do.”

  “Later,” Barett said.

  The door closed and I went straight to the Jack-and-Jill bathroom I shared with Piper. “Aieeeeeeee!” I screamed at my reflection. “What the what?” I leaned close and touched my face. Somehow my makeup was identical to the model’s in the magazine. Smoky eyes and then shades of purple, blue, green, brown, and gold dotted and lined my face from cheekbone to eyebrows.

  Science could explain man-made snow, and there could be a rational explanation for the delivery girl finding me and giving me a package addressed in my name. But nothing in real life could explain how I suddenly had runway-esque butterfly eyes drawn on my face.

  I was dealing with real magic. And that meant anything was possible.

  CHAPTER

  10

  I took Archie on a long walk. Afterward, I made a spinach and kale salad for Dad and covered it with plastic wrap. For me, I did as the magazine had instructed and brewed a pot of peppermint tea. I also cooked a package of organic mac and cheese, dancing from sink, to stove, to refrigerator. I had magic. Endless possibilities. Middle school survival!

  I still wasn’t sure how the magazine worked, but the snow from the wishing clock had been perfect, and it was something I’d specifically asked for. So maybe that was the ticket: stick with specific wishes to get what I want—easy. The hard part was figuring out what specifically to wish for next.

  If I wished to fit in, would the magic be literal, making me fat, skinny, or angular so that I’d fit into the precise space in a room? Or maybe the magic would work like a radio in my ear, telling me what to say and how to act. That’d be freaky. Or what if it helped me fit in with fringe groups, like suddenly I fit in with adrenaline junkies, and the next thing you know I’m skydiving or streaking at a football game? Ahk!

  I filled a bowl with noodles and forced myself to calm down and settle on a stool. Archie curled up at my feet and snored while I read several pages from Macbeth. My English teacher said she’d planned the film and the reading to go with the election since it was all politicians and power goals.

  The front door creaked open and Dad walked into the kitchen.

  I prepared myself to talk about homework, or Saguaro Prep’s science lab, or algebra, or whatever school question Dad would ask.

  “How’s my favorite oldest daughter?” he said, giving me a goofy look.

  Huh? I had washed off the makeup, but the way he stared at me made me wonder if I’d missed a spot. “Um, fine?” I scooped up a bite of noodles.

  Dad’s wrinkled blue shirt had seen better days and his blond/gray hai
r looked as frizzy as mine. Piper had worn the same shade of blue today, and I couldn’t help but think how she was turning into the spitting image of Dad (minus the frizz), but her personality was everything I remembered of Mom—bubbles, and frosting, and music; whereas I looked like Mom (except for Dad’s frizz, thank you very much), I was Dad through and through—equations, and science, and snort-laughs.

  He picked up the pen and the permission forms from the Humane Society that I’d left on the counter. “Here we go,” he said, signing. “Says here orientation for new volunteers is after school tomorrow.”

  “I know.” I smiled. “Thanks.”

  He poured a glass of water and took a long swig. “Piper called and told me she was having dinner with a new friend. How about your little sister? Her first day at a new school and she’s already at a friend’s house.”

  “Mmmmhmmm.” Big surprise.

  “So it’s just you and me, kiddo.” “Kiddo” fell from his mouth all awkward, like someone testing a foreign language. “Did you get enough to eat? I could cook something more.” He swung open the refrigerator door, staring at the mostly empty space.

  “I’m good. I made your salad. It’s in the crisper drawer.”

  “Food police put you up to that?”

  “Yep.” I smiled. “She did.”

  “Thanks. I’ll eat later.” He shut the door. “If you’ve finished your homework, we could play cards. Or even . . . Monopoly?”

  I teetered. Monopoly? That was a blast from the past. Something we did with Mom. A lump lodged in my throat and I managed to say, “Okay?” I stared at the bottom of my noodle bowl and hoped he’d say more, like how funny it was when Mom cooked, because she’d leave every kitchen cabinet open, or how Mom was the only one who could get Archie to dance for treats, or how he missed the smell of Mom’s cinnamon perfume.

  “Or maybe,” Dad said as he raked a hand through his hair, “instead of Monopoly you’d like to . . . talk?”