Bras & Broomsticks (17 page)

“I have it too,” I say, which for some inexplicable reason just makes them laugh louder.

“Let’s see,” my dad says.

I stand over them and point to my nose. STB’s face has worsened. Her forehead is covered in pus. My father’s acne has spread to his bald spot.

“The pimple cream is in the medicine cabinet,” my dad offers.

As if that would work.

“We should call Harry,” STB says. Harry is my father’s friend who also happens to be a doctor. “In case it’s shingles or the chicken pox. Or measles.”

“I think those spread to your whole body and not just your face,” my father says. “But I guess I should call him.”

STB points to his blistering forehead and cracks up. They both start rolling on the bed, they’re laughing so hard. Why isn’t he repulsed and realizing how horrible she is? Apparently, like pimples, laughter is contagious. I back out of the room before I catch the latter, too, and run back to our room. We need a cure. Pronto.

I open the door to find Miri having a minor panic attack. A zit has appeared under her left eyebrow. I grab a paper bag from the kitchen and tell her to breathe into it so she won’t pass out.

Then I start reading the book. Fixing this is obviously up to me.

“Aha,” I say an hour later, when Miri’s cheeks have regained color. “There are two potential solutions. Spell reversal, or a new spell for clear skin.”

“Spell reversal,” she says, pacing the length of the room. “No need to throw another unknown into the mix. We could end up translucent.” She trips over the pants I wore yesterday and gives me a withering look. Then she hangs them up.

“The only problem with spell reversal is that it’s a five-broomer. If you can’t even handle an easy spell, how would you handle this one?”

Her face brightens. “I could call Mom.”

“Are you crazy? She’d freak!” She’d be furious about our plan to make STB ugly, and she’d demand to know what other spells Miri has concocted. I’d lose my rhythm for sure. “Keep Mom out of this.”

“Then I’ll do the clear-skin spell.” She lies on her bed, sticks her feet up against the wall. “Let me see the book.”

I pass it, lie down beside her, and cross my big foot over her tiny one. She sighs. “I don’t know about these ingredients. We need a teaspoon of salt from the sea, two-fourths of a cup of lemon juice, and five-fifteenths of a cup of milk. What is that?”

“A third of a cup,” I say smoothly.

Miri slams her hand against the book in exasperation. “Why can’t these ancient sorcerers just say what they mean?”

“Maybe it got screwed up in the translation.” Or maybe it’s the book’s master plan to get me to help my sister.

“But where are we going to find salt from the sea? Do you think Dad will take us to the beach?”

Brainstorm! “Remember before school started when I used STB’s mud mask and I got all pissed because it took off my tan?”

She nods.

“That was a Dead Sea mud mask. STB has a whole collection of beauty products from the Dead Sea, including salts. They’re in the back of the bathroom cupboard behind Dad’s Vi—” There’s probably no reason to share the Viagra finding with Miri. It freaked me out enough for the two of us. “Behind Dad’s vitamins. I’ll get the salts. And there are lemons in the white pottery bowl in the kitchen.”

Miri shakes her head and starts biting the skin on her pinky. “Rachel, those are fake. Haven’t you noticed they’ve been there for a year? And that they don’t smell?”

“Why would someone showcase fake lemons?”

“Why are there drawers in the kitchen that don’t open? Who knows? They have lemonade in the fridge. I guess that will have to do. And they must have milk.”

The skin on her pinky is bleeding. “They do, but since STB is lactose intolerant, it’s all Lactaid milk. Do you think that makes a difference?” I take a breath, then frown. “Can you please stop mutilating your fingers? It’s grossing me out.”

She looks at her hand. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

I throw her a tissue. “You’re lucky STB’s been too preoccupied to make you wear Band-Aids. Okay, let’s get Operation Clear Skin in motion.”

The doorbell rings, and we join the rest of the family downstairs.

“It’s not measles or shingles,” Harry says, scanning our faces. “It looks like acne. But I have no idea why all of you have it.”

STB swats Prissy’s hand away from her face, which is now covered as well. “Stop scratching, honey. You’re making it worse.”

Prissy looks the most ridiculous with her acne, but seems to mind the least. “They’re fun,” she says, poking her pimples. “I can play connect the dots. In school we sometimes play connect the dots. . . .”

I tune her out and watch Harry write us a prescription for a new medicine called Xonerate. “It should alleviate your symptoms by midweek.”

Midweek? This problem had better be history
tomorrow
. I can’t go to school like this.

Thirty-five minutes later, while my father and STB go to the pharmacy to fill the prescription (STB is wearing a baseball hat and large sunglasses as a disguise—I couldn’t believe she even went with my dad but she’s probably wanting to get out of spending any extra time with the two of us), Miri cleans the beaker with boiling water, as the spell book directs. Then, in the bathroom—Miri by the sink, me on the rim of the tub—she mixes the lemonade with the lactose-free milk and the Dead Sea salts.

Prissy knocks on the door. “Can I come in?”

“We’re busy!” Miri yells. “Come back later.” Sometimes she talks to Prissy the way I talk to her. Or the way Jewel talks to me, as if I’m a groupie.

I wonder what Jewel did today. I called her yesterday, but hung up when I got her machine, and called Tammy instead.

“Why not now?” Prissy whines.

Because then you’ll tell your mother we’re casting evil spells on her, and she’ll make us see a shrink? “We’ll be out in a second,” I say through the door. “I hope she doesn’t set the house on fire while we’re in here,” I tell Miri. We’re the worst babysitters ever.

“It’s done,” Miri says. “Now be quiet.”

Skin so smooth,
Feels like silk,
Face like an angel,
White as milk.

I shiver from the cold and then snort. “Honestly, I could write this stuff. What if the witch is African American? Or Hispanic? If it adjusts to the twenty-first century, shouldn’t it be politically correct?”

She shakes the potion and then dabs it on her face. “Did it work?”

“It’s been a second and a half, so no,” I say, applying it.

She stares at her reflection in the mirror. “I need it to work now.”

“You’re certainly not the fairest of them all,” I tell her.

Prissy slams her foot into the door. “Let me in! Please?”

I unlock the door and Prissy falls through. Oh, no. She’s taken the connect-the-dots idea to a new level, having drawn black lines all over her face.

“What did you do?” I ask incredulously.

“I used Mommy’s makeup.”

“I’m washing that off. Now.” I gingerly wipe her face with a washcloth, trying not to gag. Then I medicate her. Touching someone else’s pimples is not a pleasant activity. I’d rank it up there with changing a baby’s diaper or cleaning up someone else’s vomit.

“Thank you,” she says softly, and blinks her big blue-green eyes at me. She has the same beautiful ones as STB.

My repulsion thaws. She’s not so bad. Kind of sweet, actually. I hope she doesn’t have the mean gene like her mother.

I rinse the cloth and when I face her again, her little finger goes up her nose. I can’t help laughing. She laughs too, and wipes her hand on my wrist.

I laugh even harder.

“We should put the conconction into the Xonerate cream,” Miri suggests, tidying up. “I don’t care that STB looks like a pin cushion, but Dad shouldn’t have to suffer.”

When my dad and STB come home, Miri claims she needs to use the medicine first, grabs it, and sneaks it into the bathroom to replace it with her concoction.

By Sunday morning, all five of our faces are clear.

“I’m definitely investing in Xonerate,” my father says over breakfast. “It’s a miracle drug. And I’m sure the vitamin A didn’t hurt either.”

“You know,” I tell Miri on the train home, “we could make a fortune if we sold your clear-skin potion at school.”

“No. And we need a new plan.”

“Why no? Try to see the big picture. We could be millionaires.” I’d make a great businesswoman. I can easily imagine myself walking down Fifth Avenue, screaming into my cell phone, high heels
click-clack
ing against the pavement, hair flowing in the wind as I climb into my private helicopter on the roof of my office.

Miri taps me on the head. “Can you stop daydreaming and focus?”

“What new plan?”

“The new plan on how to get our father to cancel the wedding. Our first plan backfired. Dad didn’t even notice how ugly she was.”

I laugh. “She did look pretty ugly.”

Miri bites her thumb and I slap her hand away. “I know,” she says. “But he didn’t care. In fact, he seemed to love her even more. How is that possible?”

“Well, he wasn’t looking his best either.” I think for a moment. “It’s not enough to make her appearance ugly. We have to help him see her real personality, how awful she is. She’s sweet in front of him, but as soon as he’s out of the room, she morphs.”

Miri nods. “So what do we do? Tape her with a hidden recorder and then play it for Dad?”

“Come on. You’re a witch. You can do better than that. Otherwise, start thinking bridesmaid. As in dresses. As in putrid, puffy, and pink.”

12

CRAZY, COOL, OR JUST PLAIN GOOD

Can’t look. Must look. Can’t.

It’s first period, and I’m standing in front of the events bulletin board. I excused myself from homeroom as soon as I saw London walk past the door. I knew she was posting the results. I asked to go to the bathroom and then bolted to the board that holds my future in its thumbtack grasp. I’m too terrified to open my eyes.

If I got in, wouldn’t Jewel have called to tell me? I so didn’t get in. Maybe she wasn’t allowed to tell me.

Maybe London threatened her. Told her she’d get booted out if she spilled the beans about the fashion show.

Maybe I did get in! My feet start tapping to an imaginary salsa beat. I picture myself as the star of
Dirty
Dancing III: Manhattan Nights
.

Or maybe not. Maybe they chose Wendy. Maybe Jewel blackballed me. Maybe she’s not too busy for me; she just doesn’t like me anymore.

Can’t look. Must look. I’ll open just one eye so if I don’t get in, both my pupils won’t be scarred.

First I see the words
freshman fashion show replacement
dancer. And then I see—

rachel weinstein.

I open both eyes to make sure it still says my name, then proceed to jump up and down. Abracarific! I’m about to moonwalk down the hall when I see the sadistic Mr. Earls. I skip back to class before he has a chance to give me another detention.

Not that detention is such a bad thing.

Detention + eavesdropping = fashion show.

Did I mention that I love math?