by Kim Tomsic
We had a hallway and a house once. But after Daddy came home on bail, we had to move into the apartment. There were too many lawyer bills and not enough money to pay for a house anymore.
The lump in my throat doubles in size. If I don’t stop thinking about my daddy, I’ll either get teary-eyed and people will think I’m crying over stupid Godzilla, or I’ll get angry. Real angry. Why did the jury have to convict him and ruin my life?
I know the answer: it’s because of the curse. A curse I’d do anything to fix.
Chapter 7
The bus passes the traffic light near the café and Harnetiaux Pets, which is pronounced “Har-na-toe.” Then we stop on the north side of the creek. The freshly painted houses, giant oak trees, and green lawns make this side of Goldview look like a postcard. It helps that there’s no graffiti or rusted cars. Priscilla, Jada, Curtis, and a few other kids stand up. Gigi goes with them even though she lives on the same side of the creek as me.
Priscilla heads down the aisle, and just when she’s about to climb off the bus, she turns back. “Happy birthday, Sage. When I blow out my candles, I’m going to do you a favor and wish that you stay away from a life of crime.”
“Haha, Priscilla,” I say flatly. It’s the best I can come up with. “Don’t think I’m going to forget about those pickles.” I narrow my eyes so she knows I mean business.
The bus drives on and Bailee bumps her shoulder against mine. “Hey, let’s check out Minerva’s.”
“Seventh and Elm,” I say. “Exactly what I’m thinking.”
When we arrive at our stop on Seventh Street, we thank Mr. Melvin, climb off the bus into the oddly warm December air, and cross the intersection at Aspen Avenue.
“About Priscilla,” Bailee says, launching right into her closing-arguments voice. “You can’t listen to her. Ever. She’s just trying to psych you out so you don’t enter the Noodler contest.”
“Too bad it worked.” I kick a pebble and it lands about six feet up the cracked sidewalk.
“She’s—”
A rumbly city bus drives past.
“What?” I say.
“She’s jealous,” Bailee shouts. “You’re the best artist, and Priscilla is threatened.”
“No, she’s not. She doesn’t care about art contests.”
We continue up Seventh and pass Cedar Street. A few more cars drive by, but we don’t need to shout anymore. “It’s not about the art,” Bailee says. “Priscilla doesn’t want you to enter the contest because you’ll win and get more attention than her, and she believes in the Contrarium Curse as much as you do. She’s thinking if you become famous, then she never can.”
I make a noncommittal grunt.
“Think about it!” She pushes her glasses up her nose. “Noodler is a huge deal. She’s trying to make you quit before you even start.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. We pass a car with a flat tire and cracked windshield. I want to trust what Bailee is saying, but Godzilla did a number on my confidence. “Who cares. I don’t need that contest.”
“Nope. Uh-uh. We don’t do that,” Bailee says as we approach Elm. “You can lie to Priscilla and you can lie to everyone on the bus. But you don’t lie to me.”
I smile at her. “Fine.” The elastic on my socks is worn out, so my socks keep bunching down into my shoe. I drop my backpack on the city bus stop bench and give them a yank.
“Hey.” Bailee points across the street to a building with a maple tree next to it. “There’s Minerva’s.”
Minerva’s is a teeeeeny-tiny building. It’s so small, we’d easily pass it if it weren’t painted bright lavender. It’s the only newly painted thing in this neighborhood, unless you count the streaks of black graffiti on the building next door.
We hurry across the intersection.
Minerva’s windows are sparkly, and the door is shiny and red, which is an odd color to paint on a lavender building, but somehow it works. Also, instead of being a metal rectangle covered with security bars like all the other doors on this street, Minerva’s door has an arched top. The upper half has twelve panels of sparkly glass and the bottom half is made out of wood with carved moons and stars like what’s on the flyer.
“Sort of looks like the entrance to the witch's cottage in Hansel and Gretel,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” Bailee makes a big swallowing sound and says, “Why are we whispering?”
“I don’t know.”
Green ivy trails around a flashy lightbulb sign that reads “Minerva’s.”
“What was here before?” Bailee asks.
“Beats me. Come on.” I pull open the heavy wooden door. A little bell chimes over my head, but for the life of me I can’t see any bells.
“Mmmmmm,” Bailee says. The smell of vanilla and exotic spices wafts around us. Sunflower-yellow walls plus the bright front windows make the store extra cheery, even though the narrow aisles are packed and piled so high it feels like things could tumble down at any second.
There’s no rhyme or reason for what Minerva sells or where things are placed. Cases of leather shoelaces are stacked next to a shelf of silver yo-yos. Purple paper clips are scattered beside a crystal bowl filled with strawberry ChapSticks. Next to that sits a brown wicker basket towered high with toffees, chocolates, and boxes of mac and cheese.
On the endcap, next to a stack of electronic toys called Spheros, there are Magic Markers, flamingo floaties, and cake mixes.
“Here we go.” I grab a box labeled “German chocolate.” It says it comes with a free frosting packet. “Perfect.”
Bailee’s breathing sounds strained and noisy. Have I mentioned that Bailee doesn’t like small spaces?
“Full breaths, Bay. Count it out,” I say. “Inhale for four, three, two, one. Hold it.”
She does.
“Now exhale for four, three, two, one.”
We repeat this a few times. Bailee leans up against some unopened cases labeled “lizard food.” She plunges her hand into the side pocket of her backpack and takes out her emergency hand sanitizer, the special pink pomegranate gel she saves for extraordinary occasions only. Even though the glossy floor in Minerva’s doesn’t have a speck of dust, Bailee dumps gel into her hands and offers a glob to me. I accept, and we rub the fruity smell into our palms.
“It’s okay if you want to wait outside while I find the clerk to ring me up.”
Bailee shakes her head. Her voice quavers. “There’s no way I’m leaving you here alone.” She follows me to the refrigerated case at the back of the store and talks herself through breaths. “Inhale.” She pauses for four seconds. “Exhale.”
The refrigerated case could almost qualify as organized. It has small cartons of chocolate milk, strawberry milk, and coffee milk. But it also has Scotch tape, lemon drops, and a bowl of buttons like the one Mrs. Rimmels wore that reads “Be Kind.”
Running water and humming sounds echo from the back room.
I clear my throat as a courtesy to let whoever is back there know we’re here.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” a happy voice calls back.
“Thank you!”
Bailee and I return to the front of the store and wait by the shiny brass cash register. It’s tall and old-looking, with round numbers and no digital parts.
Peppermint candies are stuffed into a glass flower vase on the counter. “I’m dying to see who owns this place,” Bailee says.
“Me too.” An afghan hangs over a chair behind the counter and an unfinished crossword puzzle sits next to the register—old-people stuff. “You hear of any kids at school with a grandma named Minerva?”
Giggles explode from behind me. “I’m not a grandma,” says a bubbly voice. “I’m only twenty-two in mortal years.”
“Uh . . . mortal years?” Bailee and I say together.
“Haha, just kidding! That’s just something I like to say.” The woman is tall and thin with flowing red hair, eyes as silvery blue as a dragonfly, and small freckles dotted across her nose.
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Bailee sidles closer to me.
“Now, where are my manners?” The woman clears her throat. “Howdy! I’m Minerva,” she says, singsongy, and I swear some faraway bells jingle. “That’s what you guys say here in the West, right? ‘Howdy.’ Did I sound authentic? I’ve been practicing my Rocky Mountain talk all week long.”
“Um, you sound great,” I say. “People in Goldview rarely say ‘howdy,’ though. ‘Hi’ would be fine.”
“Good to know.”
“Where did you move here from?” Bailee asks.
“Oh!” She winks. “From far, far away.”
She is odd, I think.
Bailee tilts her head.
“But enough about me. How may I help you?” Suddenly, Minerva claps her hands and squeals. “Did you hear that? I sound like a real shop owner. This is my first assignment . . . I mean, store. And I said it. Just like that. How may I help you? I love the way that rolled off my tongue. Makes me want to buy some dancing boots.”
A pair of cornflower-blue cowboy boots with white stitching poke out from below Minerva’s long, flowy skirt.
“I like the boots you’re already wearing,” I say.
Minerva’s eyes widen as if seeing the boots for the first time. “Oh! Yes! Me too!” She giggles and I swear those far-off bells chime again.
Bailee scrunches her brows. Maybe she noticed the bells, too.
Minerva takes the box of cake mix from my hands. “One German chocolate cake. Excellent choice. What else may I help you find? Wait! Don’t tell me.” She leans in close. “It’ll be more fun if I guess.” Minerva places a hand on her chin and studies Bailee and me for a moment. “Let’s see. I have Jujubes and gummy bears.”
My jaw drops. It’s probably a lucky guess that she just named our two favorite candies in the whole wide world.
“Or books!” She walks to a set of shelves I hadn’t noticed before, though I don’t know how I could’ve missed them. Rows and rows of books are lined up by color and size. There’s a section of red and orange, then yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet.
“You like how I’ve arranged the books?” Minerva says, her face brightening. “If you sweep your gaze quickly, you’ll see a rainbow!” She touches the indigo row. “The graphic novels go here, the sci-fi in the orange, oh, and fantasy novels are shelved in sunshine yellow.” Then—and I’m not lying—she twirls. “I also have everything ever written by Sarah Mlynowski, Bruce Coville, Henry Lien, Philip Pullman, Linda Sue Park, and Ingrid Law.” She plucks one book after another off the shelf.
Bailee jerks her head toward me and whispers, “How does she know the names of our favorite authors?”
Minerva is suddenly standing in front of us and says to Bailee, “Perhaps you’d like some peaches-and-cream hand soap. It smells delicious and was developed at Johns Hopkins University, where they incorporated the latest in what scientists understand about antimicrobials.”
Bailee’s eyes widen.
“Ummm, actually,” I say before Bailee tries to convince me to spend all my money on soap, “just the cake mix, please.”
“Of course,” Minerva says. “Let’s see, those are located between the Spheros and the markers, or the Spheros and the floaties. I’ll go check.” She starts gliding down the aisle.
“Excuse me,” I call to her back. “You already put it in a bag, remember? German chocolate?”
“Yes, yes, yes! Of course I did.” She skips back to the cash register. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
The mix costs five bucks, which means after tax I won’t have enough for a pack of candles, too.
“It’s Sage’s birthday today.” Bailee smiles. “That’s why we’re baking a cake.”
“Happy birthday! Do you have candles?” Minerva says, like she’s reading my mind. A huge smile spreads across her face. “Can’t have a birthday without candles, you know.”
I realize that even though I can’t afford a whole box of candles, this shop sells oddities, so I take a chance. “Actually, I just need to buy one candle. Do you sell single candles?”
“Do I sell single candles?” Minerva giggles like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “I do not sell single candles, silly-willy.”
It was a dumb question. I drop my chin. A really dumb question.
Minerva finishes giggling and says, “I only give them away. And I only give them to girls or boys celebrating a birthday, and you happen to be one. Correct?”
I lift my chin. “Really?”
She giggles again. “Some would say single candles are my specialty, and probably the most extraordinary thing in this shop. Especially when it’s the twelfth candle. You wouldn’t happen to be turning twelve today, would you?”
My mouth goes dry. “Uh-huh, yes.”
“At eleven fifty-nine p.m.” Bailee laughs. “To be precise.”
“Wonderful,” Minerva says. “Wait right here. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She skips down the aisle, talking over her shoulder. “I just need to open the safe.”
“The safe?” Bailee and I say together.
“Naturally!” Minerva hollers from the back of the store. “Twelfth candles can’t be set out on the shelves for just anybody to snap up.”
“They can’t?” I holler back.
Bailee lifts an eyebrow.
“No sir-ree.” Minerva’s voice echoes from the office. “Twelfth candles are only and singularly for individuals turning twelve. Certainly, you must realize twelve is the most special birthday.”
“It is?” I say.
We hear some crashing and boxes falling and Minerva saying, “Whoops! Yikes! Oyyeeeks!”
“Are you okay?” I say. “Do you need a hand?”
“Nope. I’m fine. I’m absotively fine.”
Bailee loops her arm in mine. “This is strange,” she whispers.
“I know,” I whisper back. “I sort of love it.”
“Me too!”
Minerva comes glide-skipping up the aisle with a single mint-green candle in her hand. It’s skinny and probably as tall as a new pencil. “Yep, twelve is the most special year. You know why, right?”
We shake our heads.
“It’s because twelve is when you’re in the in-between.” Minerva steps behind the cash register and reaches under the counter. She takes out a pair of scissors, a roll of lavender silk ribbon, and a long silver box. She lifts the lid off the box and places the green candle on the cushion inside it.
“The in-between?” Bailee and I say together.
“That’s right.” Minerva’s words come out like bubbles, all joy and laughter. “Twelve is the birthday when you’re in between the sweet innocence of childhood and the dynamic energy of the teenage years.” Minerva’s laughter stops, and her face grows serious for the first time. “The twelfth year is the most enchanted year of all, because it’s during this time that you can harness the magic of the in-between.” Her eyes glint. “Of course, you’d need a candle like this one to bind the magic to your wishes.”
Tight laughter squeezes from my throat. “Magic?” She is definitely nutso.
Bailee’s giggles sound as awkward as mine.
Minerva remains serious. “Yes, magic.” She tucks something under the cushion in the silver box, places the lid on top, and rubs her hands together. Then she waves them over the box and says, “By the power vested in me, I, Minerva Beillini, bequeath my gift to Sage . . . What’s your last name?”
The air feels charged, and I think I hear thunder crackling somewhere in the far, far distance.
“Um . . . Sassafras,” I say.
Minerva blinks. Her lips curl into a smile. “By the power vested in me, I bequeath this candle to Sage Sassafras.” She meets my eyes and says, “This is your special birthday candle, Sage, and yours alone. One candle, for one girl. Do you understand?”
I gulp. I may believe in curses, but not magic candles, and I definitely don’t understand her. But the charged air buzzes, and I nod.
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nbsp; “Of course, there are wishing guidelines,” Minerva says.
“Oh?” Bailee stands a little straighter. Have I mentioned how much Bailee loves rules?
Minerva ties the box with the lavender ribbon and rattles off a bunch of instructions. “You may have three wishes today, and one wish every day thereafter until the solstice, except there’s no wishing on Saturdays or Sundays—those are days of rest.” She smiles and says, “And don’t get greedy—there’s no wishing for extra candles, extra wishes, extra days, or extra wax. You hear me?” She twirls the lavender ribbon in a series of loops.
“Um?”
“Also, there’s no unwishing a wish and no wishing to undo someone’s free will. If you break any of these rules, you deactivate the candle.”
“Deactivate it?” Bailee says.
“Yes, and keep in mind, Sage, if the candle is lit, you must make a wish before blowing it out, otherwise that will deactivate the candle, too, naturally.” Minerva curls the ribbon in another fancy twist. “Let’s see, what else—oh! Yes, and wishes must be wished by sunset on the winter solstice.”
“By next Friday?” Bailee asks.
“That’s right. All wishes must be made by four thirty-nine p.m. on December twenty-first, which gives you seven days. Of course, if you break the rules or use up the candle wax before the solstice, the magic is finished. And . . .”
That’s one too many make-believe rules for me, so I tune out. I watch as Minerva uses her silver scissors to snip the ends of the ribbon. When she finishes the final touches on the bow, she walks out from behind the counter, hands Bailee the bag with the cake mix, and says, “It’s on the house.”
She turns to me and places the silver box in my palms like she’s delivering a fragile egg. Minerva cups her hands around mine, looks into my eyes, and says, “Happy birthday, Sage Sassafras. Please use this well and be kind.” Her voice turns singsongy. “Also remember, if you don’t do what needs to be done before the solstice, you’ll have to wait another generation.”