Spells & Sleeping Bags

by Sarah Mlynowski

  Raf pulls away like a scared cat.

  We all turn to look at the light switch. “Did someone turn on the light?” Janice asks again. No one answers. Janice tries to switch the lights back off, but they won't budge.

  Did I do that? Was I somehow so nervous about kissing Raf that I turned the lights on so it wouldn't happen? What is wrong with me?

  “Maybe it was Harry Potter,” Blume says.

  Everyone laughs. Everyone except me.

  10

  RAISING DVDs

  IN THE CL

  Crunch. The hairs on my arms stand at attention.

  Just a twig, I tell myself. Nothing to be afraid of.

  Crunch.

  I run a little bit faster, just in case. I'm not sure why I thought it was a good idea to sneak through camp in the middle of the night. Oh, right, it's because I desperately and immediately need Miri's help.

  I've finally found the path that leads between bunks one and three and am now trying to make my way to bunk two without a wild bear eating me first.

  Ha-ha. There aren't really any bears at camp. Right?

  Here it is. Bunk two. I creep up the wooden steps and close the invisibility shield—aka the enchanted umbrella. I gingerly open the door. Now all I have to do is figure out which bed is Miri's. I tiptoe around the cabin, peering into the top bunks at the faces of Miri's sleeping bunkmates.

  In the moonlight, I recognize my sister's pale green comforter at the back, near the bathroom. “Miri,” I whisper. “Miri, wake up.”

  When she doesn't respond, I poke her in the forehead.

  My sister opens one eye. “What are you doing?”

  “I need your help. Come outside with me.”

  “What time is it?” she murmurs.

  “Three a.m.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “No, just desperate. You were right. My powers are out of control. I need your help. I need some training.”

  “Now?” she asks.

  “You can't exactly train me in broad daylight, can you?”

  “We're not allowed out of the bunks in the middle of the night! We're going to get into trouble.”

  “We won't if nobody sees us.”

  “What if someone's up?”

  “Don't worry, I took care of that.” I wave our invisibility shield over her bed.

  “You brought that to camp?”

  “Of course I brought it!”

  “You didn't tell me you were bringing it!”

  What, is she crazy? “Did you think I was going to leave a great toy like this at home?” I think not. “Come on!”

  She climbs over the edge of the bed. “Am I allowed to get dressed?” She's wearing her blue Cookie Monster pajamas, which I can't believe I let her pack. At least she doesn't wear those to breakfast.

  “Nah, let's just go.”

  She grumbles and stuffs her feet into her flip-flops. Before we leave, she snags a gray pencil case from the shelf.

  “You're not going to have time to write,” I snort.

  “It's A2. Camouflaged.”

  “No way!” I stifle a laugh as we hurry out the door. Why would she choose a pencil case? She's such a geek. I open the umbrella. Presto invisible.

  “You didn't happen to pack our night-vision helmets, did you?” she asks.

  Darn. I forgot about those. “No, unfortunately. But I brought something just as helpful.” I wave a flashlight in the air.

  “Where are you taking me, anyway?” Miri asks.

  “How about the CL? It seems private.”

  And the counselors' lounge is carpeted, so I'm less likely to get hurt if training involves my crashing to the floor.

  When we finally get there, we open the creaky door and then sit cross-legged on the saggy couch. Miri places the pencil case on the ground, sticks her hand into her pocket, and takes out a bag of white flour. Flour?

  “What is that?”

  “Baby powder. Quiet for a sec?” She clears her throat and says:

  “From a caterpillar, a butterfly you became.

  Now let this powder absorb your change!”

  As she sprinkles the powder on the pencil case, it stretches and morphs into A2. You know when you scrunch the paper wrapper off a straw and then drop water on it to watch it unravel? That's what it looks like. “Very cool.”

  She heaves the insanely heavy book onto her lap. From the outside, it looks the size of a regular hardcover novel, but it's actually two feet deep. And it smells sour, like month-old milk. “Okay, where do you want to start?”

  “Good question.”

  “Well, what's the problem?”

  “I don't know! I can't seem to control my powers. Like tonight. Raf was about to kiss me during the movie—”

  “Thanks a lot for saving me a seat.”

  “Miri, you shouldn't be sitting with your sister. You should be sitting with your friends.”

  She shrugs. “I don't have any.”

  My heart sinks like a pound of lead. Even though she wasn't exactly Miss Popularity at home, I had kind of been hoping that things would be different here. “But why?”

  She shrugs. “I told you. They've all been friends since they were seven.”

  “But so has my bunk!”

  “Maybe,” she squeaks, “but the girls in mine aren't interested in meeting new people.”

  The high-pitched tone of her voice makes the back of my neck stiffen. “Are they being mean?”

  Her face flushes. “A little. Whatever. I don't care. It's not like I have so many friends at home.”

  “Not having friends is not the same as people being mean to you.”

  Her eyes cloud over. “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “You have to. I'm your sister.”

  She starts picking at her nails, and this time I don't stop her. “Well, yesterday I woke up and they were dipping my fingers in hot water to try to make me wet my bed or something. And today someone put shampoo in my running shoes. But maybe that was an accident—”

  “Are you kidding me? How does shampoo accidentally end up in someone's sneakers?” My cheeks burn, and I slam my fist into a couch pillow.

  Ow. I don't have much of a right hook.

  “Whatever,” Miri says dismissively. “It doesn't matter. Honestly, I don't care. I don't want to waste time worrying about it. I want to be able to focus on helping the homeless when I get back, so I need to spend my free time researching.”

  “But, Miri, they're only ostracizing you because you don't make an effort to talk to them!”

  She rolls her eyes. “But I don't even like them. Why would I make an effort?”

  “Maybe if you talk to your counselors—”

  “That would only make things worse.” She juts out her chin. “I didn't come all the way here in the middle of the night to discuss my problems. Can we get back to yours?”

  Although I'd rather keep talking about her, I don't want to upset her. “My powers are out of whack,” I tell her, changing the subject. “When I use my raw will, what I want to happen doesn't always end up happening.”

  “That's what A2 is for.”

  “I know, I know. But it's not just that. When I get emotional, my magic goes nuts. For instance, I was so nervous about kissing Raf that I zapped on the lights.”

  “You were the one who turned them on?”

  “Yes! It must have been me. My heart was beating like crazy and—” Pause. I wasn't the only person with magical powers in here tonight. Is it possible that Miri was trying to sabotage my first kiss with Raf? Maybe she's worried that my relationship with Raf will make her feel even lonelier. Nah, she wouldn't do that to me. “Well, since you didn't do it”—I give her a meaningful look in case there's anything she wants to admit—“it must have been me. So I need to learn to control my powers. Did you ever have this problem?”

  “Never. I guess I'm a more mature witch.”

  Like it's not annoying enough to have to ask my little sister for help—she has to ru
b it in. “Can you check the book to see if there's some sort of control technique I can use?”

  She spreads open the book and flips through the wisp-thin pages. “Like an exercise?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You need to be magic trained. Like toilet trained.”

  “Let's not get graphic.”

  “Maybe I should find you a magic diaper.”

  “Miri, I'd cut down on the toilet-training jokes if I were you. Don't forget that I am two years older and therefore have a very detailed memory of the time you ripped off your diaper and peed all over the living room fl—”

  “I found something.”

  “Already?”

  “I'm super-quick. Give me two seconds to read it.”

  I tap my sneakered foot for two seconds. “Finished?”

  She ignores me.

  “Hello?”

  “Shush!” She continues reading and then looks up. “Okay, it'll work.”

  “Terrif. What is it?”

  “It's called a megel.”

  “A what?”

  “A megel exercise. You have to practice stopping the flow of your raw will. It'll make your magic muscles stronger.”

  “How do you do that?”

  She points to the umbrella, which I left by the door. “See if you can mind-lift it.”

  “Um, I'm willing to play along here, but since the umbrella is my favorite toy, can I use something else as my guinea pig?”

  She stands up. “Try the couch. It looks like it's already been through several megels.”

  “Too heavy.”

  She spins around, eyeing megel-able items. “The TV.”

  “What if I drop it?”

  She skips over to the DVD player and picks up the Harry Potter DVD case. “Light enough for you?” She tosses it onto the carpet. “Go ahead.”

  Hello, pressure. I focus on the case. I try to summon all the energy I can feel inside me, and suddenly my arms are covered with tiny goose bumps. I try to direct all this energy at the case—fly, Harry, fly!—and the plastic starts to quiver. It's working! It lifts just an inch off the ground—

  “Freeze!” Miri orders. “Keep it right there. Can you do that?”

  I try to do that, but the case is trembling like crazy, my arms and legs are shaking, and the next thing I know, the case pops open, soars to the ceiling, then crashes back to the ground.

  “Whoops,” I say. “Sorry, Master Yoda. I have failed you.”

  She giggles. “You need practice.”

  No kidding. “But can't I practice using real A2 spells? They're easier to control, right? The words and ingredients do most of the work, so how much can I screw up?”

  “True, they're easier to control, but they're also much stronger. And since your raw will is so out of whack, it could be dangerous. Who knows what you could wish up? Or down,” she adds, glancing at the broken DVD case on the floor.

  Suddenly, we hear a loud creak outside the door.

  “Someone's coming,” Miri whispers in a rush.

  “What do we do?” I ask, panicked.

  She's waving her hand toward the door. “I'm trying to”—she huffs and puffs—“keep it closed.”

  “The door's stuck,” a guy outside says.

  “Push harder,” says a second voice. A female voice.

  “The invisibility shield!” Miri whispers, still struggling with the door.

  Unfortunately, the umbrella is on the other side of the room. “It's too far away!” I try to use my raw will to float it over, but of course, now it won't work. “Can you zap it over?”

  “Too tough”—huff—“to do”—puff—“two spells”—huff and puff—“at once! Use your feet!”

  Oh, right. I forgot about those. I run over, pick up the umbrella, and ram it open just as Miri loses her battle. The door flies open as Miri dives next to me behind the umbrella.

  “Good job,” says the female voice.

  I can't see who it is, since the umbrella is blocking our view. But I recognize the voice. It's Deb's.

  I hear the door close. Terrific. We're trapped. My counselor is about to make out with some guy, and I'm going to be stuck here until they're done.

  I think I'd rather watch my mom and Lex than listen to this.

  “Now give me a kiss,” I hear the guy say. He sounds like Anthony.

  At least Deb has good taste.

  Two hours later, Miri and I are finally free. Free, tired, and cranky.

  “Next time we'll have to find somewhere with a little bit less traffic,” I say as we cross Upper Field. “Hey, look, the sun is rising over the mountains. Wanna go down to the lake and watch?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  We scurry down to the waterfront. The lake is as still as a mirror but brimming with streaks of yellow and orange and blue. We leave our shoes on the sand, sit on the dock, and dangle our feet in the cool water.

  I poke my sister's foot with my big toe, sending ripples through the lake. “Nice, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she says, almost wistfully. “Tonight was fun.”

  “Don't worry, Mir. Camp will get better. You'll see.”

  11

  BEE MY SWEETIE

  Whenever I get a moment alone, I practice my megels. I consider finding a secluded place in the woods, but I decide I'm still too afraid of running into a bear. Or a deer. Or a raccoon. Or any type of animal that isn't housebroken.

  So I choose Plan B. Unfortunately, Plan B is using one of the bathroom stalls in our cabin. What can I say? Sure, it's slightly smelly, but it's conveniently close by, and it's the only place in camp where you can ever be truly alone. I practice my exercises on the extra roll of toilet paper sitting in the corner of the stall. Luckily, the stall doors go to the floor, so no one thinks I'm peeing like a boy.

  It's rest hour, and I've been practicing in here for about ten minutes. I'm getting a bit better at it. Higher. Stop. Higher. Stop. . . .

  Bam, bam, bam. “You've been in there forever. It's not your personal bathroom.”

  Whoops. I flush, even though I haven't done anything that requires flushing, and crack open the door. “Sorry, I—” I stop in midsentence. It's Liana. Why am I always apologizing to this girl?

  “You can't hog the bathroom,” she snaps.

  Someone has some major hostility issues. “I said I was sorry.”

  She flips her hair and then slams past me into a stall—but not the stall I vacated. And that's when I realize something weird: the other two stalls were free. Huh. Why would Liana kick me out of my stall when two were empty? Does that make any sense?

  Since there is still fifteen minutes of rest hour left, I walk through the cubby room to our bunk, pull down my pillow, and make myself comfy on Alison's bed, my feet flat against the ladder.

  Poodles and Carly are playing gin rummy. “Wanna play, winner?” Carly asks me. “Kick our butts?”

  It seems I have a knack for gin rummy. Who knew? “Sure, if there's time.”

  “I've got mail!” says Deb, arms full of e-mail printouts, letters, and packages. She reads the names as she hands out the e-mails first. “Alison, Poodles, Rachel, Carly, Poodles, Alison, Morgan, Morgan, Rachel.”

  Fun! I get an e-mail from Tammy (who's still dating Bosh and loving her summer babysitting job in the city) as well as an e-mail from my dad.

  My dad's e-mails are adorable. And a wee bit illiterate, since they're sent from his BlackBerry. Take today's:

  Enjoying very pleasant weather Going to conference tomorrow and will be home monday

  Played golf yesterday. Jennifer sewing on P's camp labels. She excited to see you to.

  Send e mail re your goings on and how enjoying camp.

  Love you girls lots.

  Dad

  __________

  Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld

  I've written him that we have no computer access (Deb prints out all the bunk's e-mails once a day), but the concept is obviously too foreign for him to grasp.

&nbs
p; She tosses a thick pink package onto Poodles' bed. “For you, princess.”

  “I hope it's the new issue of EW,” Poodles says, tearing the envelope open. “Oh good. People, too.”

  “Package for you, too, Rachel,” Deb says, handing me a small padded envelope.

  For me? A package? I am beyond excited.

  “Who's it from?” Alison asks.

  I flip the envelope over to read the return address. Jennifer Weinstein. “My stepmom,” I say. That is so sweet of her! I wonder what she got me. A book? A CD?

  I rip open the package and find . . . a bottle of Nair. Hair removal for the upper lip.

  Huh? A folded handwritten note says, Enjoy! Love, Jennifer.

  She did not just send me this.

  “You have a mustache?” Morgan asks.

  “No!” I say quickly, hiding the box behind me. I can't believe she would send me this. Is she trying to tell me

  something? “I don't think I do. Do I?” I wiggle my upper lip.

  Alison examines my face. “I don't see one.”

  “Be honest.”

  “I swear! What a weird gift.”

  No kidding.

  “Rachel, here's another letter for you,” Deb says.

  “Thanks.”

  I open it up and see that it's from my mom. It's your basic “I'm doing well, how are you, I miss you” letter. At least I have one normal parent.

  Besides the whole witchcraft part.

  “Don't you think Harris looks like a movie star?” Poodles asks while studying her new magazine.

  “He's not that good-looking,” says Morgan, tweezing her eyebrows in a handheld mirror. “Will, on the other hand . . . now there's a piece of eye candy.”

  “What's going on with Harris?” I ask Poodles.

  Poodles keeps her eyes on her magazine. “Stuff.”

  “What?” we all scream.

  Poodles smiles and shushes us with her finger to her lips. “I don't want”—she motions to fifteen—“them to hear.”

  Morgan tosses her hand mirror and tweezers onto her bed. “You'd better spill this second!”

  Poodles twirls a lock of her blond hair around her long index finger. “Yesterday during sailing . . .”