“Where are we going?” Miri asks, opening the passenger door. “You know you don’t know how to drive, right?”
I fasten my seat belt. “Back to Long Island?”
She starts biting her fingers.
“I’m kidding! I thought we would just spin around the field. How hard can it be? Millions of morons do it.” Now if I can only figure out how to start the engine.
“Put the key in the ignition,” Miri advises.
Obviously. I lean toward the ignition and insert the key. Done. Still not on. “Do you think it’s broken?”
She laughs. “You have to turn it.”
Right. I turn the key and the car roars to life. Fun! Now, let’s see. Hit the gas? How do I know which is the gas? I press down my right foot. The engine revs but nothing happens. “It must be broken,” I say, deflated.
“I think you’re the moron,” Miri says, still laughing. “You have to take the car out of park. Put your foot on the other pedal.” I do as I’m told. “Now move your foot back to the first pedal. Gently. I said, gently!”
We tear a few feet forward before I slam on the brakes. Yikes. “I declare the car working!” We check the reverse, the air-conditioning, the heating, the windshield wipers, the convertible top, the power seats and windows, and of course the CD player. Céline Dion’s voice blares from the speakers.
“It’s perfect!” Miri says. “And it smells so new and leathery. Just like Jennifer’s car. Too bad she already bought hers, or we could have made her one for free.”
“Oh, how you’ve grown, little tricycle,” I say, like a proud parent.
We get out of the car, taking the keys with us. (I’ll leave them in the student council lounge on Monday morning.)
“Perfect,” Miri says. “Let’s get back to Long Island.”
I climb on her back, and away we go.
“It’s gone! It’s gone! We have to call the police!”
That’s what wakes me up the next morning.
Miri and I both jump out of bed and run to the two-car garage, which is where my dad, Jennifer, and Prissy are standing.
My father’s car is still there. But in the spot where Jennifer’s car used to be is my old tricycle. At least, I think it’s my old tricycle. It looks exactly the same except it’s . . . silver?
Tears are streaming down Jennifer’s cheeks, and her hands are flailing above her head hysterically. “Someone stole my car! Right out of ”—she lets out a loud wail— “my garage!”
My eyes lock with Miri’s. This is not looking good. If my bike is here and Jennifer’s car is gone, does that mean that on the school baseball field is Jennifer’s car?
“Did anyone hear anything last night?” my dad asks, scratching the bald spot on his head.
“No,” Miri and I say simultaneously.
Jennifer sobs, shaking her head.
“I did!” Prissy chirps. “It was after I climbed into your bed, and you were both sleeping. There was a noise, and I tried to wake you up, but, Mommy, you told me I was being a big baby and I should go to sleep. When am I going to camp?”
“I’m calling the police,” my dad says.
“At least I hadn’t put a car seat in yet,” Jennifer says.
“Was anything else in the car?” Dad asks.
“Just my Céline Dion CD,” she sobs. “I love that CD.”
It’s official. We stole our stepmother’s car. And to add insult to injury, the spell reversed the colors.
Miri and I retreat back into our room as our father files a complaint.
“I knew it looked like her car,” Miri says.
“How did that happen?” I murmur. “We have to transport ourselves back to school right away and switch it. Now.”
“We can’t disappear in the middle of the day,” Miri says. “Don’t you think Dad will wonder where we are?”
“So we’ll tell him we have to go home. Now. I’ll pack up. You tell Dad that you forgot about an assignment due tomorrow and you have to get back to the city. And that I’ve offered to go home with you. Go.”
Six hours later, we’ve taken the train back to the city (Dad insisted on making sure we were on), stopped at the apartment for the spell reversal, snuck back onto the school baseball field, and reversed the spell. By the time the police arrived at my dad’s, the car was back in their garage, causing, I’m sure, much confusion.
The thing is, it’s Jennifer’s car—they could tell by the serial numbers—but it’s still canary yellow.
“I kind of like it this way,” Jennifer said.
I didn’t dare ask about the tricycle.
At the moment I’m pacing up and down my room. I failed. All I had to do to save the prom was come up with something to auction off, and I have nothing. And now we won’t make enough money on Monday and Will is going to lose his deposits and there won’t be a prom and it’s all my fault.
But that’s not what’s bothering me the most. What’s scratching at my brain is how Jennifer’s car ended up at JFK. Isn’t magic creating something from scratch? What about all the other stuff we zapped up? Like the oranges?
I pace right into Miri’s disaster of a room. “Have we been stealing?” I ask.
She continues writing without looking up. “I screwed up a spell. Get over it.”
“Nothing comes from nothing, you know? Remember when you zapped the cows to safety? And they ended up in the gym? If everything has to go somewhere, it’s only logical that it has to come from somewhere.”
She adamantly shakes her head. “You’re wrong. Can you stop wasting my time, please? I have real people to help. Starving people.” And with that, she stands up, pushes me out of her room, and slams the door in my face.
I turn on my computer. I type orange shortage into the search engine. Two hundred and thirty thousand hits.
I click on the most recent. Maybe no one would notice a few oranges missing.
“Tristate Grocery Stores Missing Fruit.” Oh, no. It’s dated Saturday, April 24. The same day we zapped up the oranges. How weird. And reportedly, all the crates of oranges in the tristate area inexplicably went missing. Did we cause the shortage? I feel sick to my stomach.
Funny that the oranges went missing from the stores and not a grove. Maybe because Miri’s an urban witch?
What about the clothes we gave away?
I type in clothing disappearance and am horrified to read that after a hundred shirts disappeared from Bloomingdale’s Soho on Saturday, May 1, a staff member was fired, even though she claimed she hadn’t taken them.
Is magic just stealing from someone else?
If I went to Circuit City, would a salesperson tell me that a fifty-inch wide-screen TV had disappeared one day and then reappeared shortly after?
Instead of saving the day, are we taking from the rich to give to the poor? Are we not Batman and Robin, but Robin Hood and a merry man?
15
Going Once, Going Twice, Going Fourteen Thousand Times
I am hiding in the student council closet.
The first bell just rang and there’s no way I can be seen in the hallway, because then everyone will ask me where my TV is and I will have to admit failure. Admit that there is no TV. No car, no anything. I have nothing to auction off. Will is going to dump me, spell or no spell. We’re going to raise only a measly few hundred dollars, and Will is going to lose his deposit and be known as the worst JFK soc president ever. And I’ll be known as the worst girlfriend ever. No wonder I’ve never had a boyfriend before. I am a hazard to men.
He will probably be so upset that he’ll need to spend some time rethinking his life, and he’ll put off going to college for an entire semester. And in that time he’ll get some random job. Like as a limo driver. Every day he’ll pass the Columbia campus and feel a heaviness in his heart, and then one day he’ll pick up some crazy client who will yell at him for no reason, and he’ll get distracted and veer into a pole and then spin the other way, drive straight off the Brooklyn Bridge, and plunge to h
is death.
Sob. I’ve killed my boyfriend.
I came in early today with the hope of being inspired by the donations. Unfortunately, the donations are thousands short of true inspiration. If only we could auction off broom rides. Although, after what I discovered on Sunday, I’m not sure I ever want to use magic again.
I stiffen at the sound of the door opening. Clomp, clomp, clomp. I’m about to be found out. Discovered. The person is opening the closet. He/she must smell my desperation. The light spears my eyes and I blink twice.
“What are you doing here?” asks Kat. “What’s wrong?”
Terrific. She’ll expose me to Will as a complete fraud and he’ll dump me. I know she’s always acted nice, but surely she’ll use my failure to her advantage. Before I can stop myself, I burst into tears. “I don’t have the TV!” I snivel. “I have nothing to sell. The auction is going to be a big flop and it’s all my fault.”
Kat’s creamy vanilla forehead wrinkles in concern. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t put the cows in the gym.”
I hiccup. Little does she know. “But I promised Will I would have something to auction off.”
She climbs into the cupboard beside me. “Let’s brainstorm. What do you have that’s sellable?”
Doesn’t she listen? “Nothing, that’s the problem.”
She pulls her purple pen out from behind her ear and taps it against the closet. “Aren’t you a math genius? Exams are coming up. Why don’t you sell blocks of tutorial time?”
Well.
Why, that’s a good idea. I could tutor. I realize something else: there are lots of smarties at JFK. I’m not the only one. What about help in essay writing? Biology? My heart races with excitement. “We can ask all the smart people to auction off tutoring!”
“There you go,” Kat says, smiling. “Problem solved.”
My mind is whirling. “And not only tutoring. There are a million things we can auction off. Like . . . a date with the hottest senior?”
Kat’s pen is tapping in overtime. “Locker cleaning? Slave for a day? Tennis lessons?”
I reach over and give her a big hug. “You’re a genius!”
She backs her way out of the closet. “I’m going to beg Konch to let us take the morning to prepare. You start making a list of all the services.” She tosses me her pen. “Let’s hope this works.”
I’m already scribbling as the final bell rings.
“I can’t believe she said no,” Tammy says, shaking her head. “We’re trying to save her prom!”
“She’s horrible. What did you expect?” I ask.
It’s freshman lunch, and Tammy and I are washing our hands in the girls’ bathroom before returning to the lounge. London has refused to auction off dance lessons. And it’s not because she can’t—her cast came off at the beginning of last week—it’s because she just doesn’t feel like it. (Who knows? Maybe she doesn’t have a date!) Not that it matters; we’ve lined up fifty students who are willing to volunteer their services.
We’re so busy complaining about London that we barely even notice Jewel, Melissa, and Doree spilling into the bathroom.
You know what? I’m no longer afraid of them. In fact . . . “Guys,” I say bravely, “I have a favor to ask you.”
The three of them freeze in shock. “What?” Melissa snarls, crossing her arms.
“I was wondering if you three, and Stephy, would be willing to be part of the senior auction today and sell a dance lesson. Since you four were so good in the show. What do you say? We would really appreciate it.”
Tammy, Doree, Jewel, and Melissa are all looking at me as though I should be institutionalized.
Melissa shakes her head. “Have you not noticed that Stephy hasn’t been here for, like, a month?”
Oh. Not really. I lean against the sink. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Duh,” Doree says. “She has mono.”
Tammy snaps to attention. “She does?”
Melissa gives her evil grin. “Yup. She got it from your boyfriend. They had a little make-out session over spring break.”
“What?” Tammy and I both scream.
“Sorry to be the one to break it to you.” She smirks. “But your boyfriend’s a cheater.”
At first Tammy doesn’t speak. Her lips form a shocked O.
“You’re not going to start crying, are you?” Melissa says, thoroughly enjoying this.
Tammy’s O slowly turns into a huge smile. “Fantastic! He’s so history!”
I laugh. Melissa, Jewel, and Doree give each other a what-weirdos! look.
“So how about the three of you, then?” I ask. Might as well.
Melissa tosses her long red hair behind her back. “As if.”
Oh well. Didn’t hurt to ask. I shrug and am about to head out the door when I hear: “I’ll do it.”
I turn back and realize that it was Jewel. She’s looking me right in the eye. “You will?” I ask. My heart skips a beat. Is it possible? Is this Jewel’s way of . . . making amends?
Doree and Melissa are scowling at her.
“Yeah,” she says, smiling hopefully at me. “Why not?”
“Sixty, do-we-have-a-sixty-five? Sixty-five to the young man in the red sweatshirt. Do-we-have-a-seventy?” says Jeffrey. I’ve never seen an auctioneer, but I bet Jeffrey is the best one ever. Who even knew he could talk?
The auditorium is packed with students, teachers, and parents. We’ve raised more than eight thousand dollars so far, which is great but not nearly enough. We’ve gone through most of the items—clothes, books, CDs, picture frames, dinners. We’re almost done auctioning off the students’ services. Kat and I are sitting on plastic chairs offstage, keeping track of the income. Bosh and Tammy are suspiciously absent. I’m pretty sure they’re making out in the soc lounge. Right after we left the bathroom, Tammy found Aaron in the finally fixed cafeteria and dumped him.
“Last call at seventy dollars for ten hours of biology tutoring? Come on, boys and girls, chemicals are confusing! If you fail bio, you’re not getting into a good college. Seventy to the guy with the goatee in the back row. Do-I-hear-seventy-five? Seventy-going-once-going-twice-going-three-times. Sold!”
Hah. My five hours of math tutoring went for eighty. Never mind. Jewel’s dance lessons went for two hundred.
Jeffrey holds the next item above his head. “Two prom tickets for nonseniors. Price starting at a hundred dollars for both. Do I hear a hundred?”
Where did those come from? Will must have slipped them in.
A sophomore raises her paddle.
Kat nudges me with her foot. “Maybe I should buy them,” she jokes.
“Do I hear a hundred and twenty? A hundred and twenty to the girl in the back! Do I hear a hundred and thirty?”
“You’re going to come for a bit, aren’t you?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I can only go if a senior asks me.”
“That’s insane. You worked on it all year. The prom wouldn’t be happening without you.”
She shrugs. “That’s the way it works. Don’t look so horrified,” she adds, giving me her big smile. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“A hundred and thirty. Do I hear a hundred and forty?”
“Buy the tickets!” I urge. “Then you can go.”
“I don’t have anyone to go with,” she says. “Really, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go next year.” Her head stays straight, but I can’t help noticing that her eyes trail to the other side of the stage—where Will is now standing, holding four jackets.
I feel a dipping in my stomach. Will would have asked Kat if it weren’t for Miri’s love spell. As with the oranges, and the clothes, and the car, I stole his affection.
“Sold for three hundred dollars to the pretty redhead!”
My head snaps up at the word redhead. I peer out from behind the curtain to see who’s cheering. Melissa. Groan. Melissa is going to prom? That means Raf will be at prom too.
“Maybe the four of y
ou can double,” Kat offers.
Double groan.
“Next up, donated by the generous Kosravis from Kosa Coats and Goods, we have classic men’s high-grade leather jackets, in the color camel, sizes small, medium, large, and extra large. Retail value six hundred and thirty-five dollars each. We’re starting off with size small. Do I hear a hundred?”
My heart lurches. Now I’ll be thinking I’m seeing Raf everywhere. Definitely a potential problem.
But not the only problem. Will’s jackets are our last items. That means that after these products, we’re out of loot to auction off. And we’ve raised only ten thousand dollars. We’re still four thousand dollars short! Even if the coats earn their retail value, that’s only two thousand five hundred and forty dollars!
I watch with a sinking feeling as the size small goes for four hundred and fifty, the medium and large go for six hundred apiece, and the extra large goes to Mr. Earls for only three hundred fifty. We’re two thousand dollars short.
We didn’t make it. After all that, we’re still going to have to cancel prom.
I’m about to cry when Will walks over to River with a final bag. More coats?
“And for our final item tonight, also from Kosa Coats & Goods, we have a brand-new limited edition Izzy Simpson leather hobo bag, retail value one thousand five hundred dollars.”
Yes! One more item to go! A gorgeous item, if I do say so myself. Izzy Simpson is my all-time favorite designer. Not that I would ever spend so much money on a bag. But if someone buys it, we’re almost saved.
“Bidding starts at five hundred! Do I have a bidder?”
At this point, both Kat and I have pushed the curtains aside and are eagerly watching to see if there are any buyers. Even I’m biting my nails. Come on, come on.
A paddle goes up from Ms. Hayward.
“Five hundred dollars to the math teacher in the front row. Do I see seven hundred? Come on, people, it’s for a good cause!”
Wow, go, Ms. H! Who knew she was a fashionista? You so wouldn’t be able to tell from her boring gray pants and sweaters.
Amy Koppela raises her paddle. So nice of her to show up.
Frogs & French Kisses Page 19
