Twist My Charm

by Toni Gallagher

“We’ve got to reverse it.”

  Just saying the words fills me with fear. It was going to be hard enough to get my dad to change his mind about Paige; now we have to make Larry fall out of love with me too—definitely before Sam finds out. Because if Sam likes him as much as she liked my voodoo doll, she could do some pretty extreme things. I’ve seen it before.

  I can’t let that happen. Not this time.

  When Dad picks me up at school, he has no idea how my life has changed. It’s the first time someone has been in love with his daughter…but judging by our normal, boring conversation, he sees no difference in me.

  When we get out of the car at home, he says, like it’s nothing important at all, “Oh, something came for you today. I put it by your millipede terrarium.”

  Now, this is news! I run toward my room without taking off my backpack, without kicking off my sneakers, without saying “thanks” to Dad or anything. Finally, Uncle Arnie must have sent the instructions for the love potion, right when I need them most! Uncle Arnie is a genius! Uncle Arnie is a wizard! Uncle Arnie is the best!

  I throw open my door.

  Uncle Arnie sent another postcard. Disappointment!

  This one is from Barney Smith’s Toilet Seat Art Museum in San Antonio. The picture shows a smiling man, like a hundred years old, standing in a garage filled with toilet seats from floor to ceiling. All of them have paintings—or even sculptures—on them. I see American flags, Michael Jackson, and even—if I’m reading it right—a tribute to modern dentistry, with dental instruments and fake teeth on it! This guy and Uncle Arnie seem like the type who would be friends for sure.

  I turn over the postcard. On the back it says:

  A journey of two thousand miles begins with a single step. I’m taking that step! How about you? No one can do it but why-owe-ewe, Cleo!

  Hmmm. This one is tougher to figure out than his first one.

  For one thing, I don’t think his message on the back has anything to do with Barney Smith’s Toilet Seat Art Museum. And it definitely doesn’t seem very specific about the love potion he sent. But it must mean something.

  I think it over for a while, but nothing goes through my brain. Just air. Wind. Tumbleweeds.

  Roberta has said in Focus! class that if you’re stuck, sometimes you should do something else with your mind; then an answer might come. So I open Quantum Physics, Biocentrism, and the Universe as We Know It and read a few sentences.

  In the mathematically rigorous formulation of quantum mechanics, the possible states of a quantum mechanical system are represented by unit vectors. Each observable is represented by a maximally linear operator acting on the state space.

  I read the sentences over and over again, but they are of no help at all. Do people really talk like this? Do scientists really understand this stuff? I need to remember to talk to Kevin and get a new book, because right now I’ve got a one-word book report that goes like this: Huh?

  Roberta’s trick is not working—reading this ridiculous stuff is only frustrating me more. Plus, my mind keeps wandering back to the postcard. Why “a journey of two thousand miles”? And what is “why-owe-ewe”? A ewe is a female sheep, right? Why would Uncle Arnie owe a female sheep anything?

  When Dad calls me for dinner—his special burgers from the grill, with cheese and bacon bits inside—I show him the postcard. “Don’t get grease on it,” I warn him.

  He gives me a funny look as he wipes his hands on a paper towel. “Boy, you are very protective of your postcards.” He looks at the photo and laughs, then reads the back. “I think it’s ‘a journey of a thousand miles,’ ” he says, handing it back to me. “But I guess it’s nice that your uncle is sending you inspirational cards, whether he gets the quotes right or not.”

  “And what does he owe a ewe?” I ask.

  Dad looks confused.

  I take the postcard back and read the line. “No one can do it but why-owe-ewe.”

  “Say it out loud again,” Dad tells me. “You’ll figure it out.”

  I whisper it a few times as I take my last bite of burger and put my plate in the sink. “Got it yet?” Dad asks.

  Finally I get it. “Ohhh! Y-O-U! You!”

  “Uncle Arnie’s clever that way,” Dad says. “Now go do your homework. I’ll do the dishes. Come back later and put them away.”

  I walk to my room, wishing Uncle Arnie weren’t so clever. I wish he’d just tell me what to do.

  Or is he telling me what to do?

  I read the postcard again.

  I’m taking that step!…No one can do it but you.

  Uncle Arnie must be saying that I can’t sit around and wait. Like the first postcard—I need to take charge. And he’s right. Now that Larry has announced his love for me (pretty much!), and Dad is talking to Paige (way too much!), I need to do something. Tonight. I need to take that step.

  I wriggle under my bed and grab POCIÓNES FANTÁSTICOS. I flip through the pages. Corazón. Vida. Cariño. So much Spanish!

  I look at the illustrations with my best, most focused attention to see if any of them suggest the idea of reversing a potion. Page after page shows hearts and flowers and pretty things. People looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. A couple running through a meadow holding hands in the sunshine.

  Ugh. Why does there have to be so much love in a love potion book? Why does everybody need to be in love? What’s wrong with being friends? It seems a lot simpler to me! Why wasn’t Larry happy with friendship? Now everything is going to be uncomfortable and weird and awkward. Just his note was bad enough. It made me feel all nervous and hot and jumpy. I’m not going to know what to say or how to act around him, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I don’t want him to think I like him that way because I don’t. Samantha does! And if I want her to be my friend, she can’t think I like Larry back.

  Help me, POCIÓNES FANTÁSTICOS!

  Finally, I come across a drawing that makes me stop. It couldn’t be more obvious: there’s an upside-down heart with a red circle around it and a line through it. No love! Yes! That’s exactly what I want!

  There are other drawings on the page too. Thin green leaves go up and down the side. There’s also a pillow on a bed…and a bathtub. I wonder what all that’s for.

  I don’t want to make Dad suspicious by using his scanner to copy the recipe while he’s in the kitchen, so I type the Spanish words into my computer. When it’s finished, I put the text into the translation program, and it comes out like this, I think:

  This potion is not to drink; this potion will surround your entire body and person! Firstly, you must take fifty to one hundred bay leaves and pour them into a bath hot on a night dark.

  Oh, right. The adjective-noun problema.

  Relax in your bath hot for a ten minutes luxurious. Think of the person unfortunate you do not or no longer love with your heart full. Calmly emerge from the bath and put on nightclothes washed freshly. Pin a bay leaf extra to each corner of your pillow and place a fifth leaf underneath it. Climb into a bed cozy and you will dream of the person sad you love no longer. The time next you see this person, the love for you will be gone.

  This sounds great—not just for me and Larry, but for Dad and Paige too—but there’s one problem. I’ve never heard of bay leaves. Thank goodness for the computer. Back in the olden days, according to Dad, if you didn’t know a fact, you had to look it up in an encyclopedia—and if you didn’t have one at home, you had to go to a library. This makes me happy I’m alive now and not then!

  Online I learn that bay leaves are used in cooking to add flavor to stews, soups, and pâtés (whatever those are), and you can buy the leaves in a jar at the store. Dad’s never made a stew, but he’s got a lot of weird spices, with names like cumin and marjoram, so he may have bay leaves too.

  Dad’s on the couch reading when I walk toward the kitchen. It must be a really good book because he says, “Hey, Cleo,” without even looking up at me. Perfect.

  Outside the kitchen wi
ndow, the sun is starting to set. It’s not a “night dark” yet, but hopefully it will be by the time I finish. I rummage through the cabinet with our spices, and sure enough, there’s a dusty jar of bay leaves Dad has probably never used. I look inside. Unlike most of our spices, which are pulverized into little sandy granules, bay leaves actually look like little leaves from a tree.

  I take a sniff, then pull my nose back quickly. They don’t smell bad, but they’re sharp and spicy, with a little whiff of the bottom of a wooden drawer mixed in. Whoever thought to put these in food?

  Hiding the jar in the palm of my hand, I walk past Dad and into the bathroom, then turn on the hot water. As I wait for the tub to fill, I pull out five leaves to save for my pillow. They feel brittle, like old-fashioned paper that rips easily, so I’m super careful as I place them on the edge of the sink. Then I pour the whole jar into the bath. I hope there are at least fifty in there! The leaves spread out fast, like water bugs swimming on the surface.

  When the tub is past the halfway mark and the bathroom is filled with steam that smells like spice and dirt, I turn off the faucet, throw all my clothes on the floor, and dip my foot in. Yow! It’s way too hot.

  I turn on a trickle of cold water to cool it down, then wrap a towel around me and walk across the hall to my bedroom. Playing with my millipede will be more interesting than sitting and waiting for a bath to get to the right temperature. But as I put my hand in Millie’s terrarium, something else in my room catches my eye.

  It’s the love potion, of course—right on my dresser like always, the small red bottle sparkling under my overhead light.

  I can’t help thinking that Uncle Arnie’s love potion would definitely make my bay leaf bath work even better. It’s sitting there, waiting to be used. Wanting to be used. And I wouldn’t even use the whole bottle, I tell myself. Just one big, fat drop plopped into a bathtub full of bay leaves might do the trick. And even if it doesn’t help, how much could it hurt?

  The problem is, I don’t know the answers to those questions, and I can’t stand it anymore. It’s been over a month since I got the potion, and I’ve been patient enough! I need to find out how it works.

  I’m doing it. I’m calling Uncle Arnie.

  I sit at my desk and click on his name. I hope it’s not too late to call New Orleans, but Uncle Arnie doesn’t seem like the type to go to sleep early. After a bunch of rings, though, I’m ready to give up. He’s probably in his own bath playing with rubber duckies or out concocting more ways to confuse me. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

  My finger is about to press “end” when a screen suddenly clicks on. No one says hello, though. The screen is a filmy white, like a sheet or something is hanging over the computer. Behind it I can see Uncle Arnie’s living room, the mess it always is. I start to say a quiet, uncertain “hello” when a loud female voice bursts through my speakers.

  “What in the world was that?” it asks. It sounds like an older lady, with a Southern accent so strong it almost sounds fake.

  “I think it’s his phone, Mama,” says another Southern voice, a younger lady.

  “His computer is a phone? How can he lift it up to his ear?” the older lady crows. Then, without warning, her face fills Uncle Arnie’s screen. All I see is long, fuzzy, mostly gray hair and bushy, dark eyebrows—kind of like a female Uncle Arnie. But I only see her for a second because I leap out of my chair and squat on the floor, out of view.

  “I saw someone, there on that screen!” she screams. “A little girl with yellow hair.”

  Poop! She saw me!

  “Well, she’s not there now,” the younger voice says.

  “What’s that, then?” says the old lady. “As sure as the day is long and the grass is growin’, that looks like the top of a blond head.”

  Poop, poop, poop! I throw myself flat on the floor so I can’t be seen at all.

  “I don’t see anything, Mama.”

  The older voice gets closer to the computer’s microphone. “Well, now it’s gone! I don’t know if it was a ghost or a demon disguised as an angel, but it was there!” I hear a banging sound, like she’s hitting the computer. “Come back, ghost child! Tell us what life is like in the beyond.”

  I stay flat on the floor, staring at my ceiling. Who are these people?

  “We’d better turn it off, Mama,” says the younger voice. And a moment later, I don’t hear any sounds at all.

  I stay on the floor, too scared to move. I want to make sure those people are truly gone and Uncle Arnie’s computer is really off before I get up.

  I lift my head slowly. “Hello?” I say quietly.

  There’s no response, so I sit up halfway.

  “I am the ghost child of Los Angeles!” I whisper in a spooky voice. When I don’t hear any answer to that, I feel safer. I glance at the computer screen. It’s black on Uncle Arnie’s side.

  My heart is going wild and a million questions are running through my head. Then I remember something else that’s running—the bathtub! I dart across the hall, where the water has inched up and up and is about to go over the edge! I turn off the faucet just in time.

  That was a close one. There’d be no way to explain to Dad an overflowing tub or the smell in the bathroom right now. I need to forget about whatever weirdness is going on at Uncle Arnie’s and start working on my own weirdness, without his love potion. I’m too freaked out from what just happened to even think about using it now!

  After letting some water drain out, I get into the tub slowly, like a corn dog being dipped in its bubbling batter. Once I’m all the way in, I lift my toes out of the water and see them getting red—with the rest of my body quickly following. To get my mind off that, I pretend like I’m Madison’s mom, Heather Paddington, in her gigantic “powder room,” filled with big bottles of perfume and vases of flowers. I lie back, put a washcloth over my eyes, and order my staff around. “Chef, make me some pâté, and use extra bay leaves!” “Alfredo, more bubbles! But close your eyes when you come in!”

  KNOCK KNOCK. What’s that? Why is there knocking? The chef isn’t really here! And I’m not even sure Alfredo is a real person! I sit up and pull the cloth off my eyes. “What?” I shout.

  Dad’s voice comes from the other side of the door. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Nobody,” I say. “I’m just taking a bath.”

  “You don’t have your phone in there, do you?”

  I know why Dad’s asking. If I were talking on the phone in the tub, I would drop it for sure. “No. I was…um…talking to myself, I guess.”

  “Well, as long as you’re good company,” he says. What a doofus. “Don’t forget to come out and put the dishes away tonight.”

  I tell him I won’t…forget, that is. Then I dunk myself under the water. If I’m going to be covered in a bay leaf broth, it might as well be from head to toe.

  A fter I drain the tub, I wrap a towel around me and run to my room, holding my five leftover bay leaves like they’re precious diamonds. Toby, who’s lying on the floor, looks up and makes a grossed-out face. “Oh, like you always smell like roses!” I say as I open my dresser drawer. None of my pj’s—or, as the potion called them, nightclothes—are “washed freshly,” but I pick a nightgown I haven’t worn since I was nine, so I’m pretty sure it’s clean. The sleeves are way too short, and my bony arms look like sticks on the sides of a snowman. I’m glad my sheets and pillowcase don’t have to be “washed freshly” too, because I can’t remember the last time we cleaned those!

  I find some safety pins scattered around my desk; then I pin a bay leaf to each corner of my pillowcase. A few leaves break into a couple of pieces, but I’m not worried. I know the universe will understand my intention. I put a full leaf under the pillow as instructed, then go to put the dishes away.

  As I walk down the hallway, I hear voices coming from the kitchen.

  One is Dad’s. The other is…a woman’s!

  Though I can’t understand any words, I’m very glad not
to hear Southern accents. I’ve had enough of those tonight. I stop and listen harder. This woman had better not be Paige. But I can’t tell. I take a couple of steps closer, leaning forward, stretching my neck, still not hearing anything specific, leaning forward even more, until…

  BANG! Something that sounds like a pot clangs against the floor or the counter. I scream! Then I fall over, right into the kitchen doorway, where Dad and whoever this woman is can see me from head to toe.

  So much for trying to spy.

  “Are you okay?” the woman asks, and finally I recognize her voice. I look up, and sure enough, it’s Terri crouching down and leaning over me!

  Though my call to Uncle Arnie was nothing but strange, maybe his postcard was right about taking a step! I only took the bay leaf bath five minutes ago, and here’s Terri hanging out with my dad in the kitchen! I haven’t even slept on my pillow yet, and the potion is already pushing Dad away from Paige. Yes!

  “Terri, hi!” I say, probably too excited, as I stand up and fix my nightgown. “We already had dinner, but do you want some dessert? Our ice cream’s kind of old and frosty, but Dad could go buy some.”

  “No, no,” Dad says. “Terri’s only here to get a pot she lent us.”

  A pot? Uh-oh. The last pot I used ended up in the trash.

  “Why did you lend us a pot?” I ask.

  “Your dad and I made beef bourguignonne, remember? And the pots you guys had here were…”

  “Crummy,” Dad says.

  “But the beef bourguignonne was good,” Terri says with a smile.

  “What’s beef blah-blah-blah?” I ask, not remembering a dinner with a name like that—a dinner that needed a special pot. A pot that no longer exists.

  “We ate it over noodles. It’s like a French beef stew.” Terri takes in some short breaths. “It actually smells a little like…”

  Dad sniffs too. “What is that smell?”

  I’m not ready to answer that, so I scramble. “Just your darling daughter!”

  “No, that’s not it.” He gets closer to me and breathes in deeply. “Were you playing with Toby in your room?”