Bras & Broomsticks

by Sarah Mlynowski

  “If he’s meeting Mom, it’s a date.”

  “He’s only meeting Mom because she’s on the way,” I clarify. Obviously, I don’t want him to meet my mom. It will not improve my chances of future kind-of dates.

  Miri pushes me out the door. “We can discuss this en route. We have a lot of shopping to do. Did you bring your Hanukkah money?”

  “Looooooong gone. I’ve bought shoes, jeans, makeup. . . . But I have twenty bucks on me from leftover allowance.”

  Miri blinks at me. “I have two hundred saved up from my birthday and the holidays.”

  How did she save two hundred? Oh, right. She borrows my stuff instead of purchasing her own.

  As soon as I lock the door behind me, I ask, “So where are we going? Some mystical secret market? Is there a Diagon Alley in New York like in Harry Potter? Will we have to ride the four and a half subway line?”

  “You’re being crazy again,” Miri says. “We’re going to the supermarket. And we’d better hurry, because Mom said she’d only be running errands for a few hours.”

  “The supermarket?” That is so uninspired.

  We enter the Food Emporium and push our cart down the aisle. “We should stock up,” Miri says, thinking out loud. “So I don’t have to keep stealing ingredients from Mom’s kitchen.”

  “What’s on your list?”

  “Almonds, apples, basil, butter, chamomile, cherries, chile peppers, garlic, ginger, honey, horseradish, lemon, mint, mustard, onions, salt, tomatoes, and yogurt.”

  Any more food and we’d have a buffet.

  “And maybe some mozzarella.”

  “Why? What spell is that for? Are you going to make us taller?” I start laughing. “Get it? Because it stretches?” Maybe I should be a comedienne.

  “Ha-ha.” She leans against the wall and almost knocks over a display of cereal that’s placed under a giant cardboard strawberry. What is it these days with the dried fruit in cereal? Are we astronauts? Too lazy to cut up our own fruit? “No,” Miri says after she catches her balance. “I’m in the mood for pizza. And Mom might be suspicious about why we went to the grocery store. If we make dinner, she won’t grill us. Following?”

  “Like our offering to make dinner won’t be suspicious?”

  She casts me an accusatory look. “You offering to make dinner would be suspicious, not me.”

  “You are so very clever,” I say, and throw a candy bar into the cart. Yum.

  “Don’t get that,” Miri says. “The manufacturer makes South American children work in sweatshops.”

  I almost take it out. But really, would one little candy bar make a difference? Bet Mir got that from some conspiracy theory Web site anyway.

  “Let’s get some bath salts for Mom,” Miri says. “Maybe she’ll like them. And maybe we’ll need them.”

  I pick up the honey and the almonds. “So tell me, what do these things do? Honey makes you sweet? Almonds make you nuts?”

  “All these herbs and foods and, um . . . condiments have magical properties. They send vibrations into the cosmos when combined with my raw will and the spell.”

  “I have no idea what you just said.”

  “You know how a smell will make you feel a certain way?”

  Like Raf’s smell. Yum. “Yeah.”

  “It’s the same thing. The spell, the ingredients, and my power all work together to make what I wish for happen.”

  “Cool.” I push the cart down the frozen food aisle. “But why does it get cold whenever you do magic?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe the energy in the room is being sucked into the spell?”

  “Can everyone feel the temperature change? Or maybe just other witches?” I ask hopefully.

  “Everyone. That’s why Mom says it’s especially dangerous to do spells in public.”

  “Oh.” We head toward the meat and poultry section. Wait a sec. “You said the spell works with the ingredients and your powers. But you made the lobster move without a single word.”

  “But I didn’t have any control over what I did. These spells allow me to be in control of what I wish for.”

  I hurry her toward the baking aisle, away from the dead animals, just in case. “So what do spices do?”

  “Well, chamomile is a calmer. Salt is a cleanser. Garlic is a protector.”

  “What are we using for the truth spell?”

  “It’s easy. All we need for that are water, almonds, and a little mint to give it some kick. And there aren’t even any crazy fractions to confuse me.”

  “Kick?”

  “Yeah. Mint is an activator.”

  In the vegetable aisle I peruse the onions. Cipollini, Mayan, red, red pearl, white pearl, yellow, Maui. “Is there a specific type you had in mind?”

  She looks mildly afraid. “I don’t know. Can’t we just get a regular one?”

  “What’s a regular one?”

  She points at a beige one. “That looks like the kind Mom uses.”

  I toss it into the cart as though it’s a basketball. Score! “Hey, any ingredients we can add to make me irresistible tonight?”

  She shakes her head over the shopping cart. “Don’t you want him to like you for you, and not because of a spell?”

  “You’re the one who made him call me.”

  “No, I did not. I would never do that. It wouldn’t be right.”

  Wouldn’t be right unless I agreed to set the table for a whole year, I think, but refrain from saying. I wouldn’t want her to get mortally insulted and accidentally-on-purpose sabotage my date tonight.

  “Besides, you’re already irresistible,” she adds, making me smile. “I’m just a beginner at all this hocus-pocus, remember? Why risk what you already have?” She pushes the cart toward the condiments.

  I plop a container of yogurt into the cart. “I already know Raf likes me for me. He asked me out, didn’t he?”

  Although, before I got into the fashion show, he’d never even talked to me. If Miri hadn’t cast that dancing spell, I’d be watching TV tonight with Tammy.

  So what? Maybe sometimes love needs to be kick-started. You know, laced with a little mint.

  “I can’t believe you girls made dinner!” my mother exclaims, swallowing another mouthful of pizza. While we were at the grocery store, we also picked up pizza crust, lettuce, and a loaf of French bread. Are we not the best daughters ever? “I might put you two girls in charge of cooking once a week. Who knew? How much did all this cost?”

  “Only fifteen dollars,” Miri says. The pizza stuff alone came to fourteen. The rest of the bill came closer to fifty. The nonperishables are hidden in Miri’s closet, and the fruits are buried behind larger items in the fridge.

  “Well, dinner shouldn’t be coming out of your allowance.” She reaches into her wallet. “Here’s a twenty.”

  Maybe that’s how Miri still has so much money. Our mother is lining her pockets. I have to give my sister credit. It was a pretty good idea and the pizza is tasty. Except for the sunflower seeds she for some reason thought would make a good topping. I keep piling them onto my napkin.

  “Rachel, Tammy called.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I’m dying to tell her about my date. She’s going to freak. But spilling the boy beans means I have to come clean about Mick’s party, and how can I do that without looking like the World’s Worst Friend?

  I’ll deal with it on Monday. I’ll call Jewel instead.

  “Girls, I’ll do the dishes. Rachel, you go get ready for your date.” She does a big freakish wink. It’s weird; when she winks, her open eye doesn’t move at all. Most people’s eyes widen, but not my mom’s. Creepy. She’s pretty excited about this milestone occasion. Ever since I told her, she’s been winking and patting my head. Could be worse. She could have said that I couldn’t go, or that I was too young to date or something lame like that. I wouldn’t have put it past her.

  “It’s not a date, Mom.” Even though he’s picking me up and not meeting me somewhere, he never used the word date
. So my mom can’t either.

  “Sorry, your quasi date.” She gives me another one of her freakish winks. “Do I get to meet this quasi date?”

  “Not if I can help it. I know this is my first quasi date, but let’s try to keep it low key.”

  “Does that mean no pictures?” Miri asks, exposing the pizza in her mouth.

  “Ha-ha. Video camera only.” And then, just in case either of them takes me seriously, I clarify, “No camera.”

  “Is he paying for the tickets?” Mom asks.

  “What difference does it make?”

  She scrapes a piece of cheese off her plate with her fork and deposits it in her mouth. “If he’s paying, then it’s a real date.”

  “What are you from, the nineteen fifties? Guys don’t pay for dates anymore.”

  “Yes, they do,” she says stubbornly.

  “I’d hardly qualify you as a dating expert, Mom. Anyway, the tickets are comps, meaning he didn’t pay for them. What are you two doing tonight?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. I’m nervous enough without the inquisition.

  “Continuing with Miri’s training,” Mom says, scratching another piece of cheese with her fork. “We’re almost done with the history of magic.”

  Miri’s eyes light up like two candles. “So, we’re going to start practical magic now?”

  Mom quickly shakes her head. “No. Not yet. Next we’re learning about consequences and ethics. Don’t worry. You’ll get to use real magic eventually.”

  Miri almost chokes on a piece of pizza. If Mom only knew.

  “I’m going to get ready,” I say, and push back my chair.

  My mom makes smooching noises. “Do you think he’ll kiss you at the end of this quasi date?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I say, and run off to shower before they see how red my cheeks are. If I had one wish, it would be for him to kiss me. No, I take that back. If I had one wish, I’d wish for him to ask me to Spring Fling.

  I turn on the hot water and step under it. It feels amazing. You get so much more pleasure from a shower when you do it at night rather than first thing in the morning, when you’re half-asleep and would rather be in bed. Today I think I’ll even shampoo twice, just like the bottle suggests.

  I know my evening plans are causing mucho excitement around here, but that’s because no one has gone on a date in two years. After the divorce Mom went out with a slew of men who she met through work (not that I met any of them—she only dated on the weekends when we were at my dad’s, but I saw their names on caller ID), but she didn’t like any of them. Eventually, they stopped calling.

  The truth is, I think she still has a thing for my dad.

  She kept his shirt. It was his comfy sweatshirt, the gray one with the soft worn-in neck and blue pen stain on the sleeve. The one he’d wear when we all hung out and watched TV. That was before he made partner and worked all the time.

  I asked my mom if she’d seen it, but she said no. And then, a year later, when I woke up at seven one morning and couldn’t fall back asleep, I sneaked into my mother’s room to borrow a romance novel and saw her sleeping with it cuddled in her arms. Not wearing it. Just . . . holding it.

  I went back to my bed and cried myself to sleep. Being in love with someone, marrying him, having two kids with him, and then being abandoned by him has to be the most tragic thing ever. He started dating STB only six months after he left, before the divorce was even final, but sometimes I wonder if maybe she was in the picture a wee bit earlier than he likes to admit. Like maybe while he was still living here. Maybe that’s why he “didn’t feel the same.” Who knows?

  I would have thought my mom would hate him, but she never says one bad word about him. Ever. She just cuddles with his sweatshirt. I’m hoping she’s washing it occasionally for hygienic reasons, but it’s really none of my business.

  By 7:20, I’m all dolled up. I’m wearing my second-best pair of jeans (sucks that I wore my best pair last night) and a green shirt that hopefully accentuates my eyes.

  At 7:25, Raf buzzes up.

  “Your quasi date is here!” my mother yells from the living room.

  “Can you please stop saying that?” I yell back.

  Two seconds later he rings the doorbell, and I run to greet him before my mother can. Unfortunately, both my mom and sister instantly appear behind me in the hall. How did they get here so fast? Did they beam themselves over? I’ll have to keep a closer eye on those two.

  I open the door. Raf smiles. He looks so cute. He’s wearing jeans, the same jeans as yesterday, I think—wish I could go put on my yesterday’s pair—and his black wool coat.

  I love him.

  I wish my mother did have her camera with her. I’d blow up the picture and hang it on my wall.

  “Hi, Rachel,” he says. “Hello, Mrs. Weinstein.”

  I almost laugh at the sound of Mrs. Weinstein. No one calls her that.

  “Please call me Carol,” Mom says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “And this is my sister, Miri,” I say, motioning to her.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says.

  Super. We’re all happy to meet each other. Now, with the boring pleasantries out of the way, maybe I can go on my quasi date. “Be home twelve-ish,” I say, and before anyone else can speak, I wave good-bye and close the door behind me. I catch my mom winking at me, and I think Raf does too.

  I’m trying telepathically to tell him to hold my hand, but it’s not working. His A-list friends Ron, Justin (he’s one of the sophomores in the band Illuminated), and Doree (what’s she doing here?) are waiting for us outside Irving Plaza.

  “Hey, Rachel!” Doree sings, linking her arm through mine. “Isn’t this awesome? Justin and I just started going out on Wednesday,” she whispers. “I’m so happy Raf asked you. Now we can double.” I hope Doree doesn’t raise her hand during the concert.

  Raf takes out our tickets and hands them to the bouncer, who proceeds to brand us with green we’reunderage-so-don’t-sell-us-booze bracelets.

  We push through the crowd and squeeze as close as possible to the front. Doree’s influence, obviously. By the time the band members appear, we’re only a few feet back from the stage.

  The lights turn off and Robert Crowne’s voice yells, “Hello, New York!”

  The lights flick on and there he is, Robert Crowne, only a few feet in front of me. Omigod. I can’t believe I’m here. At a sold-out concert for Robert Crowne. There’s no way I’m dreaming this time—it’s way too loud.

  The lights are low and a rainbow of primary colors washes over the room. Raf starts singing with the music. Justin plays his imaginary guitar, and Doree, shocker, waves her hands in the air to the music.

  I can’t help myself. I start to dance. The music, the crowd, the company . . . the gorgeous dark-haired Robert Crowne on stage. He’s wearing black leather pants and a long-sleeve silver shirt (I bet he’s boiling) and is moving all over the stage. He looks just as sexy as he does on TV. Everything feels perfect. Who knew having rhythm could be so much fun? I spend the next two songs letting my body connect with the music. And then I remember Raf, and I look up, and he’s watching me, and suddenly we’re dancing together. No twirls or dips or anything like that, but just moving and flirting and having a blast.

  “You’re an amazing dancer!” he yells over the sound of the electric guitar.

  “Thank you!” I yell back.

  “Listen, I was thinking . . . Do you want to go to Spring Fling with me?”

  Bull’s-eye! “I’d love to,” I say, and smile at him. He smiles back at me.

  Now, that’s a date. And not a quasi date. A 100 percent pure-date date.

  15

  GETTING ’TUDE FROM TAMMY

  “Weren’t you at your dad’s last weekend?” Tammy asks.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, pretending to be preoccupied with the contents of my locker.

  “So what happened to you this weekend? I called you a gazillion times.” She looks genui
nely confused. The fact that she doesn’t even consider I blew her off makes me feel like a piece of gum on my shoe. (Can someone explain why there are so many pieces of gum on the ground? What reason could one possibly have for spitting his gum onto the sidewalk? Are people so lazy that they can’t wait till they reach a garbage can?)

  “Sorry. It was just one of those weekends,” I say, desperately racking my brain for something to distract her. Maybe I should pretend slip? Or dump my pencil case onto the floor? Brainstorm! “I have awesome news!”

  She leans against her locker and gives me an OK sign. “Yeah? What?”

  Operation Distract Tammy successful! Hmm. Now, how do I tell her the good news without mentioning my weekend? I don’t want to get into a discussion about Friday since I probably should have invited her, so I’m going to dive right into the awesome part. I motion to her to follow me into the girls’ bathroom. I don’t want to hyperventilate in front of everyone. When the door swings closed behind us, I gush, “Raf asked me to Spring Fling!”

  Since Tammy is well aware of my Raf/Mick obsession, I expect her to jump up and down in delight. Or at least smile.

  Instead she shakes her head and looks at me as if I’ve just told her my mother is a Martian (which truthfully wouldn’t be so far off since she’s a witch, but whatever). “Are you crazy?” she asks. “You can’t go to Spring Fling.”

  “Why?” What’s her problem? I turn the water on, wet my fingers, then run them through my hair.

  “Hello? Your dad’s wedding is on the same night.”

  Oops. I forgot about that tiny snag. But still, that doesn’t mean Tammy has to thunderstorm all over my parade. Maybe she’s jealous that I have a date and she doesn’t.

  I see her concerned face in the mirror, eyes wide, slight overbite piercing into lower lip, and I realize what an idiot I am. Tammy isn’t jealous. She’s just stating the obvious. She got an invitation to the wedding, after all.

  She doesn’t know about Miri’s new talent or our secret plan, so of course she thinks I have to go to the wedding. “I guess I was so excited that he asked me, I forgot it was on the same night,” I offer as explanation.