The 11

by Kim Tomsic

  My eyebrows lifted.

  “Your grandma says we should talk more.”

  My spoon dropped. “You spoke to Grams today?”

  “No. Not today. It’s just lately she’s been telling me she thinks you and I don’t talk about what’s important. And I’m wondering if we should talk about this move.”

  This wasn’t a Mom conversation after all. I reached into my pocket and squeezed Mom’s guitar pick. Dad wouldn’t talk about her. But he was acting totally awkward, and I wondered if she was on his mind, too.

  Mom had taught music at the elementary school—she could sing and play four different instruments, but she loved the acoustic guitar most, and Saturday mornings in our house had been the best place in the world—Mom singing and strumming old songs like “Banana Pancakes,” “Better Together,” or “If I Had a Million Dollars” and the rest of us humming and laughing as we went about our chores. Sometimes Piper would take out her guitar and play along, and then Dad and I’d kick back on the couch, singing off tune with Archie in my lap. Then we’d stop trying to sing and just listen to Mom and Piper play, me resting my head against Dad’s shoulder and Dad saying how lucky we were to have front-row seats.

  Since the accident, Dad had packed away everything of Mom’s—her clothing, her cinnamon perfumes, and her guitar. Two weeks after the funeral, I lay on Piper’s bed and asked her to play one of Mom’s songs, and next thing we knew Archie was howling—Dad was having a heart attack. Doctors said it was an arterial blockage, but Piper and I were sure it was grief. It seemed like Dad’s grief lightened if we acted like those Saturdays had never happened, so Piper stopped playing music altogether, and we erased Mom’s name from conversations, like we could stop the sadness if we didn’t talk about her—I came to think of it as a game we played to protect each other. And Piper—who’s usually the most honest person I know—played the game with gusto. She never opened her guitar case again, and she never mentioned Mom except in the middle of the night.

  Secretly, though, I kept a jar full of Mom’s guitar picks hidden in the back of my closet.

  “Megan.” Dad cleared his throat, returning to his professor’s voice. “I know moving is tough, but this job at the university has been in the works for quite some time.” He settled his gaze on my shoulder.

  I walked to the sink and sponged my bowl clean. “I know, Dad.”

  “And your mother . . .”

  I sucked a long inhale—the weight of missing her pressed into my chest. I held my breath and stared holes through the sink basin. And even though Dad was standing right here, I missed him, too.

  “She and I . . . when she was alive . . .” His voice hitched.

  I looked over. Dad gazed at his hands, twisting the wedding ring he still wore. A burn hovered behind my eyes, but then Dad scrubbed a hand across his chin and cleared his throat, turning himself back into the man who’d earned a doctorate in engineering. “We’d always planned to live in Arizona. I’m sure you’ll come to like it here, too. And—”

  “It’s fine. Honestly.” I faced the sink and flicked on the garbage disposal before I sniffled.

  “I just want you to know I realize how hard all of these transitions must be for you.” He put his glass in the dishwasher and patted Archie on the head. “I know this is awkward. Sorry, Megs.”

  I turned off the garbage disposal and nodded. Awkward. How did losing Mom somehow get reduced to that?

  Dad walked out of the kitchen, his shoulders sagging.

  Thinking about magic was so much easier than this, so I added sugar and ice to the peppermint tea, poured myself a glass, and headed back to my room with a to-do list in mind.

  Goal numero uno: find out how the magazine magic works.

  Goal numero dos: figure out what to wish for next.

  Archie bounced into my room as I was setting my full glass of tea on the desktop. My arm wobbled just a bit, and a tiny splash of tea jumped from my glass onto an open page of the Enchanted Teen. Just like that, the magazine slammed shut.

  “Whoa!”

  I stood still for a moment and then clicked the bedroom door shut. Archie whined. I petted his sweet face until he rested his head on his paws. “You think magic will help me?” I searched his eyes. “Archimedes, you know you’re named after one of the greatest mathematicians of all time.” I sighed. “He’d think I’m nuts, wouldn’t he?”

  Archie yawned.

  I went back to my desk and picked up Enchanted Teen, the self-proclaimed authority on clothing, hair, and life’s dos and don’ts. I’d just spent a day sporting frizzy hair, a faded T-shirt, and shorts with more pockets than the combined total of pockets in the school; maybe that’s why I got this magazine—it thinks I’m a makeover emergency.

  Okay, goal numero tres: get style help.

  I hopped onto my bed, talking to the magazine. “You claim you can help me. Let’s do it.”

  The pages pushed themselves open, and Archie backed away, letting out a low, rumbly growl.

  Enchanted Teen flipped to a spread of Milan Fashion Week. The first photo was of models on a runway decked out in see-through shirts, odd-looking drop-crotch pants, and crazy puffed-out forms that were probably meant to be dresses. More photos showed models dressed in orange bodysuits that zipped from neck to ankle; others wore leather jackets with black-lace swimsuit bottoms—I snort-laughed.

  “Who wears stuff like that other than ice skaters and rock stars?”

  I thumbed forward until I got to a clump of pages that had stuck together when I’d spilled the tea. They seemed cemented in place, so I skipped ahead and found the section titled “The Best Back-to-School Styles.” Ahhhh. More my speed. Shorts, skirts, jeans, and a bunch of shirts, both flowy and fitted. And there was Mac again, now wearing blue jean shorts and a jewel-green sleeveless shirt with crocheted panels across the collarbones and shoulders.

  Love it. I grazed my thumb across the bottom of the photo. Right away, my vision went blurry like a smeared watercolor painting. Archie whined. Pounding and buzzing clanged inside my ears. A rush of brilliant green swiped across the room. Sparks fired to my left and right. I slammed the pages shut and felt like I might throw up, but I caught my breath and the color storm and noise settled. When my vision cleared, a new outfit lay at the end of the bed. The blue jean shorts and the jewel-green shirt.

  “Whoa!” I picked up the shirt and ran a hand over the fabric’s soft texture.

  Maybe it’s the touching that makes it work.

  A sear of pain throbbed at my temples. I dropped the shirt and grabbed the sides of my head. Oooowww. Tea. I needed mint tea.

  I grabbed my glass and gulped it down. My headache lightened. Carefully, I picked up the magazine again. Maybe I’d already had too much browsing time for one day, but I had to know if touching a picture was how the magic worked. I opened the pages, holding on by the corners and flipping forward until I came to an ad for a T-10 hair-nourishing blow-dryer and diffuser.

  The T1-0 blow-dryer cultivates healthy hair. Made of ceramic tourmaline, our negative ion technology seals in moisture and nourishes hair with each use.

  Yeah. I’d always wanted a T-10, but the price tag—geez—was way outside my allowance budget. Maybe now I didn’t need money.

  I smacked my hand on top of the ad and the room darkened. Wind whipped my hair. Swirling sounds charged at my ears. I closed my eyes and held on to the magazine until the pushing at my eardrums was too much, then I forced it shut and dropped it to the bed. My head throbbed. When I opened my eyes, a brand-new T-10 and its specialty diffuser were sitting beside me.

  “Sweet!” I squealed, ignoring the nausea in my stomach. It was the touching! And I could touch anything. I quickly scanned the list of articles; too bad there wasn’t one on winning “instant friends.”

  The yellow blurb on Enchanted Teen’s cover lit up like a flashing neon sign. Now it said, “Find Your Two Best Looks.”

  Two? The blurb about finding your best look had gone from five to two. No
w I understood—the magazine came with five chances to use magic, and I had already used up three: one with the butterfly eyes, one with the new outfit, and now one with this blow-dryer. Only two left.

  I shrugged and took a breath. “So what?” I said to Marlo Bee, the Hollywood star whose photo was on the cover. “I can go back to the clock when I need another magazine.”

  Marlo Bee’s expression changed from a smile to a scowl.

  Huh?

  Marlo Bee wasn’t a scowler. Even when she’d tripped at the VMAs with a zillion people watching, she smiled, took off her four-inch heels, and said into the microphone, “You’ve got to admit, these are smoking-cute shoes, but next time I’m wearing flip-flops.” What a recovery! She’d know how to handle a new school and magic.

  I leaned closer to the photo, trying to read her eyes. “Are you making a face at me?”

  No answer came.

  I shook my head. None of this was going to be easy to figure out, but one thing I knew for sure: my head hurt. I hid the magazine in my desk drawer and looked around my room. What a mess! Homework papers were scattered.

  Archie’s tail poked out from under my bed. I knelt down. “Poor Archie. Did that scare you?” I tried to coax him out but he wasn’t having it.

  My book and clock radio had been blown over, and the frame on the side of my bed had fallen to its side. I sat back on my ankles and picked up the photo of Grams and me posing on a beach in Hawaii. We were wearing grass skirts and flower leis—me with one and Grams with several stacked on her neck. She’d won extra leis for being the best student in our hula class.

  “Don’t worry, Grams,” I said, glancing at the new blow-dryer. “I can handle this.” Then I lay on the floor near Archie, one hand hugging the picture to my chest and the other reaching under the bed to pet him. “Sorry you got scared, Arch, but between the clock and this magazine, I’m going to impress the heck out of this school.”

  I just needed to learn more about the magic. The methods for scientific problem solving started ticking in my head: ask questions; do background research; construct a hypothesis; test with an experiment.

  I took out my thin, orange Moleskine journal, and in no time I had a strategy written down. I was ready for another turn with that wishing clock.

  CHAPTER

  11

  “Megan?” My body startled; a hand rested on my shoulder. “Megs?”

  I opened my eyes. My sister’s outline hovered over me in the darkened room.

  “Piper?” I glanced at the clock. Two a.m. “You okay?”

  “I . . .” She sniffled. “Can I sleep in your room tonight?”

  I scooted over, and she slid under the sheets, Archie snoring at our feet.

  The moonlight reflected a tear on her cheek, and I reached over and wiped it away. “Another bad dream?” I asked, finding her hand and taking it lightly in mine.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tell me.”

  She stayed quiet, her body tense.

  “Come on, Pipes,” I whispered, channeling Mom. “Our words can take away the power from things that worry us.”

  I waited until she finally spoke, her voice small and strained.

  “This time, I dreamed Mom was alive after she was thrown from the car. And she was alone, lying in the snow and calling for us to help her, but we didn’t come. So she was lying there cold and shivering and we never came.” A hiccup escaped her throat.

  “Oh, Piper.” I squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.” I paused, swallowing the sadness rising in my throat. “That’s a horrible dream, but you know that’s not how it happened. The police said she didn’t suffer.”

  “I shouldn’t have begged Dad to ski longer. We should’ve all left together.”

  “Mom and Dad still had their separate cars at the lodge. She would’ve been driving no matter what. And she would have hit that black ice whether you were in the car or not.” It was the thousandth time I’d reminded Piper of this.

  “I know, but maybe I would’ve seen the ice and could’ve warned Mom. And maybe Dad—”

  “Nothing about Mom’s accident was your fault, Piper.” I squeezed her hand again. “And Dad is going to be fine. I promise.”

  The alarm blasted. I rolled to my side and smacked it off, opening my eyes just a slit. Piper had already slipped out of bed, and I heard her banging around in her room. Archie was gone, too, probably in the kitchen eating half of Dad’s breakfast.

  Ka-thump!

  Something hit my floor, and then fthipfthipfthipfathipfathip. Pages turning?

  I bolted up. The window shades were mostly closed, yet the room glowed like a rainbow. Beams of light shot straight to the ceiling. Enchanted Teen flapped in the center of my floor, a burst of color rising from the opened pages.

  What the . . .

  I flopped out of bed and carefully picked it up. The rainbow disappeared and the lights in my room returned to normal. The pages were covered with before-and-after photos of models with makeovers, and the title read: “Avoid Catastrophe: The Dos and Don’ts for a Flawless Face.”

  That would be nice. I rubbed my chin where yesterday’s zit had now doubled in size. Far from flawless.

  I hurried to the bathroom. Ponytail up. Face washed. Pimple inspected. I leaned close to the mirror, thinking I could magic the zit away or even touch the magazine for a full makeover, but skipping an early-morning head pounding felt like a smart idea. Hannah and I’d gotten our faces done a few times at the mall—it couldn’t be that hard.

  I searched for makeup stuff in the boxes still waiting to be unpacked and buried in my closet. I dropped one box at a time on the floor next to my pile of laundry. The first was stuffed with Halloween supplies, including the Lincoln mask I was supposed to have worn back in the day for that school play. Another box had the stack of my favorite books from when Mom read with me. I picked up The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum and tried to remember Mom’s voice. Some of Grams’s favorite books were piled in there, too, Healing Plants and How to Make Tinctures. Finally, I found the box with the bag from the Sephora shopping spree I’d had with Hannah before moving, everything still unopened. I clicked on my radio for some getting-ready music, shoved my books from the desk to the floor, and then unpackaged a mirror and little boxes of lip gloss, eye shadows, and brushes and stuff.

  In no time, I camouflaged zits, stroked shadows on my lids, and brushed color on my cheeks, finishing with gloss and mascara. I stared in the mirror. The girl staring back looked pretty good. Really good. But I didn’t have experience with this kind of stuff, and I had no idea how long makeup lasted. Maybe a light layer lasted an hour and more would last all day. I added extra mascara and a few bonus layers of shadow. It made me look older, like an eighth grader. I swished on another layer. Maybe I could look like I was in high school.

  The scent of cinnamon floated upstairs, probably Pillsbury rolls knowing Dad’s sweet tooth. Voices blasted from my radio. “This is Will and Jer on KYMN-FM. It’s seven fifteen and time to . . .”

  Seven fifteen. I rushed to my closet and put on the new jean shorts and green shirt. Then I shoved one of Mom’s guitar picks, the red one with gold writing, deep in my pocket.

  Piper poked her head in the doorway. “Dad says it’s time to . . .” She paused and stared at me before blinking and looking away. “Um.”

  “What?”

  “Uhhhhhhhhh.” She pressed her lips together and darted glances at the corners of my floor. “Well . . . it’s just . . .”

  “What?” I asked louder. I gazed in my full-length mirror, turning side to side, checking to see if the new shorts and shirt fit okay.

  “Oh. Not your outfit. It’s super-cute. It’s just your makeup, Megs.” She looked down again and fiddled with her bracelet before softly adding, “It’s way too much.”

  “Are you sure?” I leaned closer to the mirror and looked at my face. “I kind of like it.”

  “You might want to open your shades all the way. Or come here.” She grabbed
my hand and pulled me to the bathroom, flicking on the lights. “See.” Her voice dropped. “It’s way too heavy.”

  “Crud!” She was right.

  “You could—”

  “Just go.” I didn’t know if I was more annoyed that I had to wash it off, or that my little sister knew more about makeup than I did. I turned on the faucet and scrubbed cleanser on my face. “Tell Dad I’ll be down in five.”

  She stared.

  “Go!” I said louder.

  “Don’t be mad. I just think you’re way too pretty for all that.”

  I sighed. Logically, I knew it was dumb to feel grumpy at Piper when my makeover disaster wasn’t her fault. She was just the messenger. And the message was loud and clear—I couldn’t survive being the new girl without magic.

  My door clicked shut.

  I had to hurry or I’d be late again. I dried my face and rushed to my desk, yanking out the magazine and flipping to the Flawless Faces section. “Okay, I suppose you’re here to help me.” I hustled a hand to a picture of a back-to-school model with perfect daytime makeup. “Let’s do this.” I swiped a finger across the page.

  Lights flashed and swished, and color beams hit my eyes. Everything went blurry. Sounds gurgled away. Pressure pushed at my temples, and I slammed the pages shut. My vision sharpened into focus and I turned to face my mirror—highlighted cheeks, peach lips. Even my hair had been de-frizzed. “Wow!” I hugged the magazine hard to my chest. “Thank you!”

  The yellow blurb on the cover lit up and now read, “Find Your One Best Look.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, understanding I’d just used one of the limited pieces of magazine magic. Still no biggie, since I could wish all the time.

  I tossed my green earbuds around my neck, stuffed the magazine and my orange journal into my backpack, and ran downstairs. Outside, I slid into the front passenger seat of Dad’s Prius and lowered the visor mirror for another once-over. Piper jumped into the backseat, clicking away on her phone.

  Dad climbed in next, bringing with him the smell of cinnamon. He put a paper plate with a frosted roll on my lap. “Breakfast. Try not to get the car sticky.”