Power to the Purple!

by Sophie Bell

  And utterly contrary.

  Utterly contrary because nothing is ever quite what you’d expect it to be in the UV universe. Were that this was a chick flick, the girls would be dressing up in outfits, each one more fabulous than the last, until they found the most fierce ensembles ever! But the Ultra Violets were planning to crash Opaline’s brainwash-a-rama. And Opaline did not exactly embrace fabulousness. She wore her shirts buttoned all the way up to the top, all the time. Her lightning-bolt tracksuit had become a kind of uniform. And her whole goal for her birthday party was to bring everybody down, down, down.

  To stop Opaline, the Ultra Violets needed to sneak into this bummer of a downfest. Uninvited. Unnoticed. Unfabulous.

  Yes, the Ultra Violets had to get dressed in the most blecch, boring, eww, yuck outfits they had never worn in their entire lives. In ensemblahs!

  It was not going to be easy.

  But if they had to go uggo to finally Get-O, Plan UF—UnFabulous—then that’s what they would do for the sake of the students of Sync City.

  “No tutu?” Scarlet asked, rifling through the musty old clothes Cheri had hung up on the cloudship’s handy garment rack.

  “No tutu,” Iris said solemnly. “No sparkly gloss, either, Cheri.”

  Cheri stuck her lip out in a pout, but she didn’t complain. Instead, she concentrated on chipping off the lilac and black nail polish she’d just painted yesterday.

  “Okay then,” Scarlet said with determination, wriggling out of her tutu. “Let’s rock this.”

  Utterly contrary montage time!

  While Candace commanded the cloudship, the changing of the clothes commenced. The three girls tried on one ugly outfit after another, prancing around and tossing T-shirts and scarves and sandals and once, by accident, Darth, between them. Scarlet settled on a polyester tangerine leisure suit with pointy lapels on the jacket collar and bell-bottom cuffs on the pants. Cheri buttoned up bunches of hideous holiday cardigans, the most horrifying being one of a red-cheeked reindeer in a red felt Santa cap with a cottonball beard and a jingle bell for a nose. Iris dove into a tie-dyed turquoise muumuu with massive shoulder pads. It took her so long to find the neckhole, she felt like she was swimming in a sea of fabric.

  The three girls paused to gawk at each other’s outfits.

  “Ewww!” they all wailed together, making ick-faces. “These clothes are so nasty!”

  Candace looked back at them through the rearview mirror and burst out laughing. “OMV,” she said, “if we weren’t being all top-secret in our cloudship, I would totally post that photo on Smashface.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Cheri demanded, jingling all the way. “If my mother hated my catsuit at the FLab, imagine what she’d say about all these funky rags from grandma’s closet!”

  “Well, FYI, I am not Smashface friends with your moms, Cher,” Candace said, still chuckling. “But seriously, girls, the idea is to blend in. If you go to Opal’s party dressed like that, you’ll stand out!”

  “We’ll win the Worst Dressed award!” Iris griped, and who could argue with her massive shoulder pads? They were the ultimate in bossy.

  “Then this is what not to wear, either,” Scarlet agreed.

  Utterly contrary montage take two! The girls modeled a whole new round of uggo outfits.

  This time, when they were done changing, they were in no way sparkly, purple, super, or ultra. Nor were they car-crash-causingly hideous like before.

  They were just three plain Janes in three baggy tracksuits.

  *yawn*

  “Does your grandma go to the gym a lot?” Scarlet asked, zipping up her hoodie.

  “Only to use the sauna,” Cheri shrugged.

  “Wait, one finishing touch,” Iris said as she looked them over. The tracksuits were old and faded, but their sporty colors were still noticeable. With a few superpowered tweaks, Iris turned them all to beige.

  “There!” she said, satisfied with the makeunders. “You can’t get more bland than that!”

  Cheri was just reaching for her Hello Kitty bling ring amongst the pile of discarded clothes when the glimmer of its rhinestones caught Iris’s eye. “Nuh-uh, Cher,” she stopped her. “Too glamorous!”

  Cheri sighed, ever so slightly irked, and slipped the ring to Darth for safekeeping. He put it on his tail. “Okay, RiRi,” she said, speaking in a tone of voice she usually saved for her mother. It was especially unnatural for Cheri to be unfabulous, and for a moment in that beige tracksuit, she almost forgot who she was. She knew true fabulousness was something you had in your heart, no matter what clothes you were wearing or whether you’d blown out your hair or not. She just preferred her outer and inner divas to match. Which reminded her . . .

  “Hey, Iris,” Cheri asked, “aren’t you forgetting about something, too?”

  Iris frowned. She had not forgotten. She was just putting it off as long as possible . . .

  “Ten seconds till touchdown, girls!” Candace called. “Buckle up again!”

  “Here goes,” Iris said as she took her seat. Then she wrapped a purple ringlet around one of her pinkie fingers, closed her eyes for just a second or three . . .

  And when she opened them again, her hair was a nearly normal color. A blah, dull, dishwater dirty blond. Almost as beige as her tracksuit.

  But if you looked at it close enough, in the light of a sunbeam, you just might notice the faintest hint, the faintest tint, of violet.

  Scary Smileys

  THE GIRLS WATCHED AS THE GLITTERING CLOUDSHIP wafted back up to the sky, the last traces of mist evaporating around them and the moisture giving Iris’s blah blond curls an extra kink. Soon it was impossible to spot Candace’s aircraft among all the actual clouds in the sky.

  Standing outside Tom’s Diner in their bland beige tracksuits, the (shhh!) Ultra Violets barely attracted a second glance. And that felt surprisingly strange. Not long ago (here, specifically), Cheri had bemoaned not being “an oblivio” anymore. Now, in disguise, incognito, they at least looked the part. No one stopped to do a double take at Iris’s wild purple hair or Scarlet’s poofy red tutu—although a dull tracksuit couldn’t keep her from rabbiting up and down in petit changements. Cheri’s computery superpowers were rarely on display, anyway, but she just felt strange because she’d never dressed this boring before.

  “Honestly,” Cheri said, “acting oblivio is kind of a drag, alas.”

  “Quoth the raven, totally,” Scarlet joked. “I’d way rather play Little Orphan Annie.”

  “Let’s deal with this downer party so that we can get back to being viomazing,” Iris agreed.

  The three (silence, please!) Ultra Violets quickly touched pinkies, a small solar flare sparking from their fingertips. Then Scarlet fanned her fingers out like a firework explosion, whispering, “Ka-pow!”

  Cheri smiled. “Blammo!” she added between air quotes. Darth popped up out of his bag to make air quotes, too.

  “Or how about ‘shazam!’?” Iris winked.

  Ironic superhero sound effects out of their systems, they walked into Tom’s Diner.

  * * *

  Opaline’s party was being held in the back room. Iris, Cheri, and Scarlet, even in their meh tracksuits, didn’t want to risk strolling right in until they’d checked what was up. So they each took a seat at the counter. It was the perfect spot for spying—they could see through to the party room, but the kitchen grill was in between. Lots of pretty cake pedestals decorated the countertop, good for hiding behind, too.

  “Red velvet,” Scarlet drooled, her nose pressed up against the closest cake dome. “Yum!”

  “Cake later!” Cheri said in a hush, peeking out above a menu.

  “Well look who it is!” The sassy voice shocked the girls straight on their stools, and they whipped their heads around in unison to face the beehived waitress. Her streaky Franken-bouffant appea
red to be a full foot higher than the last time they’d seen it, and Cheri wondered just how much hairspray the woman had to use to keep the towering ’do in place. She probably went through a bottle a day.

  The waitress leaned one elbow against the countertop, sizing up the girls as she snapped her gum. “Something’s different about you three amigas . . .” She peered from Scarlet to Cheri to Iris, lingering for a moment on her curls. “But I can’t put my finger on what.”

  “We’ve just come from an extremely beige track practice,” Cheri bluffed. “That’s probably it.”

  “Extreme sports are all the beige now, you know,” Iris added.

  “Nope!” The waitress clapped her hands sharply, causing the girls to sit up even straighter. “Kiss my grits if that ain’t it. But whatever it is . . .”

  The girls braced themselves, hoping the beehived waitress wouldn’t blow their cover.

  “. . . betcha I’ve got your order!” She slapped her little notepad against her plump hip, not jotting down a thing. “Butterbeer, heavy on the sauce, for you, Spunky Brewster. Strawberry milkshake for Princess. And triple berry parfait for Miss Artsy Fartsy, am I right?”

  The trio was actually too nervous to taste a thing, and Iris was completely appalled to be described as “fartsy,” even if it was only an easy rhyme, and yet . . .

  “We can’t just sit here and not order,” Scarlet muttered through her teeth.

  “Right!” Iris said out loud, flashing the most artless smile she could imagine. “Awesome memory!”

  “That’s ’cause I’m like an elephant, hon,” the waitress said with a confidential nod of her bouffant. “I forgive, but I never forget.” Then she spun on the heel of her orthopedic sneakers and sashayed off to get their order.

  “Awk-weird!” Scarlet sang under her breath. Something about the tension of the moment set her quivering with the silent giggles—which four out of five doctors agree are highly contagious. Iris bit the inside of her cheeks to stop herself from starting. Cheri pinched her earlobe, hard. Scarlet gave herself one of those thumps on the shoulder. And burped.

  “Gross, Scarlet!” Cheri said, pinching her nose with her free hand while Darth fanned the air with his tail.

  “At least I’m not ‘fartsy’!” Scarlet teased.

  “Please,” Iris begged. “That is so not funny.” Even though it was a little bit funny. The silent giggles went viral again, but the sight of the beehived waitress returning with their order quieted them down.

  Hidden behind cake stands and menus, frosted butterbeer mugs and tall parfait glasses, the (hush your mouth, child!) Ultra Violets spied past the grizzled fry cook at the grill to the party room beyond. If they hadn’t already recovered from their giggle fit, what they saw would have cured them stat!

  Bloated brown balloons with yellow smiley faces covered the back wall. A few smiley face balloons might have been cute. But there must have been a hundred of them. And these smiley faces were custom-designed with a black lightning zigzag between the eyes. Row upon row upon row upon row beamed forth, bobbing dumbly like an entire audience that had already been hypnotized by Opaline. Iris spotted one in the corner that had lost its air: Yellow and brown, it hung from the wall like a rotting banana, one withered dot eye drooping lower than the other, the thick line of its smile ripply as a worm.

  “Those balloons are freaking me out,” Scarlet said, swallowing a big gulp of her butterbeer.

  In the middle of the balloons hung a banner proclaiming, IT’S THE BIG 1-2! Opal sat beneath it on a plump seat cushioned with the same red vinyl that was used on all the diner’s stools and booths. It was probably supposed to be a birthday throne. But it reminded Iris of the *shudder* dentist’s chair.

  For her special day, Opal had spruced up her typical tracksuit uniform with some special touches: Both the lightning bolt across her chest and the Peter Pan collar around her neck were cut from slick patent leather in a sickening acid yellow. The shade reminded Iris of something. But the same way the beehived waitress hadn’t been able to figure out what was different about Iris, neither could Iris—kiss her grits?!—recall why that acid yellow felt so queasily familiar.

  Where have I seen that color before? Iris asked herself.

  Opal’s mom, Dr. Trudeau, crouched in a corner, snapping photos while guarding a small side table. It was covered with goody bags in the same bilious shade.

  Something about that toxic chartreuse . . . Iris thought.

  But she couldn’t let herself be distracted by the curious yellow now. Another sight was much more disturbing.

  Slumped in seats throughout the party room was most of the sixth grade. The students had their backs to the girls, but they could still recognize them. Martin. Albert. Emma. The Jensen twins. Swaying ever so slightly, they stared up at the wall of scary smileys. Every now and then, one would moan, “Mnoh!” and claw at the air, grasping for something that wasn’t there.

  Whenever that happened, K-Liz slapped their hands down with a crack of her scaly tail.

  “Sugarsticks!” Scarlet spat. “Opal’s already short-circuited the whole class!”

  “Maybe not the whole class,” Iris murmured back. “Look!”

  Standing in single file, clutching gifts, were a few more students. From the sidelines, BellaBritney cheered them on, pointing the way with her pathetic pompom—and blocking all the zombos from view. The (shut up already!) Ultra Violets looked on with dread as Rachel Wright reached the front of the line.

  Opaline snapped her fingers.

  Beckoned Rachel closer, cupping her hand like she had a secret to share.

  And as soon as Rachel got near enough, Opal licked her pinkie finger and stuck it in her ear!

  Small sparks shot out as Opaline’s electric volts raced straight into her victim’s brain. When she was done, Rachel stumbled away, her ear charred black like a burnt cauliflower.

  Then K-Liz directed the newest slave to a seat while Opaline tossed her latest birthday present onto the pile beside her throne.

  “An electric wet willy!” Scarlet pounded her fist on the countertop, making all the cakes clatter on their pedestals. “Of all the lowdown dirty tricks!”

  Iris didn’t say anything. She just stared at the end of Opal’s receiving line. The blue of her eyes drained to pale.

  Cheri and Scarlet followed her gaze. There, top hat in hand, stood Sebastian. Iris could see the colorful beads of her friendship bracelet dangling around his wrist.

  Douglas and Malik stood in line, too, hoverboards at their feet.

  “Girls?” Iris whispered.

  She didn’t have to say anything else.

  Cheri hurried to put some change on the counter and pick up Darth in her bag. Then the (no, you shut up!) Ultra Violets slipped off their stools and stole toward the swinging doors to the private party room.

  As the beehived waitress went to clear their glasses, she paused, watching the girls go. Iris was last of the three, her ringlets bouncing behind her. “That was it!” the waitress said to nobody but herself. “She changed her hair color.” The waitress pocketed the cash, mumbling, “A little young to be dealing with roots, if you ask me.”

  Roots?

  At the tips, Iris’s curly strands were still the blah beigey blond she’d switched it to. With just a hint of violet.

  But at the crown of her head, already, the hair was turning back to full-on purple.

  L’Eau No Again!

  IT WAS THE QUIETEST PARTY-CRASH EVER. SO QUIET IT whispered like this. In their blergh tracksuits, defrocked of all things sparkly and/or bright, the girls almost blended into the paneling. They were just sneaking toward the end of Opal’s receiving line when Dr. Trudeau sprang up from her crouch. She peered across the room, her nostrils twitching like an inquisitive gopher’s.

  “She’s staring right at us!” Cheri gasped. “Do you think she’ll
recognize me minus the gloss?” she asked, biting her lower lip.

  Just then, the doors behind them swung open with a vigorous hip bump by the beehived waitress. She strutted straight past the Ultra Violets, all her concentration on the blazing cake she was balancing atop a glass pedestal. Tongues of flame licked up from it, coming dangerously close to her bouffant. Considering it was probably coated with an entire can of hairspray, she was a towering inferno waiting to happen.

  “Whoa,” Scarlet whispered, the afterglow casting her freckles orange. “That cake is on fire!”

  Reflected flames danced in Iris’s eyes. She watched as the waitress put the burning dessert down on a table, then turned around and hotfooted it out of the room again. As she left, she reached up to stamp out a small brushfire that had sparked in her bouffant just above her ear.

  “Okay, children!” Dr. Trudeau called out as Opal protested “Mom!” over her. Dr. Trudeau carried on anyway.

  “Hap-py Birth-day to You!” she sang, gesturing for all the kids to join in.

  “Hap-py Birth-day O+2!” BellaBritney bellowed, the goth half of her yanking down the cheer half’s raised pompom.

  “Hurhbeezsmlurfhay dur Ohpulrgh,” the zombotomized guests moaned.

  “Huh?” Scarlet said, crossing her eyes at the craziness.

  “I think that’s the zombo translation of the song,” Iris deadpanned while Dr. Trudeau rallied to the big finish.

  “Hap-py Birth-day to You!” she crooned. “How old are you now, honey?”

  “Oh please,” Opal sniped, sliding down from her shiny red dentist chair throne. “Like you don’t know.” Shoving past her mother, she stood behind the blazing cake and before her brain-fried guests.

  “It’s your favorite, Opal,” her mother said, stretching her arm out to give her a hug, but hesitating. The fire highlighted the frown lines on her face. “Peach Melba flambé with crème du brussels sprout sauce.”