Bras & Broomsticks

by Sarah Mlynowski

  Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch. Meow. “Your groupie is trying to scratch his way into my room,” I say. Wait a sec. “Who are you practicing on?”

  She winks at me.

  Is she crazy? “No way! You are not using me as your ugly-spell dummy. I can’t be A-list looking like an ogre!”

  She opens the door a crack, and Tigger dashes inside and plops himself directly on A2.

  The halogen bulb in my brain flicks on and I see my next play. “I understand that you’re nervous,” I say, backpedaling. “You could turn STB into a tree by mistake. So . . . why don’t you practice doing another spell on me? Like say, perhaps, a popularity spell.”

  She waves her arms like white flags in defeat. “All right, fine. Whatever you want. I’ll find you a popularity spell. But for the record, you’re being pathetic.”

  Touchdown! “Yes, I’m pathetic. Pathetically happy!”

  “And,” she says, smiling, “you’re going to owe me. Big.”

  Ah, the witch turns mercenary. Isn’t that always the case? “What do you want?”

  She whips out a typed list from the spell book. Apparently, she’s been waiting for just the right moment to spring it on me. “For the next two weeks you will, one, set the table and clear the dishes.” My mother has us on an alternating schedule of setting and clearing the table, so we’re both only supposed to have to do one each day. I wonder if dear old Mom will notice if I take over both duties. Probably not. “Two,” Miri says. “You’re on trash duty.”

  “Sure, sure, whatever.” It’s not as if anyone can tell whether I recycle properly. I can cut a few corners without her catching me.

  “And you can’t cut any corners with the recycling.”

  I give her the evil eye (essentially squinting with my right eye while raising my left eyebrow) to ward off future mind-intrusion spells. “I’m on to you.”

  She ignores me. “Three, you have to come with me to the peace rally on March twentieth in Washington Square.”

  “Can’t Mom take you?”

  “I’d rather go with you. It’ll be fun,” she pleads.

  “I doubt it.” I hate rallies. My mother has dragged me to a slew of them. All you do is stand there and freeze your butt off. “You sure you don’t want me to take you shopping? We can go to Bloomie’s. I’ll buy you that every-day-of-the-week underwear you’ve always wanted,” I add, dangling the only carrot I can come up with under the circumstances.

  “Peace rally. Final offer.”

  Any way you add it up, it’s worth it. “Deal.”

  We shake on it. Hip, hip, hooray! I’m going to be popular! I do a little victory dance.

  “Don’t do that. You look like you’re drowning.”

  Humph.

  “And you can’t ever tell Mom we traded,” she adds.

  Is she nuts? “We can’t tell her about any of this. She’d turn us both into frogs. Or cats.” I nudge Tigger with my foot. “Maybe she had another daughter before me. And she did magic. And Mom turned her into a cat. A male cat, just to be mean.”

  Tigger meows.

  “Why would she turn her into a male cat only to have her neutered?” Miri asks.

  “Girls!” my mother hollers from the kitchen. “Time to set the table!”

  It’s Monday and therefore . . . my turn. But it’s worth it. Every time I doubt that, I’ll just think of my name at the top of the A-list.

  Tigger follows me into the kitchen and almost trips me while I’m taking the plates down from the shelf. Hmm. Who knows? What if I wasn’t far off about Tigger? What if he really used to be human and was cursed by my great-grandmother to spend eternity as a not-too-bright feline? Creepy. Especially considering how many times the perv has watched me change.

  My mother licks tomato sauce off a wooden spoon while she checks the garlic bread in the oven and stirs the pasta. When she makes dinner, she looks like the Tasmanian Devil. She’s an excellent multitasker. She’s the same at work. I’ve seen her type, fix the jammed fax machine, make coffee, and book a trip to Costa Rica on the phone simultaneously. And that’s without using magic. Imagine if she did—her clients would all have sunny, turbulence-free vacations. She’s crazy for not using it. What’s the point? Why not? Why not be happy? Why not have a perfect life?

  When she was married to my dad, she used to take better care of herself. She used to get manicures and visit the hair salon. Now that she’s so busy working, she seems to have decided that she’d rather spend the energy on her new agency, and on us of course, rather than on what she looks like. But why shouldn’t she have it all? “Mom,” I blurt out, “why not use your magic to have great hair?”

  “Why are there black smudges all over my kitchen walls?” she asks.

  “Tigger’s been acting up.”

  Tigger meows, wraps his body around my leg, and tries to bite me. Bet you wish you were still life-sized so you could tell on me, big sis (or evil nemesis of my great-grandmother).

  “Bad Tigger,” my mother scolds, waving the wooden spoon at him. “Will you clean him off? He must have stepped into mud on the stairwell. And I told you,” she says, and waves the wooden spoon at me, “magic isn’t a game, Rachel. I won’t use it unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  You’d think saving her marriage to my dad would have been absolutely necessary, wouldn’t you? Maybe it’s minor in the grand scheme of witchcraft, but still. You’d better believe I would have kept him around. (And poofed him up some hair and clothes from this decade.)

  I open my mouth to tell her what a mess she’s made of our lives, but then close it. Because it seems kind of stupid. Why am I angry at her when my dad’s the one who left? Because she could have stopped him and she didn’t? It’s his fault. He should have stopped himself from leaving.

  I pick Tigger up and carry him to the bathroom. He starts circling the sink as I turn on the water. Cats hate water, right? Not Tigger. He’ll jump into the toilet bowl if it’s open. He’s also been known to dig his teeth into the end of the toilet paper and make a run for it, tee-peeing the living room, kitchen, and all three bedrooms.

  I know I keep joking that he used to be human and female, but it might be true. What if Mom meant to put a prosperity spell on us, and it went horribly wrong? Maybe tee-peeing our apartment is her—now his— revenge. What if Miri’s currently unknown popularity spell goes wrong? What if I become Tigger’s feline emasculated pal?

  I take a deep breath to calm myself down. That’s what we learned in gym today—deep breathing. Miri won’t screw up. Inhale. She won’t. Exhale. The yoga’s not working. I bet the technique is only for people living in rural areas with fresh air.

  I wash Tigger’s already clean paws (thankfully my mother didn’t check them) in the sink, then let him down. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he lunges for the toilet paper, bites into the end, and makes a run for it out the door. Stupid cat.

  I hope my younger sister has more sense than my older one.

  7

  TWO BOYS ARE BETTER THAN ONE

  A week later, I’m in the middle of a truly fantastic dream in which Mick and Raf are fighting over me at Spring Fling, in a Matrix-y slow-motion battle with lots of 360 turns and backflips, when I feel a poking in my cheek.

  I open one eye. Miri is hovering over me, shoving her index finger into my face. I close the eye. “Do you mind?”

  “Trying to wake you,” she whispers.

  No kidding. I open the eye and see that the clock says 5:07. 5:07! Did she bump her head on a cauldron? “Why are you waking me at five-oh-seven?”

  “Here, take this,” she says, and shoves something into my mouth.

  I sit up, suddenly energized. “Is that my popularity potion?”

  “No. A breath mint.”

  Humph. “If you don’t like my morning breath, don’t wake me in the morning. Or in this case, the middle of the night.”

  “Do you want me to make you a spell or not?”

  Yum, peppermint. “So, lay it on me. W
hat did you find?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ll be able to do a popularity spell.”

  “What? You promised!” I kick my comforter off and sling my feet over the side of the bed. What kind of witch is she? She can’t do an anti-love spell, and she can’t do a popularity spell. She can’t even do a spell that will take care of chores—why else would she have to make that deal with me? What good is being a witch if she can’t do anything fun? “I don’t appreciate you waking me in the middle of the night for no reason except to give me more under-eye circles.”

  Miri takes a step back and pouts. “It’s not my fault. There is a popularity spell, sort of, and it’s only two brooms, but it would need me putting dried cinnamon into the entire student body’s water supply. I don’t have a clue how to do that.”

  “That does sound tricky,” I admit, scooting over. Miri sits down next to me.

  “We don’t want to get caught putting anything in the Manhattan water supply.”

  “True.” I sigh with disappointment. “So what now? Nothing?” Are my dreams over?

  “That’s the best way for mass popularity. The other way is to collect hairs or nail clippings from everyone in the school—”

  “Seems unlikely.” I can’t see myself running through the halls with hair and nail scissors. Unless I opened up a makeshift salon in the cafeteria and offered free manicures and haircuts. As if people would let me near them with scissors. Anyone who went to middle school with me would remember the time Jewel and I decided to get rid of our bangs and I played barber. Not a pretty sight. “There must be another way.”

  “I found a love spell, if you want to try that instead.”

  Now we’re thinking. “Tell me more.”

  “It’s only three brooms. And all I’d need are a few minor ingredients.”

  That could so work! Awesome! If Mick or Raf falls for me, not only will one of the Loves of My Life be my boyfriend, but I’ll become A-list by default. Yes! “How long does it last?”

  “I’m not sure. A few months, tops.”

  “Maybe by the time it wears off, he’ll be madly in love with me, anyway. He’ll realize I’m smart and fun and cute and—”

  “Full of yourself?”

  Ha-ha. “By the time it wears off, at least I’ll be firmly rooted in the A-list.” This is an outstanding plan. Instead of becoming popular to have a boyfriend, I’ll get a boyfriend to become popular.

  I bounce on the bed and let out a scream.

  “Shhh,” Miri whispers, and tugs at my ankle. “Mom will kill us both if we wake her up. We were up really late last night doing my training.”

  “Oh yeah. How did that go?”

  “Great. Do you know that witchcraft has been around for over twenty-five thousand years? When there were cavemen, there were witches. Later this week we’re going to talk about the spread of witches across Mesopotamia and then Europe . . .”

  My eyelids start to feel like bricks, and I lie down. “You’re putting me back to sleep here.”

  “Sorry. Oh yeah, the reason I woke you up was to tell you that if you want to do a love spell, you have to buy some yogurt and borrow something that belongs to your guy. Like a piece of clothing.”

  Oh, is that all? “How am I going to do that?”

  She shrugs and climbs in beside me. I move over so she can share my pillow.

  “Tell him you’re cold and ask to borrow his sweater,” she says.

  Sweet, naive Miri. “Why, hello, Raf. Chilly today, isn’t it? Would you mind taking off that woolly sweater?” He’d think I was a psycho. Although . . . within a week he’d be in love with me anyway, so maybe it doesn’t matter. But a pencil would be easier. That I could swipe when he’s not paying attention. “Can it be a pencil? Or a notebook?”

  She sighs. “Rachel. What happened when you didn’t have the right ingredients to make chocolate brownies and you made them anyway? Remember when you used baking soda instead of flour? And they tasted like sawdust?”

  “True.” But has anyone eaten sawdust? For all we know, it’s delicious and tastes like brownies. Or not. “Guess we shouldn’t take chances on this first one.”

  “We don’t want to end up with the pencil falling in love with you. Or writing on you.” She giggles.

  I giggle too. “Or turning me into a pencil.” I do love the feeling of a newly sharpened number two poised over a math quiz, though.

  We pull the covers over our heads so we won’t wake our mother. I can’t believe I convinced Miri to put a love spell on anyone. She must be really antsy to test out her magic wings.

  At 7:02, I wake up freezing, with sunlight spearing my eyelids. I open one eye and see Miri waving her hands at my window, her eyes closed and her lips pursed.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. The left side of my blind is pulled up and the right side is hanging diagonally, still covering the window.

  “Using magic to open your blinds. But I screwed up and now one half is stuck.”

  She’s more antsy than I thought. She’d better figure out what she’s doing before it’s my turn to go under the wand.

  In homeroom, I vary the plan slightly. Why have just one boy fall in love with me when I can have two? If I can get my hands on clothing belonging to Mick and Raf, then they’ll both fall head over heels in love, and just like in my dream, they’ll fight over me. How romantic! I’ll open my locker and find two love notes. They’ll both want to help me with my coat, so I’ll let each of them remove one sleeve. Mick will piggyback me to class while Raf carries my books.

  When the bell rings, I hurry back to the second floor so I can stalk the boys and analyze their attire for something to steal. Raf’s locker is right by Mr. Silver’s classroom. I spot Raf’s handsome frame as he snaps his locker closed and heads to class. He’s wearing a blue button-down, jeans, a brown belt, and brown shoes. I nibble my lip. If he were wearing a sweatshirt, maybe he’d take it off, but a button-down? I don’t think so. And I can’t think of any reason he would take off his jeans or belt. Unless he has gym this afternoon. Yes, gym! I can break into the boys’ locker room after he’s changed and . . . I’ll get caught and the entire school will think I’m a perv. If only Miri could whip me up one of those Harry Potter invisibility cloaks. No, wait, I’ve got it! I can just borrow his gym clothes from his locker. Brilliant! All I need to do is catch him opening his locker and scope out his combination.

  I miss him after second and third periods, and then I finally spot him in action just before lunch. Freshmen and sophomores have lunch from eleven to eleven forty-five. Tell me, who’s hungry at eleven? It’s ridiculous. That’s why I’m looking forward to junior year. Not because I’ll get my license. Not because of prom. Because I can’t wait to eat at twelve like a normal person.

  Anyway, Janice, Annie Banks, and Sherry Dollan are congregating by Tammy’s locker. They all know each other from middle school, where they were a foursome. Now it’s Annie and Sherry, me and Tammy, and Janice is kind of on her own.

  “I’m starving,” Annie says, peering into her lunch bag. Annie is in our homeroom class, but always sits next to the door, because she supposedly has an extra small bladder and has to go to the bathroom at least once every class. She also has long brown hair and the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen. Honestly, they must be at least a triple-D. At the moment, she’s wearing a red turtleneck, and they look like two beach balls. If only she could share the wealth.

  Sherry’s in our English class and is Annie’s best friend. “Hi-ee girls!” she says now, while chewing a lock of her blond hair. “How is your day-ee?”

  Her tendency to add the sound ee to every word gets ver-ee annoying. And the fact that she sucks on her curls grosses me out. But she is very friendly and has decent opinions in class. So I try to overlook these things.

  I focus on Raf. All he has to do is move over a little and I’ll see his locker. Come on, Raf. Your wide manly shoulders are blocking my view! He snaps the lock open and I’ve missed my chanc
e. He puts on his jacket, gloves, and hat. Maybe he’ll drop a glove on his way out for lunch and then, presto, my work here is done.

  Raf goes out for lunch a lot. And it’s never with other fashion show people. He’s also friends with some football players and some sophomores who are in a band called Illuminated. Such random friends.

  Tammy and I never go out for lunch. We always eat with Annie, Sherry, and Janice in the cafeteria, on the left side of the room, fourth table from the back.

  Until I can sit with the A-list (table at the back near the window), this crew will have to do. Not that I’d drop Tammy. I would do my best to make sure she’d have a seat right beside me. Jewel on my left, Tammy on my right, and Raf and Mick directly across from me. A trapezoid of happiness.

  Raf manages to hold on to his gloves. And then the redheaded, ever-annoying Melissa blocks his path and whispers something to him. If only I had superhuman hearing. Is that too much to ask? One measly power?

  He says something, and Melissa points down the hall at three other A-list fashion show girls, who are buzzing around, manicured hands waving. In my steal-clothes excitement, I’ve missed whatever crisis is taking place in fashion show land. Last week the Eiffel Tower that the student set designers were building cracked in half and the cast members were all in a tizzy. The theme is Citygroove, which means that each number will feature a different city. According to Jewel, the Eiffel Tower is for the freshman and sophomore formal wear number. The song is “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge.

  I’m distracted again when Mick saunters through the hallway. He’s wearing jeans and an untucked sweater. I follow him so I can see better. He approaches his locker, places his fingers on the lock, slowly turns the dial . . . seven . . . twenty-two . . . eighteen . . . bingo!

  Seven, twenty-two, eighteen! Seven, twenty-two, eighteen. Seven, twenty-two, eighteen. Seven, twenty-two, eighteen. Why don’t I have a notepad to scribble this on? Seven, twenty-two, eighteen. I open my locker, rip out my geometry textbook, and write the combination on the cover.