Bras & Broomsticks (19 page)

I gulp down my iced tea. I’m concerned that if I don’t weight my body down with liquid, I might float to cloud nine.

Have I already mentioned that this is the best day ever?

I am in Raf’s arms.

No, really. And I’m not dreaming. (This time I did pinch myself to make sure.) I am fully awake, at school, and in his arms.

It’s lunchtime on Tuesday, and Raf and I are in the drama room, practicing for the formal. Basically the dance goes like this: ten boys strut down the T (the catwalk), then ten girls follow, then we stand in front of our partners. They twirl us, they dip us, we do a few sexy moves, we all walk back down the T to the stage, and then each couple walks down the T for a thirty-second romantic duet. Afterward we return to the stage for another minute of dancing.

The show is going to take place in the school auditorium, on the same catwalk that they put up every year. Unfortunately, we hardly ever get to practice in the auditorium, except during the week before the show. The drama club gets priority. It’s highly unfair. They have a
drama room
to rehearse in. They claim it doesn’t give them enough space. It’s all kind of a joke, because being in the school play is nowhere near as cool as being in the fashion show, but teachers think the play is more educational, so, whatever.

At the moment, we’re practicing our duet—basically Raf pretending to kiss my outstretched arm. Oh yeah, we’re fake making out. I can’t believe actors get to fake make out every day. Maybe I should become an actor. Not in high school, obviously (not cool), but later on in life. Maybe I should just ask Mercedes to choreograph a real kiss into the routine. Is there a suggestion box?

“That’s the end of our duet,” Raf says. “Now we walk back up the T, and it’s Melissa and Gavin’s turn.”

“Got it,” I say as he spins me out of the twirl. Gavin is in my English class. His clothes are all black. He spends class drawing cartoons in the margins of the novels we’re studying and has always been too cool/ awesome/crazy/good for me to approach. But not anymore!

Raf twirls me one more time and then we’re done. “Do you feel comfortable with the moves, or do you want to try it again to make sure?”

Hmm. That’s a tough one. “I guess one more time wouldn’t hurt.”

During the after-school practice, Raf whispers, “You going to Mick’s this weekend?”

I sniff him before answering. He still smells so delicious. Like soap and boy. Yum. “Yes. You?” Please say you’re going, please say you’re going!

“Yeah. Mick’s is a fun night.” We walk off the pretend T (Mercedes made it with masking tape) and take our position on the fake stage. His arms are wrapped around my shoulders.

Sniff. Yum.

Maybe he’ll ask me to go with him. I know I’m invited on my own, but what do I do, just show up? What time? No one’s mentioned a time. I can ask Jewel, but I don’t want to remind her that I don’t know.

Sniff. Yum.

“Do you have a cold?” Raf asks.

“No, why?”

“You keep sniffling.”

Super. Now he’s worried I’m going to get him sick. Just what every guy dreams about. An infectious partner.

“Allergies,” I respond. Must stop sniffing and concentrate on his other attributes. Like his gorgeous dark liquid eyes, his wide muscled shoulders, his clear smooth skin . . .

“Rachel?” Raf says, nudging me and snapping me out of my reverie. “We’re supposed to walk offstage now.”

Right. I might have to beg Miri for an anti-love spell. I’m never going to be able to concentrate on the show.

13

ALWAYS LOCK THE DOOR

When I stretch my arms up to pull on my top, my entire body aches. Dancing is a killer workout. Who knew? All that aside, with my new buff bod, I’m ready for my big night. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the day has come. After only one week of schmoozing with the important people, I, Rachel Weinstein, am going to an A-list party.

I spent most of the week panicking—what time am I supposed to be there? Should I ask Tammy so I won’t have to walk in by myself?—but then today during math, Jewel turned to me and said, “Hey, can we go to the party tonight together?”

“Sure,” I said, as if it were no big deal. “When do you want to meet?”

“Nine?” she said, rolling one of her curls around her finger. “At our spot?”

Our spot was at the corner of Ninth and Fifth, right outside the neighborhood ice cream parlor. We’ve clocked up many hours, and even more calories, at that corner.

Thank goodness I didn’t ask Tammy. I was hoping all week I wouldn’t have to. In fact, I mastered the art of changing the subject every time she brought up the weekend. For example, on Wednesday I interjected with an “Omigod, did I tell you about what happened at practice yesterday?” and then dove right into some random anecdote about London, like when she was practicing a jeté and accidentally kicked Doree in the butt.

I know I’m not being nice. But I can’t tell her about it and then not invite her, can I? And I can’t tell her to come along, because this is the first time I’ve been invited and how do I know what Mick’s guest policy is? He didn’t say
Come to my party and please bring a friend.
What if there’s a head count? What if Mick is only allowed to invite thirty people and Tammy would make thirty-one? This isn’t like Stromboli’s Pizzeria; this is a
private gathering
. If he wanted Tammy to come, wouldn’t he invite her himself? He knows her. He brought her a napkin when she got tomato sauce on her shirt!

The thing is, if Tammy tags along, I’ll be tied to her the entire night. I need to be able to roam unattached.

I pretend Miri’s room is a catwalk and sashay inside. “What do you think of this outfit?” I’m wearing jeans and a tight red top, carrying my black slinky blouse as a backup.

She’s lying on her bed, feet up, immersed in A
²
. “Just as good as the last seven.”

“Don’t exaggerate. I’ve only tried on six outfits.”

“Whatever. They all look the same.”

“Exactly. They all look the same because the shirt I wanted to wear tonight, my tight white V-neck, smells like BO because
someone
wore it after Tae Kwon Do without asking if she could borrow it.”

She grimaces. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know how you can make it up to me. You see, the other reason these shirts all look the same is because I’m flat-chested.” I examine myself in the mirror above her dresser. “I’m not asking for much. Maybe half a cup size. Or a full one. Two if you want to get crazy.” Truth is, two might be a little obvious. If you’re an A-cup Friday in world civ, you can’t be a C-cup Friday night. People might notice.

“No boob spells, but I’ll wash your shirt.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m trying to find a truth serum,” Miri says, frowning.

“I don’t think that’ll help me. No guy should hear the truth. If I tell Raf or Mick how hot they are, they’d get massive egos.”

“Not for you, you freak,” she says. “For STB.”

I perch myself on the edge of her bed. “That’s our new plan?”

“
Our
new plan? You mean
my
new plan. You’ve been too busy with your dancing to help me.”

I’ve been at rehearsals practically every day. I guess I have been neglecting my sister. “Sorry, Mir. I’ll spend tomorrow helping you.”

“Yeah? That would be great. I want to stock up on some ingredients. Can you take me to get them?”

“Tomorrow’s perfect. I don’t have rehearsal until Sunday.” See? I’m a good sister. “So explain
your
new plan to me.” I hold the black top over the red and look in the mirror.

Hmm. Maybe I should change.

“Okay.” She spins around and leans her back against the wall. “He has no idea what she’s really like. So if we give her a truth serum, guess what happens.”

The red. No, the black. Which complements my complexion? I think I should go with the red. Miri is staring at me expectantly. “I don’t know, Miri. Unlike you, I’m not psychic.”

“I’m not asking you to be. I’m just asking you to pay attention to me for two seconds!”

Oops. Maybe I
am
the worst sister ever. I pat her knee. “Let’s not get cranky. Tell me your plan.”

She sighs. “Once I give her the truth serum, she’ll say what she really thinks in front of Dad. He’ll see the horrible person she really is and then break up with her. See?”

For someone so young, she certainly is clever. “Ingenious. And tomorrow we’ll buy the ingredients. But tonight I must look gorgeous. So what do you think? Red or black?”

I choose red. And then black and then red again, and then Miri throws a black marker at me, which she doesn’t realize is open. It leaves a huge blob in the middle of my shirt. So I choose black. Then I try to line the inside rims of my eyes the way London does, and I almost poke my pupils out. Then I apply blush to the apples of my cheeks, like the beauty experts recommend. One stroke, two strokes. Uh-oh. I look like a clown. I wash my face and try again. One stroke, two strokes. Still clownish. And now the wet eyeliner has streaked down my face. I wash it thoroughly and reapply my eyeliner. It’s in my best interest to go blushless.

“Going to the party!” I scream to my mom and Miri. I’m meeting Jewel at nine, and I have only two minutes to spare.

It’s so cold that I can see my breath. When we were younger, Jewel and I used to wear matching earmuffs.

Over the past five months, every time I’ve reminisced about Jewel (like about the time we wrote a play and had her father video it, or the way we used to make ice pops with orange juice in the summer), it’s made me sad. But not today. Today she’s meeting me. Today we’re hanging out. Life is good.