“You mean, babysit?”
Ana nodded. “Babysit. Yes, he said maybe I could baby sit my cousins for him. I don’t mind, my cousins seem nice.”
While Ana spoke, the screen hovering near her changed. The Spanish words were replaced by an image of Ana trying to break up a fight between the two Garcia boys.
“Very nice,” Ana repeated.
Ha! I was pretty sure I’d learned my first lesson: Those mini-commercials playing on the screen probably were people’s memories; Ana just didn’t want to tell me what a pain her cousins were.
“I should go,” Ana said, pointing to her house.
“Okay,” I took my glasses off. “See you in drama tomorrow.”
I liked talking to Ana, I realized as I headed back to my house. It was the most real conversation I’d had with someone all day. About something that mattered, past the usual, “Hey, how are you?” Which, the glasses had showed me today, no one ever answered honestly.
Chapter 5
Super Freaky Glasses Rule #4
List of things your magic glasses can’t do: homework, chores, or fix parent problems.
LATER THAT NIGHT, I WAS IN THE DOGHOUSE. I FORGOT to put the casserole in the oven so dinner was late. Afterward, Mom sent me upstairs to do homework and then my chores (which I’d also forgotten about) before bedtime.
I sat cuddled up on my window seat. My bulging backpack sat next to me, but instead of doing homework, I stared at the star stickers on my ceiling, the kind that glow in the dark when you turn the lights off. I loved my room. I even had a name for it—the Meadow, after my middle name.
When I turned ten, my dad took three days off work so we could transform my room. We painted the walls yellow, and then painted a mural of a field of daisies on the wall across from my bed. We put in green carpeting and my dad bought me orange and brown throw pillows. I liked to scatter the pillows on the floor and pretend they were newly fallen leaves. Ellen thought the carpeting was, and I quote, “disgustingly hideous,” which was about what Mom said, but Dad said it was romantic.
I unzipped my backpack and groaned. But then I had the most wonderful thought. What if my glasses had other super freaky powers I hadn’t discovered yet? Like . . . what if they showed me the answers to my homework? Quickly, I pulled out my history worksheet, and looked for a question with an easy answer. Halfway down, I found one.
“In what year was William the Conqueror crowned king of England?”
I slipped on my glasses and stared hard at the question, willing a screen to appear. But after a few minutes I gave up. Apparently my super freaky magic glasses weren’t going to do my homework for me. Rats. That meant I actually had to do my homework. Double rats.
But it could wait. I packed away the worksheet and slid my journal out from under the Cinderella script Mr. Angelo had passed out earlier. I still wondered why Dr. Ingram gave me a pair of magic glasses. So I did what I always do when I’m confused: I wrote a story.
Cinderella and the Stupid Prince
On the night of the grand ball, a fairy godmother visited Cinderella. Besides the killer dress and the pumpkin carriage, she gave Cinderella a pair of magic glasses that could read people’s thoughts. When Cinderella realized the Prince had fallen for her, she put them on and waited breathlessly, ready to see what royal thoughts would pour forth. But man was she disappointed. Because the Prince, other than thinking Cinderella was totally hot (and that her glasses were totally not), didn’t have a whole lot going on upstairs, if you know what I mean. Cinderella ditched him, leaving behind a glass slipper. When the Prince’s men came to her stepmother’s house, Cinderella locked herself in the attic so they couldn’t find her.
My door flew open just as I finished. “What are you doing?” Mom asked.
“Would it kill you to knock?” I grabbed my script, hoping it looked like I was studying.
“Why haven’t you done any of your chores?” Mom leaned against the doorjamb with her arms crossed, a frown on her face.
“You said I had to do them before I went to bed,” I pointed out. “You didn’t say when I had to go to bed.”
Mom breathed deeply and closed her eyes, like she was meditating or something. When she opened them she spotted my journal.
“Have you been writing in that thing again? Don’t you have homework?”
I hesitated before answering. It has always been my opinion that when you think you’re about to get in trouble, play it safe. Play dumb.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know? You don’t think so?” When Mom got really mad, she repeated everything like it was a question. “You mean you don’t remember? Get out your planner. You’re not writing another word in that journal of yours, young lady, until—”
The phone rang then. By Mom’s irritated voice, I knew my dad was on the other line.
“No, Nathan, I will not put Sarah on the phone. . . . Because she’s sleeping, that’s why. If you want to talk to her, call back at a decent hour tomorrow. . . . Your muse? Not that again.”
My dad liked to paint, and was always searching for something he called his “muse.” And his muse must be pretty picky, because she’d told him a number of times to quit jobs he had held over the years. Like a Realtor (“I’m not asking some poor sap to mortgage his soul for a two-car garage and a granite countertop”); or a house painter (“I’m tired of painting white walls different shades of white”). Last month he said selling vacuums sucked the life out of him. I thought it was funny. But Mom didn’t. She kicked him out of the house.
I motioned to Mom to give me the phone. If anyone would understand about my glasses, my dad would. Maybe I could even tell him I’d found a muse of my own—not one that told me to paint pictures and quit jobs, but one that told me people’s thoughts. He’d know exactly what I should do.
“Well when you find your muse,” Mom was saying, “ask her if she could refrain from ordering ninety-dollar neckties. Our credit-card bill came today. Our budget can’t afford your muse’s taste.”
A pause and then, “You know what? I can’t talk to you right now. Callie’s here and she wants to say hi.”
Mom thrust the phone into my hands and stalked away.
“Hi, Daddy—Dad.” For the longest time I’d called my dad “Daddy,” but lately it seemed kind of babyish.
“Callie Cat! Have you written any stories about your poor old man?”
When I started writing stories, my dad starred in them all. Sometimes I’d write that he was a government spy, or the prince of a secret kingdom. He loved my stories. He never got mad at me for writing instead of doing my homework.
“A few. I also wrote one about Cinderella and a pair of magic glasses.” I told him about the story I’d just finished.
“That’s wonderful Callie Cat,” Dad said. “Keep it up. You could be the world’s next Hemingway.”
“Thanks. I got the idea from my new glasses. You’ll see them when you come down this weekend.”
“Actually, that’s why I called. I can’t make it this weekend. Maybe the week after, okay?”
“Sure. But the glasses—”
“Yes, I know. Your mother told me how upset you were about getting them. How are you two getting along these days anyway?”
“The usual,” I said, sighing. “She thinks I’m lazy and she doesn’t like it when I write in my journal. I try not to let her know when I’m writing.”
“Well what your mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her. You’re an artist, just like your poor old man.”
Dad went on to talk about a vineyard he’d visited in Napa, and how it inspired him to paint again. While he talked, I lost my nerve. His muse was a pretty field of grapes somewhere, not something magic. If I told him, and he thought I was a weirdo, he might say something to Mom. Which would totally tick her off. Then she’d be in an even worse mood than usual and be on my case constantly. And I decided I didn’t need that.
“So, anything else exciting happen today?” Dad aske
d after I’d told him about Pacificview—minus my super freaky glasses.
“No. Nothing exciting.”
“All right. Take care of yourself, Callie Cat. Love you lots.”
“Love you lots too.”
After I hung up, I grabbed my journal, and promised myself I’d start my homework as soon as I finished a quick story about my dad. My head was beginning to hurt, so I slipped on my glasses. A few minutes later, a sound near the door made me look up. Mom stood in the doorway, with a look on her face that told me I was way past just being in the doghouse.
The air shimmered and a screen appeared next to her. Inside was an image of Dad as he painted in our garage. Mom stood behind him, talking and looking irritated.
“I told you,” she said in a low voice, “not to write another word in that thing.”
“Dad thinks I’m an artist,” I said softly, staring at the screen. “Just like him.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” Mom strode into the room, snatched my journal away, and left.
I stared after her, wondering about the image I’d just seen. When Mom looked at me, did she see my dad?
Reluctantly, I hefted my textbooks out of my backpack and settled them on my window seat. I looked outside at Ana’s house. I wished my magic glasses could’ve teleported me over there. Because right then I figured Ana was probably having more fun in her house than I was in mine.
Chapter 6
Super Freaky Glasses Rule #5
If you think you’re about to make a complete fool of yourself, take the glasses off.
AS THE DAYS PASSED, I LEARNED HOW TO WEAR MY glasses without bumping into people, crashing into walls, or turning into a weirdo in general. Oftentimes when I spied on people’s thoughts, the glasses showed me images instead of words: memories or daydreams. Sixth period was a great time to spy on people’s daydreams—right after lunch, no one ever paid attention to the teacher.
And most of the time, people never said what they really thought.
Me to a girl in first period: “How are you?”
Girl in first period: “Great.” What do you care? What does anyone care? I hate this stupid school.
Me to a girl in second period: “That’s a cute shirt. Where did you get it?”
Girl in second period: “Oh it’s just something my dad bought on a business trip to Paris.” It’s from Pacificview Thrift. Good thing Callie doesn’t know anything about fashion.
Me to a girl in third period: “Did you have a fun weekend?”
Girl in third period: “Totally! I saw Jacob Ryan at the mall on Saturday and we split a slice of pizza. He’s such a sweetheart.” But why hasn’t he called me back? He had to get my messages—I left, like, twenty of them.
“Sometimes,” a girl named Brandy answered in fourth period after I asked her if she got along with her parents. For the most part, her words matched the thoughts scrolling across the screen hovering near her.
The bell rang and we began gathering up our things. “It’s been nice to talk,” Brandy said. The words on the screen changed then: Maybe Callie isn’t stuck-up, after all.
Me, stuck-up? I read the screen a second time. Was she serious? I wasn’t stuck-up. Okay so maybe I never talked to Brandy—or any of the other girls, besides Ellen—last year in sixth grade. But it wasn’t because I was stuck-up. It
was because I figured they all thought I was a weirdo.
“You know,” Brandy continued, slinging her book bag over her shoulder, “we went to elementary school together, and this is the most you’ve ever talked to me.”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” I said weakly, as we headed out of class and went our separate ways. I realized then that I’d been so busy experimenting with my glasses I forgot to be nervous when I talked to people.
But my nervousness came rushing back when I walked into drama later that afternoon. Auditions for Cinderella were today. In front of the stage stood a table with two sign-up sheets. One instructed us to sign up for a backstage crew, like lighting or set decoration. The other was an audition sheet.
Normally I would’ve talked to Ellen before signing up, to find out what crew we were joining. But Ellen wasn’t there yet, so I added my name and hers to the paint crew list, and skipped the audition sheet.
Ana was hunkered down in a corner, studying her script. She smiled and waved when she saw me. I wasn’t sure if I should join her, so I plunked down by myself on the floor. Then I fished out my plastic baggie of Red Hots, popped a few in my mouth, and tried not to look like a loner.
Ellen and Stacy breezed in a minute after the bell rang. After receiving a scolding from Mr. Angelo, Ellen plopped down beside me with Stacy following close behind, firmly wedging herself between Ellen and me. Which was totally irritating. Stacy was always around. Sitting with us in drama. Constantly hanging around Ellen’s locker. This week she’d even started eating lunch with us.
“You need to sign up for an audition slot and a backstage crew,” I said to Ellen.
“Could you sign me up, Callie? Please, best friends forever?” Ellen was too busy rummaging through her backpack to hold up her pinkie.
“Yeah, sign me up too,” Stacy chimed in. “Ellen and I decided we want to try out as Cinderella, and we both want to work on costumes.”
“But I already signed us up for the paint crew,” I said to Ellen, ignoring Stacy.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ellen pulled her script from her backpack. “Painting’s your thing, not mine.”
After I finished with the sign-up sheets and rejoined Ellen and Stacy—firmly wedging myself between them—I noticed them staring at their scripts and trying to hold back laughter. Was I missing something?
Thanks to my super freaky magic glasses I could find out what was going on—I wouldn’t even have to ask. I pulled them out from the side pocket of my backpack and slipped them on. The air waved and shimmered, and blue screens appeared by Stacy and Ellen.
Stacy: Those guys were soooo cute; we should’ve talked to them more. Who cares if we’re late to class? Ellen needs to loosen up.
Ellen: Tara never had a boyfriend in seventh grade. I wonder what it would be like …
I almost choked on a Red Hot. Ellen never talked to, or about, boys. I was the one who got all wrapped up in a crush and wanted to talk about boys. Well, okay, so far I’d only liked two boys in my life: Dario Martinez in fifth grade and Scott Fowler in sixth grade. I glanced over at Scott, who sat with Charlie Ferris and studied his script. Yep, Scott was definitely a to-be-continued sort of story.
But Ellen getting all twittery over a boy? Forget it. A cat was more likely to get excited over a bubble bath. Ellen probably could’ve had a boyfriend by now, but she was usually too busy freaking out over school and her grades to care.
“So,” I said to Ellen, trying not to grin too widely, “how come you were late?”
“Um,” Ellen hesitated. “Stacy . . . Stacy couldn’t get her locker open.” Ellen went back to her script, and I read the one thought scrolling across the screen hovering next to her: Callie wouldn’t understand.
“Oh.” I felt a pain in my chest, like a bee had stung my heart. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?” Ellen asked.
“Nothing.”
It wasn’t a big deal, right? If I’d been the one in the hall with Ellen she’d have been giggling about it with me. Except . . . except the glasses had shown me things about her I hadn’t known. Ellen had a recurring daydream of herself rocking out with a guitar—even though when I asked her if she wanted to play an instrument, she told me not to be so ridiculous. And Ellen was obsessed with trying to be better than her older sister, Tara. In her mind it was always, Tara this and Tara that. I never realized how hard it was having a sister like Tara—someone who excelled at everything. (I figured Sarah should be grateful to have me for an older sister. Because, let’s face it, so far in my school career I wasn’t setting the bar all that high.)
Sometimes Ellen would think about telling me
something—like the fight she and her mother had last week over guitar lessons—but she’d decide against it. Callie wouldn’t understand, she’d think to herself. Then she’d stop talking.
Kind of like now.
Stacy wore a smug smile and the screen hovering next to her practically popped with fireworks: Ellen didn’t tell her! It’s hard to believe they’re best friends. Maybe Ellen will come over after school today again.
Again? When did Ellen hang out at Stacy’s house?
“Callie?” Mr. Angelo said from the stage. “Can you come up here, please?”
“Sure.” At that moment, walking away sounded like a great idea. I slipped off my glasses and headed over to the stage.
Mr. Angelo was my favorite teacher, even if his stringy blond hair reminded me of a bowl of limp spaghetti. He let us eat in class and sit on the floor, saying he didn’t want something as elemental as chairs to hinder our “process.” I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded good to me.
“Yes, Mr. Angelo?”
Mr. Angelo held up his clipboard. “Your name isn’t on the sign-up sheet.”
“Yeah, that’s because I’m not auditioning. I’m a behind-the-scenes kind of girl.”
“Be that as it may, students are required to perform onstage as well as contribute backstage.”
“Sure, but”—I jerked my head toward Ellen and Stacy—“there are plenty of girls who want to audition. Besides, drama’s really not my thing.”
“Not your thing? My dear girl, one has not truly lived until one has set foot on the stage. And I shall not deprive you of the honor.” Mr. Angelo dropped a script into my hands.
“Wait. This is for the lead. I don’t want to be Cinderella.”
“Callie,” Mr. Angelo said exasperatedly, “every girl wants to be Cinderella.”
Auditions began and it seemed Mr. Angelo was right. Maybe every girl really did want to be Cinderella. At least, that was the part most girls tried out for. Stacy was the giggliest Cinderella I’d ever seen, desperate to get the Prince’s attention (although personally, I couldn’t tell if she was acting or just being herself). One girl froze up onstage and could only mime dancing at the ball before she had to give up.
Seeing Cinderella Page 4