The 11

by Kim Tomsic

  Du-uh, I thought, wanting to shrink and disappear.

  “Fortunately for you, I always carry these.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a travel pack of aloe makeup-removing wipes; then she plucked one out and handed it to me. “Here. And don’t worry. I’ve done it before, too.”

  “Wow.” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice, but Rhena actually sounded sweet, like she had before she knew Ally had zapped me. I scoured my face, my skin tingling. “Thanks.”

  “No worries. It happens to the best of us.” She smiled and handed over another wipe. “By the way, you know I’m just kidding when I say granola. And I totally thought your snow event was a blast.”

  “Thanks,” I repeated. Why was she suddenly being nice to me? I thought of the quote from the magazine and wondered if calling me granola and joking was Rhena’s way of being ridiculous instead of boring, and I was taking things too seriously. Mom had always handled awkward situations so easily.

  “And your shorts are super-cute.” She reached over and mopped a flake of mascara from my face. “Besides the crazy makeover, you look pretty.”

  My shoulders softened down from my ears. “Thanks.”

  “So we’re good?” she said.

  “Sure.” I swallowed. “Sure.” Rhena had invited me to her house after all.

  “Good.” Her smile grew. “By the way, I saw you with Jackson Litner this morning.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “What’s up with that?”

  “He’s my student ambassador.” I shrugged, faking indifference. “Just showing me around.”

  The tardy bell rang. Stragglers took seats.

  “Phones away now, people,” Mr. Kersey said. “And Rhena, please face forward for class.”

  “Well, his parents and my parents play tennis together,” she said to me. “We see each other like all the time. We’re really, really close.”

  The way she was talking—all sweet and super-interested—made my head spin. I started to wonder if she was in reconnaissance mode. But it felt like she wanted to be friends, too. I was no good at these games.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I hear you guys are best friends.”

  A warm smile spread across her face. “Exactly. That’s right.” She sat tall. “So anyhow, we’re good?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Of course.” Now would be a good time to bring up the study party. “About tonight—”

  Mr. Kersey’s voice boomed. “Open your books to page forty-nine.”

  Rhena shuffled to face the front, but not before handing me a pack of Juicy Fruit and saying, “You really should reconsider your options around here before it’s too late.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Wishing was the ticket to securing my new reputation, which meant I still needed answers on how exactly the magic worked. I reached into the front zipper pocket of my backpack and pulled out my Moleskine journal.

  Dad had given me my first Moleskine years ago to chart and write out ideas for a science fair competition. Since then, I’d had Moleskines in many colors and sizes. This orange one would be where I’d sort out magic. The plan I’d drawn in it the night before included the four-step scientific method—ask questions, do background research, construct a hypothesis, and test with an experiment.

  I set it on my desk and kept the journal closed until I was sure Rhena was into the lecture and wouldn’t turn around and read my notes. Ten minutes passed before I smoothed open the pages and reviewed my list.

  QUESTIONS:

  Will sticking with specific wishes give me exactly what I ask for?

  Can I dictate when a wish starts and ends?

  How much magic can I get out of one wish?

  I grabbed my pencil and added a new question:

  How can I avoid tricks?

  BACKGROUND RESEARCH:

  Specific wish—asked for snow and got it

  Nonspecific wish—asked for “some magic” and got a magical magazine

  COSTS—magic has costs:

  Magazine magic = headaches and nausea

  Clock magic = none

  Question: do I need to be specific to avoid costs? Snow wish was free, so are all “specific” wishes free?

  I jotted another line, squeezing it in between my writing.

  UPDATE: magazine costs = tricks (i.e., makeover).

  My hypothesis had been blank, but now I wrote one in:

  HYPOTHESIS: Specific wishes on the clock are safe, but magic from a nonspecific wish may be packed with pranks.

  The experiment section was next, and that meant I’d have to use up today’s wish for research. The wish would have to satisfy all my questions and yet be special enough to know it came from magic.

  I’d laid out the perfect plan and reviewed it at least a hundred times the night before—I’d wish that a chocolate Lab and a wiener dog would run into the classroom at exactly 11:12 a.m. They’d each carry a bag of Skittles and then drop the Skittles at Mr. Kersey’s feet. Next, they’d lie on their backs for a belly rub. Then, at 11:17 (my designated end time), they’d run a loop around the classroom and then out the door.

  Now I just had to wait until the wishing minute.

  Waiting is not my best quality, so I fidgeted with my phone, debating if I should ask Grams more questions. Even though she’d be mad that I messed with magic, nobody would know the answers better than Grams. I should have fessed up about receiving the package from the start, and now the makeup disaster and stress about the possibility of other tricks made me sure I needed to talk to her. She’d yell at me, and I’d beg forgiveness, and then I could question her for more details about the clock’s magic.

  I sunk low in my seat and sent her a text:

  Me: Confession: I used magic and it did this weird makeover thingy, plus it’s giving me headaches, but is that all? I need to talk to u!!

  Grams’s reply came quickly:

  Grams: The Bellini brothers are patient and meticulous about their magic; they like to lull their victims into trust. You know what to do.

  Me: But if I could just use magic for this week, I’d be set.

  Mr. Kersey came down the aisle, passing out a paper titled “Test Review: Ancient Greece.” I stuck my phone under my leg, took the handout, and faked like I was reading through the notes. As soon as he moved on I hid my phone under my desktop again and read Grams’s reply.

  Grams: What kind of friends do you think you’ll have if you have to swindle them into liking you?

  Before I had a chance to reply, she sent another text.

  Grams: Sorry, Sugar. I’m taking a technology-free bike tour. Turning phone off now. I trust you’ll figure everything out.

  “Wait!” I typed, but I could see the message wasn’t delivered. She’d already powered off.

  Mr. Kersey displayed images on the Smart Board and lectured on point after point: Cretan life, poems of Homer, the Trojan War. I jotted two full pages of notes.

  By 11:07, I knew more than I ever wanted to know about Greek civilization and pinned my gaze on the clock’s ticking tail and hypnotic dancing eyes. I set my pencil down and waited, heart racing, hands shaking.

  Then the time ticked to 11:11, and I whispered, “Pop. Click. Seconds tick. Wish at eleven-eleven, and watch it stick.” I quickly scanned my list and returned to the first question: Will sticking with specific wishes give me exactly what I ask for? Jittery nerves jumbled my thoughts—dogs, Mr. Kersey, a belly rub. Grams said I knew what to do, and I did. Only thing, it was way different from what she wanted me to do.

  “Megan,” Mr. Kersey said gently. “This information will be helpful for the test.”

  I flushed and nodded, but when he continued on, I looked back at the clock. The second-hand whisker had already ticked to halfway around. Time was running out. My mind latched on to pieces of what I had planned on saying, and I panic-whispered, “Make Mr. Kersey bark like a dog.”

  Ahk, that wasn’t the plan!

  But nothing happened.

 
Why didn’t anything happen?

  The pop! I’d forgotten the pop. Yesterday, the lightning made the pop; today I’d have to make my own. Only twenty seconds left! Grams had always complained when I popped my knuckles, so I said the rhyme again, this time scanning my full list of questions and pressing the heel of my hand across my knuckles. Pop, pop. The time was almost up! I dorked out with panic, my whispered words tumbling out. “When the clock strikes eleven twelve make Mr. Kersey bark like a dog, hop on one foot, and rub his belly for five minutes and . . . and . . . and deliver Skittles. Lots and lots of Skittles!”

  Rhena shifted in her seat. “What are you saying?”

  I shook my head and pressed my lips together. She turned back around, and I’m not sure what else I might’ve added had the last seconds not ticked off. The whiskers moved to 11:12 and my arm hairs spiked like the fur of a spooked cat.

  “Ruff. Ra ra. Ruff ruff ruff.” Mr. Kersey scratched an ear.

  The class stilled, all eyes on him.

  He lifted a leg and hopped on one foot, snapping his jaw behind him like he was chasing a tail. Then he placed a hand on his stomach and rubbed. “Ruff, ruff ruff.”

  Everyone exploded in laughter. He barked and hopped and hopped and barked. My throat went dry and I froze, watching the spectacle.

  Mr. Kersey kept barking, rubbing his belly, and chasing his tail.

  Turner laughed. Shelby laughed. Yoona laughed. The guy who wore the Cardinals hat laughed. Everyone was laughing. Everyone except Rhena. She was turned around in her desk, trying to get a look at my list.

  Hair on my neck and arms bristled and a rush of air left my mouth. I scooped up the journal and shoved it between my notebook pages.

  “What’s that about?” Rhena watched me closely.

  Something clogged my throat, but I managed a cough and then said, “Nothing, haha.”

  “Really?” Rhena lifted an eyebrow before facing forward. The whiskers on the clock moved to 11:17, and Mr. Kersey’s crazy behavior stopped.

  “Good!” Mr. Kersey’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Now that I have your attention and know you’re all awake, we can continue.” He laughed at himself like nothing was wrong, like the barking was his idea and he’d intended to go berserk for a few minutes.

  Had the magic done that to his mind?

  Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. It swung open, and there stood that same guy from Backyard Blizzards. This time he was wearing a UPS uniform with a chest patch that read “Bruce.” His green eyes glimmered under his cap, and he winked at me. “Delivery for Megan.”

  Blood drained from my face.

  He disappeared from the doorway for a few seconds, and then reappeared with a red wheelbarrow stacked to teetering with . . . Skittles! He marched into the classroom, followed by five guys with identical red wheelbarrows, all towered high with bags and bags of colorful Skittles.

  “Megan?” Mr. Kersey said.

  “Ha-ha. Um.” Cough. I cleared my throat. What could I say? And then: “It’s . . . it’s for the election? Brighten your day. Vote Ally.”

  “Cool!” The guy in the Cardinals hat jumped from his seat and scooped up two fistfuls of Skittles bags.

  My hands and heart shook for the rest of class. The wishing clock would do anything I asked of it!

  CHAPTER

  15

  At lunchtime, I hovered outside the glass cafeteria doors.

  “I don’t know how to thank you!” Ally said, running up and practically knocking me down in a hug. “The Skittles were brilliant! So creative! Thank you!”

  “Yo, Ally!” the guy in the Cardinals hat said as he headed inside. He waved a hand packed with three bags of candy. “Nice!”

  Walking behind him, Erin, Mia, and Noelle all had candy bags in their hands and pockets, too. Clearly, the whole school had heard about the wheelbarrows by now, because Skittles bags were in fists, pockets, and backpack zippers. They overflowed from purses and gym bags. On lunch trays and tables.

  “Come on, you guys,” Erin said, heading toward the line.

  Ally took a few steps. “You coming?”

  “Um. I’m going to talk to Mrs. Matthews first.”

  “Okay. I’ll save you a seat.” She ran inside.

  The clock, the magic, and its tricks and treasures were exciting, but regardless of wanting to be impressive, I needed to catch my breath. Mrs. Matthews’s invitation to the math team sounded like the perfect break, as long as I could keep it on the down-low.

  Through the halls, I passed “Chews Rhena” flyers everywhere—on doorways, next to light switches, on the trophy case and over air vents. When I arrived outside Mrs. Matthews’s room, her closed door had a single blue sign taped to it that read, “Math Social. Geniuses Welcome.”

  I looked around. No one was coming down the hall. Then I creaked open the door and froze in place—Mrs. Matthews wasn’t there, but Jackson stood at the front of the room, laughing with Turner and a couple of athletic-looking guys. Had I come at the wrong time?

  “Okay. This one’s from Reddit. What do you get when you cross a mosquito with a mountain climber?” Jackson asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Nothing. You can’t cross a vector and a scaler.”

  I snort-laughed, and Jackson caught me gawking in the doorway. “Megan!” he said. “You here for math team?”

  “Umm.” I looked at the handful of students sitting in desks. “Yeah, if that’s okay.”

  “Come in,” Jackson said. “Meet my algebros.”

  I walked over.

  “This is Tank.”

  “What’s up,” Tank said. Even his muscles had muscles.

  “And this is Wigglesworth.”

  “That’s my last name,” Wigglesworth said. “You can call me that. Or you can call me the Secret Weapon.”

  Jackson laughed. “Keep the ego in check, Wigglesworth.” He shoved his shoulder and said, “And this is Turner.”

  I smiled. “Hey, Turner.” He looked like a pocket calculator next to these guys.

  “Hey, Megs.”

  “Megs?” Jackson said, looking between us.

  “Oh yeah,” Turner said, popping up his shirt collar. “Megan and I go way back. We have history together. Get it? History,” Turner said. “Double entendre, ’cause we both have Kersey.”

  “We get it, Turner,” Tank said with a groan.

  “Here, sit here, Megan.” Jackson pulled an empty desk closer to his.

  I smiled. This was better than my wish.

  A few more girls and guys came in. They introduced themselves: Ellie, Karen, Jacob, and Steve. Right away I felt at ease. I even added a joke. “What does a mermaid wear?” I said. “An algae-bra.” My face burned—who mentions bras in front of a bunch of guys? But they laughed and we continued chatting, waiting for Mrs. Matthews to arrive.

  “Hey, what’s this?” Jackson leaned down beside me and picked up the red guitar pick from the floor.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling myself get shy again. “That’s mine. It must’ve fallen from my pocket.”

  He handed it to me, and I cupped it like a fragile egg.

  “So you play?” he asked.

  “Well, my sister does. Used to.”

  “Used to?” Confusion covered his face. “I mean, I’m no good, but I can’t put my guitar down.”

  A flash of Mom strumming her guitar played in my head, the ache from it spreading across my collarbones. I missed her. I missed hearing her. I missed talking about her.

  “You okay?” Jackson asked, his face sincere.

  I nodded. “Um. What kind of guitar do you have?”

  “Fender jumbo acoustic. My parents won’t let me go electric until I get more skills. Now spill. Why are you carrying around your sister’s pick?”

  I opened my palm and turned the pick over a few times before I glanced back up, his face still so genuine. “Well, my mom . . .” Just saying “my mom” felt rich in my mouth. “She played. So it’s her pick, really.” Swallow.

  “That’
s cool.” He tilted his head.

  “She was a music teacher. And really good. And . . . and she died a year and a half ago.” I held my breath.

  “Geez. I’m sorry.” And I could tell he was. He didn’t try to look away or change the subject. He just listened. And I wasn’t looking for sympathy, but it felt good saying her name to someone other than Grams.

  The door clicked open and Mrs. Matthews walked in. “Hello! I’m glad to see you all here.”

  She discussed her plans for the club and passed out a permission form for our parents to sign. “We’ll have a brief meeting after school tomorrow, so bring these back. I need volunteers to bring snacks for each of our competitions.”

  Everyone shouted out things they could make, or buy, or things their mom could bake.

  “Okay, okay,” Mrs. Matthews said. “One at a time. I’ll write a list, and anyone with an allergy, please speak up.” Mrs. Matthews jotted the list on the board with the student’s name and food item they shouted.

  “What did you call out, Tank?” Mrs. Matthews said.

  “CDPs. That’s chocolate-dipped pretzels,” Tank said. “Sometimes my mom makes them with nuts or sprinkles or whatever.”

  “You all right?” Jackson asked, bumping me with his leg.

  I nodded, staring at a rip in my cuticle.

  Mrs. Matthews wrote “chocolate pretzels” next to Tank’s name. “Any nut allergies in here?” She looked at the group. I suppose everyone shook their head or said no, because she said, “Okay.” Pause.

  “Excuse me,” Jackson said. “I’m going to volunteer my dad, because he makes an awesome Chex Mix.”

  “Great.” Mrs. Matthews turned and wrote on the board.

  “I love me some of your dad’s Chex Mix,” Wigglesworth said. “Especially when he uses Sriracha and honey.”

  “Dude,” Tank said, “we could add some CDPs and that mix would be off the chain.”

  The mention of his dad, any dad, unfroze me, and I nodded a barely visible thank-you to Jackson. He smiled back, his dimple appearing.

  “Um, my dad could make cinnamon rolls,” I said. “They’ll come from a can.”