Bras & Broomsticks

by Sarah Mlynowski

  If only puffy eyes were my one facial issue. The pimple I feel expanding on my nose is much, much worse than any under-eye circles. Circles can be concealed with makeup. A second nose cannot be masked. I fly (well, not fly exactly; I’m not the one with powers) out of bed to the mirror. My nose is one big red zit. Santa’s Gift has returned! Too bad none of the numbers tonight is set in the North Pole. I can’t believe that today, of all days, my nose is the color of a fire hydrant. The one day I’m going to be onstage in front of the entire school, in front of a thousand people. What am I going to do? I can’t have this pimple on my face during the fashion show! No one will be able to pay attention to the routines—they’ll be too distracted by my huge pimple. No, I take that back. No one will be able to see the routines because my pimple will block their view.

  Eureka! An idea!

  I knock twice on Miri’s door and then open it and tiptoe to her bed. Her mouth is open and her hair is fanned out over her pillow and she looks really young and sweet. I almost can’t bring myself to disturb her. Almost.

  I tap her on the shoulder. Repeatedly.

  She opens her right eye. “What?”

  “Look,” I say, full of desperation.

  She opens the other eye and grimaces. “How could you wake me with that horrific thing?”

  “Don’t joke. I need you to make the clear-skin spell.”

  She flips onto her stomach. “I don’t want to do any more magic.”

  “I know you said that yesterday, but please? Puhlease?” Don’t tell me she’s going to draw the line now. With this red lightbulb on my nose.

  “It’s too early,” she whines.

  “Don’t make me rub it on you.”

  She shrieks and pulls the covers over her head.

  “My face is loaded and I’m not afraid to use it,” I threaten.

  “Okay, just don’t touch me. Step away from the bed.”

  I take five steps back, and she pulls the covers down to her shoulders, revealing a grin. Then she glances at the clock radio and moans, “It’s only six thirty!”

  “I know. But it’s a big day.”

  She rubs her eyes. “Let me find my notebook. Good thing we bought lemon juice and those salts for Mom.”

  It’s two thirty and I’m gorgeous. Pimpleless and gorgeous.

  Maybe gorgeous is a slight exaggeration, but I look good. Really good. Better than I’ve ever looked in my entire life.

  Sophie (a very tall, broad-shouldered hairdresser with bright fake-red hair and a face full of makeup, who might have been a man before he/she became a stylist) spent thirty minutes putting my hair in curlers. Then I sat under a heating lamp for another twenty minutes, giggling with Doree, who’s having her hair put into a tight bun. Melissa’s having her long red hair braided. Jewel is straightening hers. Stephy chopped her locks and now has a short bob to her chin and looks a bit like Tinker Bell.

  And just when I began to worry that my earlobes were melting, Sophie let me out and used a dozen curling irons and other unnamed contraptions to turn each strand of my hair into a perfect curled tendril. I am no longer an ocean head. I am more of a . . . mermaid enchantress.

  Then Natalie (who looks as if she could be Sophie’s twin sister/brother) tweezed my eyebrows, then spent forty minutes applying my makeup. I have cheekbones (who knew?)! My skin is flawlessly smooth, my brown eyes look huge and Bambi-esque (he/she used so much mascara that my lashes are almost touching my nose), and my lips look luscious, red and kissable. Like a delicious plum. Raf may not be able to wait for Spring Fling—he may spring and fling himself on my mouth during the Moulin Rouge formal for a taste.

  I can’t stop staring at myself in the many mirrors. Of course, when I stand too close to my reflection, I can see the four inches of foundation, which is a bit clownish. But from far? Gorgeous.

  “You girls look so hot,” London says, parading through the room in a white cotton bathrobe and white cardboard flip-flops. She and Mercedes are getting full-body treatments, including manicures, pedicures, and massages, courtesy of the salon.

  We’re done by six, two hours before the fashion show doors open, and the five of us hail a cab. The driver doesn’t want to squeeze us all in, but we beg and plead and try to look our cutest, and he tells us to hurry. Jewel climbs in first, then me, then Doree, and Stephy squishes onto our laps. Pouting, and bearing a striking resemblance to Pippi Longstocking, Melissa mopes as she gets into the front seat. “JFK High School,” she orders. “And drive carefully because we just had our hair done.”

  “It’s going to be awesome,” Doree says. “We’re going to be awesome.”

  “I can’t believe the show is today!” Stephy squeals. I expect her to start tossing pixie dust around.

  I can’t believe I’m here. In the cab with these four A-list girls, looking the best I have ever looked.

  “I’m so nervous,” Jewel shrieks. “I think I’m going to vomit.” The cabbie slams on his brakes to avoid hitting a pedestrian, and Jewel groans. “And this drive isn’t helping.”

  “Come on, everyone,” Doree screams. “Get excited. It’s going to be the best night of the year. Rachel, you gotta smile. They sold one thousand tickets. One thousand people are going to be watching us!”

  I give her a half smile. I should be feeling euphoric. This is everything I ever wanted. Isn’t it?

  The cabbie slams on his brakes and my knees slam into the divider. This time it’s not to avoid an accident. My stomach cartwheels into my throat. The moment has arrived.

  “We’re here! This is it!” Doree shouts, and we pile out. We enter the school through the auditorium door and find the rest of the cast lounging around the caf.

  Raf is sitting with Sean Washington and Will, eating pizza. He whistles when he sees me. That should cheer me up. He should cheer me up. He’s cool and smart and sexy and sweet, and he likes me. Maybe.

  I feel a nagging in the pit of my stomach. What’s wrong with me? This is supposed to be one of the best days of my life. Why am I being so gloomy and cynical?

  “Hey, Raf,” Will says, tousling his brother’s hair as I approach them. “Your Spring Fling date is smoking hot.”

  “Get your greasy pepperoni hands out of my hair,” Raf says, swatting him away. “Or I’m going to get Mom to throw tomatoes at you while you’re MC-ing. She’s in the front row, thanks to you.”

  Who’ll be in my reserved seats? My guess is that STB isn’t coming tonight. Or Prissy. After the rehearsal from hell, my dad might not make it either. I don’t even know where he is. Or where he spent last night. Maybe he moved back into Putter’s Place. I’m assuming Tammy isn’t going to use the seat I gave her either. Super. I’ll have four empty seats in my section. At least Mom and Miri will be here to cheer me on.

  I follow the other girls into the locker room to change. I can already hear the rustling of people in the auditorium, parents arriving early, chatty friends excited to see their classmates. One of London’s friends is standing guard at the auditorium’s back door, making sure that no one sneaks out into the hallway and to the locker rooms to see us before the show.

  Despite the designer clothes and freshly washed and sprayed hair, the locker room still smells like feet.

  “This is it,” Jewel says, stepping into her metallic pink strapless dress. I’m wearing an identical dress, but in metallic red. I zip up the back of her dress and tell her how awesome she looks. The dresses make us look more like we’re at a rave than singing at a 1920s jazz club, but whatever. The fact that the five of us are opening the entire show is cool.

  I pull up my skin-colored tights, then step into matching red metallic shoes and ask Jewel to zip me up. “Thanks,” I say, and spin around. “How do I look?”

  She starts at my feet and slowly looks up. “Amazing.” But then her gaze rests on my face, and she grimaces. “Uh-oh,” she says.

  “Uh-oh? What’s uh-oh?”

  “I think you need some more concealer. Or you might be having an allergic reac
tion to the makeup.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I have some concealer,” Doree offers, already in her metallic yellow outfit.

  I run into the connected bathroom to look in the mirror at what they’re all yammering about.

  Oh, no. It’s baaaaaaack.

  How is it possible that Santa’s Gift is making a come-back when I just used the clear spell on it this morning?

  “Excuse me,” I hear from outside. “You can’t go in there. You’re not one of the dancers.”

  “I have to talk to my sister,” pleads a voice. Miri? What is she doing back here? She’s not supposed to come backstage.

  The next thing I know, she’s inside the bathroom, gaping beside me in the mirror. Her face is pale, her lower lip trembling. “I have to talk to you,” she says. “I have to talk to you now.”

  “Apparently so.” I point at the hideousness on my nose. “What’s going on?”

  She looks around furtively, and despite us being alone by the sink, she gestures for me to follow her into a stall.

  I lock the door behind us. “What’s going on?” I ask over the toilet bowl. She’s starting to freak me out. “Did you hear from Dad?”

  She gnaws on her thumb. “Don’t get mad at me. It’s not my fault.”

  The roof of my mouth gets desert dry and I feel dizzy, but I have no desire to sit on the toilet seat while wearing my metallic red gown. “What are you talking about?”

  She chomps her thumb. After spitting a crumb of nail into the toilet bowl, she pours out the whole story. “Dad showed up when we were getting ready to come to the show. He said he wanted to go as a family. And then he started begging Mom to get back together with him. Claiming that he was so in love with her that he couldn’t see straight. Saying that he called off the wedding and that he wants to move back in. I was in my room getting changed and I heard the whole thing. And then Mom said she needed to think and she had a headache, and she went into the bathroom to get an aspirin. And here’s the thing. I think I kind of made a mess under the bathroom cupboard this morning with the sea salts, and I think she must have figured out that something was up.” Miri winces. “Um, I don’t think it helped that I left my spell observation notebook on the floor.”

  “Miri!” I scream. “I’m going to kill you!”

  “I know, I know, but I was tired and in a rush.” Tears spill down her cheeks. “First she saw the clear-skin spell. And then she must have seen the love spell, because she barged into my room. She motioned to the kitchen and demanded, ‘Did you do this?’ I had to tell her the truth, don’t you see? And not because of any truth spell, because I just had to! She ripped a piece of paper out of the notebook, licked it, and ripped it into a million shreds, then opened the window and tossed them outside, reciting some spell. Afterward she turned to me and said, ‘I’ve overruled every spell you have ever done.’ And then she yelled at me and told me I was irresponsible and asked me if you had been in on this too. I had to tell her. Then we went back to the kitchen. Dad was all pale and confused-looking and was pacing back and forth. And now we’re all here. In our seats. And Mom is all pissed off and Dad looks miserable and it’s really uncomfortable out there.”

  I feel sick. “So does this mean what I think it means?”

  She points to my nose. “None of the spells I cast work anymore. Not the clear-skin spell, not the Dad-in-love-with-Mom spell, not the high roundhouse kick spell, and not the—”

  “What high roundhouse kick?”

  “Oh, never mind that. But I’m really sorry. What are you going to do?”

  Wait one sec. Did she say none of the spells? “What about the dancing spell?” I yell.

  “Gone,” she says sadly.

  Omigod. I can’t breathe. Did this stall just shrink? I think I’m hyperventilating. I look at my watch. Ten of eight. “I have to find London,” I mumble. I unlock the door and run back to the locker room. “Has anyone seen London?” I squeak.

  No one pays any attention to me. They’re all too busy squealing and practicing last-minute moves. I can’t go on. London will have to understand. I hurry into the hallway.

  She’s standing at the door to the auditorium, reviewing her clipboard. “Ready?” she asks when she sees me.

  “I’m sorry, London, but I can’t do it. I’m sick. So very sorry. You’ll have to work around me.”

  Her eyes narrow, and she shakes her fist at me. “I don’t care if you’re dying, Rachel. Dying! You’re going up there.” She looks at her watch. “Now.”

  No way. “I can’t.”

  “You have to.” She digs her nails into my arm and drags me back to the locker room. “All freshman girls, on the stage, let’s go, the curtain opens with you.”

  “But, but—”

  “Shut up, Rachel. You are not going to screw this up for me, do you understand? You have stage fright. I had it my first year too. You’ll get over it as soon as the lights go on. You’ll be fine. You know the moves.”

  I take a deep breath. It’s true. I do know the moves. I’ve learned how to dance. I can remember how to do it. I look down at my red shoes. Maybe it’s like The Wizard of Oz. Maybe the magic has been in me all along. I just had to realize it for myself. Yes! I can do this! The magic is in me!

  Heart hammering, I follow London and the other girls backstage. The five of us get into our positions on the pitch-black Chicago set. I hear the roar of the crowd, a thousand people in their seats.

  I can do this.

  “Good luck, guys!” Doree whispers.

  And then the medley starts. The crowd screams again, the curtain pulls up, the spotlight shines.

  Showtime.

  21

  I’M SO GOING TO NEED TO BE HOME-SCHOOLED

  The music begins.

  “Go, girls!”

  “Looking good!”

  “Yeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

  The spotlight is beaming into my eyes, and I can’t see farther than the end of the stage.

  I can do this. I can so do this. I remember the moves. I lift my arm the way I’m supposed to, the way all the girls are doing, and I’m fine. Yes! I’m fine.

  Sort of. They’re about a half second ahead of me. Oh, no. I’m off a beat. Why can’t I catch up? It’s like I’m the girl in the choir who’s singing just a little louder and squeakier than everyone else.

  But as soon as I’m about to start panicking, our fivesecond segment is over, and the rest of the cast comes in and it doesn’t matter anymore.

  Phew. No one seems to have noticed my off-key rhythm. At least, I don’t think so, since no one comments.

  So far so good.

  The next dance I’m in is the freshman Vegas number, the one Melissa choreographed. After I change into my pink skirt suit, I move into my Siberia position and say a little prayer to Melissa, thanking her for sticking me in the back—way, way in the back, away from everyone else. I don’t have any complicated moves; all I have to do is pretend to deal cards, which I manage without looking like an idiot.

  So instead of worrying, I take a moment to peer into the audience. Even in the dim lighting, my reserved section isn’t hard to find, since it’s way up front, and more significant, it’s the only row with three empty chairs. The occupied seats are occupied by three of the most uncomfortable people I have ever seen. My mother is at one end, a ferociously livid expression on her face, her arms angrily crossed in front of her chest. On the other side is my dad, who can’t stop fidgeting and looks as if he’s counting the seconds to making a fast escape. Slumped between them, like droopy, week-old meat in a sandwich, is Miri.

  I try telepathically to tell my sister not to worry. I’ll be fine. I’m Dorothy, and the magic is within me. Yeah, right, as if that’s going to work.

  I change into my all-girls “Miami” outfit—designer velour sweat shorts, flip-flops, and a tank top. (I wasn’t one of the girls asked to sport a bikini top—thank goodness.) When Will introduces the freshman and sophomore all-girls dance, i
t’s full steam ahead! I can do this!

  The ten of us get into position. Go, Dorothy, go!

  The music starts.

  Five, six, seven, eight, left arm up, right arm up, twirl, groove, bend, kick ball . . . kick ball . . . kick ball what?

  Oh. Kick ball change. I forgot to change.

  Oh no oh no oh no. I’m on the wrong leg. Everyone’s kicking her right leg and I’m kicking my left. What do I do? I’m severely out of sync.

  Time for the Harlem shake. I know the Harlem shake. So why can’t my shoulders listen to my brain? Stop wobbling, shoulders! Time for a butt groove. . . . My butt is not grooving.

  I’m pretty sure I look as if I’m being electrocuted.

  Beaming colored lights are swirling around me, and now I don’t even remember what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m spinning and kicking the wrong way, and people in the audience are starting to snicker. Yes, snicker. How rude. At me. Because of how bad I suck. Jewel’s eyes widen when she realizes I’m on the wrong side of the stage and not strutting down the catwalk with her like I’m supposed to.

  She points her chin toward the T, trying to clue me in. Oh, no. I don’t want to go down the catwalk. While I’m doing the body wave, everyone’s gaze will be on little ol’ me. No pressure here. Argh. There is no way I should be doing the body wave in this condition, but I follow Jewel down the plank anyway. Do I have a choice? And then, there we are, each of us standing on the edge of the catwalk, doing the body wave. Except—I can’t do it. My body is just not waving. It’s spasming. Someone in the front row is wincing at the sight of me. With my luck it’s probably Raf’s mother. I won’t be invited for dinner anytime soon.

  “What’s wrong with you?” London says through her teeth when, finally, the torture is over and we’re backstage.

  “I told you I wasn’t feeling well,” I snarl back.

  “Take a Pepto and get over it! Now go change for the formal!”

  I avoid the other girls’ gazes as I put on my gorgeous Izzy dress. It can’t get much worse. Anyway, the formal is slow, and slow dancing is all about the sway. Anyone can sway, right?