The Three Rules of Everyday Magic

by Amanda Rawson Hill

  Close enough.

  “Oh, let me—” says Jane, about to stand.

  “No,” I whisper. “I’ve got it.”

  I glance at Sofia and Marisa to make sure their backs are turned and then very casually sidle up to where my pencil lies on the ground.

  Amy looks up from her paper, smiles at me, and goes back to writing.

  “You don’t think this shirt is too pink, right?” I hear Marisa whisper as I crouch down.

  Sofia replies. “No. I like it.”

  “Well, then why did Kate make fun of it?”

  I slowly reach for my pencil. Amy looks at me again, her eyebrows furrowed. Right before I grab it, Adam Shuler swings his leg out and kicks it further down the aisle. He snickers, not realizing he’s actually helping me listen longer.

  “Oh.” Sofia sighs as I crawl along the floor toward my pencil. I expect her to explain to Marisa about best friends forever and our pinkie promise. Instead, she says, “That’s just something Kate and I used to do. No pink. Kind of silly.”

  I freeze. I want to hear if Sofia says something else. Anything else to explain and make me feel better. But blood is whooshing through my ears sounding like crashing ocean waves and all I hear is silly, silly, silly.

  “Okay, class. Time for lunch!” Miss Reynolds calls.

  Sofia and Marisa stand up and head out the door. A whole bunch of feet belonging to the rest of the class follow them. I grab my pencil and lean back into a crouch, unable to move under the weight of silly, silly, silly.

  Then Jane jumps in front of me. “Hey! Whatcha doing?”

  With a gasp, I fall against the desk behind me, my head scraping the underside of it. My hair catches on a big, sticky blob of freshly chewed bubblegum.

  I scoot out, trying to pull my hair away from the gum, but the gum stretches and follows me, forming a long, slimy pink bridge from the bottom of the desk to my head.

  “Yuck!” I stand up, pinch the gum with two fingers, and try to pluck it out, but that only makes things worse—the gum smears in my hair from right above my ear to my jawline. “Oh, gross. What am I going to do?”

  “Uh-oh,” says Jane.

  “Everything okay over there, girls?” Miss Reynolds calls from the door.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Okay, well, let’s get going.”

  I put my hand over the gum in my hair, and Jane and I walk out to the hallway and our lockers. When we get out there, Miss Reynolds is talking with another teacher. Jane stands on her tiptoes. “Let me see that.” She pokes at the pink goo. “Ugh, freshly chewed. That’s stuck good. Sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I mumble. “I shouldn’t have been on the floor.” I really shouldn’t have. The word silly starts echoing in my brain again.

  Jane sticks a hand on her hip. “Nice try. It’s totally my fault! If I hadn’t been a goose and surprised you this never would have happened.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I get too excited. Mom says I’m basically a Labrador retriever.”

  I smile. “I’ve never seen a rainbow Lab.”

  Jane’s eyes get wide, and for a minute I think maybe I hurt her feelings. But then she starts laughing—this loud laugh that fills up every molecule of air between us with something like warm honey.

  “That’s a good one,” Jane says. “I’m going to tell my mom that next time.” We begin trudging down the hallway. “So what are you going to do about … that?” She points at my hair.

  “Probably call my mom. I can’t walk around the rest of the day like this.”

  “No way,” Jane agrees.

  When we get to the place where you can either turn left for the cafeteria or right for the office, we both stand there for a minute longer, neither one of us wanting to let go of that warm-honey feeling. Finally, Jane says, “You’re funny, Kate. Do you want to come to my house after school? I’ve got a trampoline, and my mom will make cookies. I haven’t really had anyone over to my house since we moved in.” She shrugs. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

  I almost say okay, but then I stop. Being friends isn’t quite that easy when you have Grammy at home. If I went over to Jane’s house, then I’d have to invite her over to my house next. And if Jane came to my house, she’d meet Grammy. It might be a good day, and Grammy would be fine and make cookies. But it could also be a bad day when she wanders around looking for Dad, or ties her knitting up into big knots and cries.

  It’s okay if Sofia sees those things, but I’m not ready to share that part of me with Jane. Sometimes school friends are best because you can hide the parts of your life that maybe don’t look like you wish they did.

  “I can’t.”

  Jane nods her head fast. Too fast. “Oh, that’s okay. I figured. Too soon. That’s the Labrador retriever again.”

  She tries to laugh at the joke, but it’s stiff, and her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. I feel like I’ve erased one of the stripes on a rainbow. “I have to watch my little sister,” I blurt out.

  Jane tilts her head to the side. “You have a sister?”

  “Yeah.” I lean into the lie, let it wrap its fingers around my lungs.

  “Lucky,” says Jane. “I wish I had a sister.”

  I don’t say anything else about it, just point down the hall toward the office. “Well, I better call my mom.”

  “Okay. See you later,” Jane says before walking away.

  I watch her rainbow headband bob up and down as she pulls a piece of paper from her pocket and disappears around the corner.

  Chapter 9

  The secretary, Miss Williams, looks up from her computer as I open the door. “May I help you?”

  “I need to use the phone.” I point to my hair.

  “Uh-oh,” she says before pushing the old black thing in my direction. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” The clock on the wall shows that it isn’t one yet, so Mom might still be at home having lunch with Grammy. I call the house phone first.

  It only rings once before Grammy answers. “Mitchell residence.”

  “Hi, Grammy,” I say. “Is Mom there?”

  “Oh, is this Kate? What are you doing calling from school?” She gasps. “Is everything okay? Are you hurt? Are you sick?”

  “No, I’m fine. I got gum stuck in my hair. I need Mom to come get me.”

  Grammy clicks her tongue. “Gum in the hair. That is a problem. Hmmmm. Your mother’s not here. Maybe I could … where did you say you were again, Kate?”

  I look at all the walls, searching for an answer. “Oh, um, nowhere. I’m nowhere.”

  “Nowhere,” she squawks. “How can you be nowhere? That’s just silly. Now I’ll tell you what—”

  “No,” I cut in. “It’s okay. I’m fine really. The gum’s already out of my hair. Look at that.”

  Miss Williams looks at me funny from her black leather seat and raises an eyebrow. I don’t know how to tell her that Grammy has her helpful voice on. And when Grammy has her helpful voice on, she wants to repay Mom and me for everything, and soon we end up with burnt cookies, bleach-stained laundry, and a garden overflowing with water because she forgot to turn the hose off. If she tries to come to school, she might get lost.

  “Are you sure?” asks Grammy. “You know I’ve got nothing to do here but the crossword puzzle, and heaven knows I haven’t been able to finish one of them in years.”

  “I’m sure.” I hold my breath and wait for her to believe me.

  “Okay, then. What’s a ten-letter word for stubborn?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Grammy grumbles. “Well, then why are you calling me? Good heavens, child.” And she hangs up the phone.

  I let out a sigh of relief and hang up the phone for a few seconds before calling again—this time Mom’s cell phone.

  “Hello?” She answers.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Is everything okay, Katydid?”

  “It’s just Kate,” I say. “I’m too old for Katydid.”

  Someone speaks
in the background. Mom talks back, her voice muffled because she’s trying to cover up the phone. “Just get those to mmmf-fum-fum.” Then she’s back to me. “Katydid, did you need something?”

  I sigh and talk a little louder. “Yeah, I got gum in my hair.”

  “How? You’re not supposed to be chewing gum. Especially not in school.”

  “It wasn’t me. I didn’t chew it. It was … someone else.”

  Another voice in the background. “Katydid,” Mom says. She sounds like she’s running. “I’ve got a big presentation today, and I’m already running late for it. I’m sorry. We’ll get the gum out of your hair when you get home, all right?”

  She’s about to hang up, the way she always does when she’s super busy at work, when she says goodbye but doesn’t wait for me to say it back. I yell as quick as I can, “What about Dad?”

  That stops her fast. Talking about Dad always does. “What about him?”

  “Could I … could I call him? Do you think he could come get me?”

  Mom sighs. I know she’s making that face she always makes when I talk about Dad. The one where everything pulls down—her mouth, her eyes, the lines around her nose, even her ears get lower. “Katydid, you know what will happen.”

  “Maybe not this time.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m going to try. Okay, Mom?”

  “Okay, honey.” Papers crinkle into the phone. “Katydid?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up okay?”

  I hang up without saying anything, then quickly lift the phone again and call Dad, slowly punching my finger into each number. I know it’s not true, but I can’t help thinking that maybe this time, if I do it just right, he’ll answer. Once I’ve called, I count the rings until I reach his voicemail.

  “This is Anthony Mitchell.”

  Listening to Dad’s voicemail has become a bit of a ritual. I close my eyes. Imagine the way the corners of his mouth twist up when he says, “Sorry I missed your call, but go ahead and leave a message so I can get back to you.”

  Mom was right. Again. I sigh and draw invisible figure eights on the counter. “Hi, Dad. It’s me … Kate … your daughter. I sort of got gum in my hair at school. It’s pink and sticky and I need to go home. Can you come get me? Please? If you get this, just call my school. Okay? It’s Atwater Elementary in case you don’t remember. Okay, bye.”

  I hang up the phone soft and quiet, the way I always do when I call him. Like hanging it up too hard might break something.

  “Nobody coming?” asks Miss Williams.

  I shake my head. “But my dad might call back. If he does—”

  “I’ll let you know.” She stares at the gum. “You know, I have a hat. If you’d like to, you may wear it the rest of the day.”

  “Really?” I touch that sticky spot in my hair again. “That would be super nice.”

  Miss Williams winks at me as she reaches underneath her desk. I stand on tiptoe, leaning over the counter and holding my breath. She pulls out a small, pink knitted hat.

  “Oh,” I breathe.

  The hat hangs from her hand like a wilted flower. “Here you go.”

  The pink is so awfully soft and helpless looking.

  Silly, silly, silly.

  I pull my hand away from my hair, lift my chin up, and say, “No, thank you. I’m good. Really.” And then I walk out the door before Miss Williams can say anything else.

  Chapter 10

  It’s a long walk to the cafeteria. First, I stop by my locker and grab my lunch. Then I have to pass all the trophy cases and bulletin boards, and my reflection keeps showing up in the glass with that gum sticking out. I’ve gone five years not ever wearing a stitch of pink. Pink is silly and weak, and that’s not me. There’s no pink in karate. Now all of a sudden it’s stuck on me and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  When I get to the cafeteria, I peek in the door at all the circular gray tables. I find the one where Sofia and I always sit. But my chair, the chair on Sofia’s right, is taken. Marisa is there, slurping her chicken and noodles while crossing her eyes. And Sofia is laughing. Laughing? At something that stupid?

  Then I remember the other thing Sofia told Marisa. That’s just something Kate and I used to do.

  Used to. Like we used to be best friends.

  Jane smiles at me from her table with Brooklyn and Emma, but I take a step backward. And another one. And another one. Until I’m all the way back in the hall. Then I turn, and my feet are taking me away from the cafeteria. Faster and faster. Out of the hall and into the girls’ bathroom.

  It’s empty in here. Thank goodness.

  The handle on the sink faucet is cold to the touch. I spin it around. When icy water gushes out, I run my hands underneath. It’s like sticking my hands in Mirror Lake right at the beginning of spring when all the snow has melted. Mom and Dad used to take me every year. We’d put our feet in and see who could last the longest. Mom always won. Dad used to joke that she was summoning a hot flash.

  “I’m not that old yet,” she laughed and smacked his shoulder.

  “Almost,” he said back.

  Mom tucked that strip of gray hair behind her ears. “Almost isn’t there yet.”

  But Dad didn’t take me to Mirror Lake this year. He barely left his room all last summer. I turn off the water because the coldness of it hurts too much.

  I don’t know how long I stay there, hunched over the sink, hair hanging in my face, all tangled up in memories of Dad and thoughts about Sofia sitting at lunch with Marisa, wearing pink like Marisa, laughing at Marisa, letting Marisa read my note. Finally, the bell rings, and the chorus of feet running back to class echoes outside the bathroom door. I wait until everyone’s gone before I leave.

  When I turn down the hallway to class, Sofia’s sitting against the wall of lockers. “Oh, your hair,” she says. “What happened?”

  I ignore her and walk past, stomping the way Mom does, hoping Sofia will feel my anger. But I don’t get very far before she says, “I’ve been waiting for you. Lockers. After lunch. What do you want to talk about?”

  I stop. My back is to her, but I don’t turn around.

  I want to say, I can’t believe you let her read it.

  I want to say, How could you have a sleepover with her instead of me?

  I want to yell and scream and shout and pull that pink ribbon off her head.

  But the words that come out of my mouth instead are, “Grammy called me Tony yesterday.” My legs are wobbly as I say it and turn around, like they’re hoping Sofia can suddenly be strong enough for both of us.

  Sofia bites her lip. “She’s getting worse, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she is.” The words feel as if they’re clawing against my throat as they come out.

  “Did your dad come home to see her yet?”

  “No.” I change the subject away from secrets Sofia might not keep. “You should come to my house tonight. It’s Chinese-food night. Your favorite.”

  Sofia stands up. “I wish I could. But I’m going to Marisa’s to practice my lines for Annie.”

  “Of course.” I pull at the pieces of hair sticking out from my bubblegum catastrophe. “Are you going to paint your nails pink tonight, too?”

  The angry words are out before I can stop them. I think of Sensei and how he would say, The tongue is the most difficult part of the body to control.

  Sofia stares at me, hard and unblinking. “If I want to wear pink, I’ll wear pink. That was your stupid rule.”

  “But you promised,” I say, a little too loud.

  “It’s just a color. It doesn’t mean anything!”

  All the air whooshes out of my lungs.

  Sofia sighs. “Come on. Miss Reynolds will know I’m not actually in the bathroom soon.”

  For a second, I can’t move. I’m like the Tin Man without any oil. It takes Sofia turning around and breezing into the classroom to get my joints working again. I grab the door right before i
t slams shut and walk into class, too. Miss Reynolds greets me with, “Kate, you’re tardy.”

  “I know,” I murmur, robotic.

  “Do you have an excuse?”

  “No.”

  Miss Reynolds’s eyes catch on the gum and she softens. “Please don’t be late again.”

  “Okay.”

  I walk past Marisa, who looks at my hair as if there’s a hamster living in it, past Sofia, who’s straightening out her pens and pencils, and up to Parker, sneakily reading The Hobbit in his lap. He doesn’t look up. Bilbo must still be in danger. As I sit down, he whispers, “What did Sofia say?”

  I freeze. “What?”

  “Sofia? Didn’t she talk to you out in the hall?”

  Sofia turns around and watches me whispering with Parker. I shake my head. “I don’t … it was nothing.” But the prickly poking at the corner of my eyes doesn’t feel like nothing.

  Parker glances up from his book at the gum in my hair, then back down to The Hobbit. I probably look worse than one of those trolls in his book.

  “Okay, class,” Miss Reynolds calls. “Back to our group projects. It’s time to swap poems with your partner.”

  Jane’s on the far side of the room, bent over a piece of white paper. She stops making broad lines with her pencil just long enough to turn in her seat and give me a little wave. I cover the gum in my hair and walk over.

  When I take the seat next to Jane she whispers, “It’s okay. It’s really only noticeable from, like, certain angles.”

  “Which ones?”

  She squints at me and moves around a bit from side to side. “The front.” Pause. “And this side.” She moves behind me. “And the back.”

  I groan.

  “But hey! Not from the other side!”

  “That’s most angles.” I put my hand back over the gum.

  “I know. I was trying to make you feel better.”

  I sigh and hand her my poem. She gives me hers, and we both read in silence.

  Jane’s poem is fantastic. When I read it, I get tingles.

  I am from charcoal, graphite, pastel

  Smudged onto my fingertips,

  From tangerine and fuchsia Converse