The 11

by Kim Tomsic

  “What?” I sank in my seat.

  “Oh. I mean, I don’t think the zap had everything to do with that.”

  “Maybe I should back out.” At least that’s what the swirling in my stomach was telling me.

  Turner shook his head. “No way. That would be worse than Eldon.” He seemed ready to say more, but then a latecomer walked down the aisle and his backpack swayed into Turner’s shoulder. “Ow!”

  “Sorry, T,” the boy said.

  “Geez.” Turner rubbed his arm and then twitched off a few flexes at his bicep like he needed to test if it still worked. His thin arm made a little muscle bump with each flex. “Okay. Guns are still working. But watch where you’re going, dude. You could’ve messed up my Frisbee-golf arm.”

  Turner and the boy continued talking, and it seemed like everyone was chatting with somebody—except me. The old me wanted to slouch, but I knew I wasn’t going to win friends looking miserable. All I had to do was say my name, be funny, and be impressive. Easy.

  I took a breath, steadied my elbows on the desktop, and shifted to the girls on my right. The one closest to me, a pretty girl with a bundle of colored pencils poking from the side pocket of her backpack, focused on doodling on the cover of her notebook. The other girl flicked soft brown curls from her shoulder, then folded her hands on her desktop. She spoke to me before I even said anything. “I’m Shelby. This is Yoona.”

  Yoona glanced up from her doodles and smiled.

  “Megan.” I smiled back and readied one of the funny lines I’d practiced. “Did you know there’s—”

  “So, Rhena zapped you already, huh?” Shelby said.

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t met Rhe—”

  “Hi. Excuse me,” someone said, tapping my shoulder.

  I turned around and looked up.

  The owner of a solar-bright smile stood in front of me, twisting the straightest and shiniest hair I’d ever seen, glossy with shades of brown and cinnamon. The room had gone silent.

  “I’ll go ahead and finish the zap now.” She motioned for me to give her my hand, her silver and stone bracelets clattering.

  I must’ve just stared, because she lifted her eyebrows and added, “I’m Rhena.”

  Shelby crossed her arms. Other students jumped out of their seats and formed a circle around us. Somebody passed a pen to Rhena like a nurse putting a scalpel into a surgeon’s grip. The circle tightened. People leaned in.

  “Oh, actually the zap is already done,” I said as if it were a chore that had been taken care of for her. I even held out my palm to show the writing.

  Someone gasped. Another whispered, “Wait, what? Who then?”

  Okay, clearly I’d broken some rule. “Um?” Sweat trickled down my back. “But you can write something, too.”

  “That’s not how it works.” All the friendship in Rhena’s face twisted into annoyance. Her words came out measured. “It’s one. Zap. Per. New person.” She closed her eyes and took a breath, rearranging her expression back to neutral. “Who wrote your dare? Was it Ally?”

  “Umm.” My face must’ve given the answer.

  Rhena narrowed her eyes. “Figures,” she said, sauntering back to her second-row desk and tossing a look over her shoulder. “Good luck.” Her tone sounded like code for something, but nothing to do with “good” or “luck.”

  Everyone returned to their seats, talking low and trying not to look at me.

  I whispered to Turner, “What just happened?”

  He leaned in. “It’s basically an unwritten rule. Rhena’s in charge of our class zaps, and it’s best to stay out of stuff between Rhena and Ally.”

  “What stuff?”

  “For one thing, they’re both running for seventh-grade Spirit Captain.”

  “Okay?”

  “No. Not just okay. Spirit Captain is big. Major big. Every class gets one rep, but the seventh-grade class gets to send forth the school Captain, and that’s where the real power is at. For a full week, the Captain is in charge of what we wear, what we eat, how we cheer. Shoot, if the Spirit Captain wants us to eat limes for lunch, wear babushkas to gym class, and do down dogs in English, then lime-eating-babushka-wearing down dogs is what’ll happen.”

  “Wow.” I laughed. “Really?”

  Turner stayed serious. “What the Captain says goes. Period. And the administration completely supports their reign. We even get graded on participation, because the teachers say it educates us about politics.” His eyebrows lifted.

  “You know.” He nodded, urging me to get it. “By making us experience the benefits or consequences of electing leaders.”

  Ugh. I sighed. I hadn’t really noticed the election except for using posters as GPS; I had been so focused on my plan for making friends—a plan I’d just derailed.

  Turner shook his head. “Every year it’s a competition with Rhena and Ally. Who’ll be captain of the swim team? Who’ll have the best grades? Now this. I’d just stay out of the middle if I were you.”

  A little late for that advice.

  The door swung open. “We’re going to forget the Smart Board presentation,” Mr. Kersey said, “and talk about the Temple of Apollo.”

  I heard none of the lecture, too busy trying to figure out a formula to make this right. Should I tell Rhena I was sorry? That I didn’t know the zapping rules? I squirmed, wondering why Ally would put me in this position, but knowing I’d never ask that question. Confrontation wasn’t my gig, and HSMS strongly advised against it.

  Outside, wind and rain whipped against the classroom windows. Even though the air conditioner rattled like it was pumping full blast, I was sure it was broken. The room felt like a sweat lodge, and I would know since Grams had taken Mom and me to one once.

  Drips of sweat trailed down my neck. But Rhena, sitting catty-corner in the front, looked absolutely weatherproof—all cool and comfortable with her Oxy-clear skin and flatironing skills. Her blue jean shorts and cute shirt made me rethink my outfit. I’d been going for comfortable with a touch of “Look! I love animals!” Now I wondered if my cargo shorts would’ve been a better choice for a fishing trip.

  Rhena took out a tube of gloss and flipped her smooth hair over a shoulder. I lifted a hand to my head and felt the frizz, wondering how she stayed so put-together like it wasn’t a thousand degrees in this room. She opened her gloss, dabbed on a layer of pink shine, and then let it drop to the ground next to her flip-flops. When she leaned down to grab it, she slipped a note to the girl behind her.

  The paper changed hands down the row of desks, finally landing one row over in the palm of a boy wearing a Cardinals hat. He unfolded it and I saw “ZAP” written on the top line. My skin prickled. I leaned forward to read more, but the boy caught me and shot a glance my way. I tried to fake like I wasn’t creeping in on his note, then changed tactics and zipped on my best I’m-sorry-for-snooping smile. He scrunched his eyebrows and sent a death-ray glare my way, so I tried to look anywhere other than at him. Out the window, at the wall, back at the cat clock.

  At this exact moment it clicked to 11:11 and jarred loose a memory of Grams saying a rhyme: “Pop. Click. Seconds tick. Wish at eleven-eleven, and watch it stick.”

  Grams had acted so strangely the day I’d walked in on her wishing on that clock, and the next day it had been replaced by a cuckoo.

  Now I was sitting in a classroom with a clock identical to Grams’s, stressing over how I was going to make something EXCITING happen before the end of the day. Not to mention the fact that I was stuck in a power duel between the two most popular girls at my school.

  Why not wish? I thought. It might be my only chance at making a good impression at this school. I always wished on birthday candles and shooting stars. Eyelashes and dandelions. I even wished with watermelon seeds and green M&M’s! Just then my signature snort-laugh slipped out.

  Mr. Kersey darted a curious glance my way but continued lecturing.

  I slid low in my seat. Still, I kept my gaze on the clock’s
face. Thirty seconds left. If I could truly have a wish, I thought, it should be for something epic for the zap. Something really good. Then people wouldn’t be annoyed with me for breaking the zapping rules. Girls would pass notes my way; boys would smile instead of shooting me death-ray glares.

  Another drop of sweat trailed down my neck, and I’m not lying when I say my brain cells felt fried by the August sun. It was so scorching here that my mind went to thinking a break from the heat would be exciting—and especially exciting for anyone who had lived in the desert their whole life. I squeezed my eyes tight. Thunder clapped, and I silently mouthed, “Pop. Click. Seconds tick. Wish at eleven-eleven, and watch it stick.” Then I launched my 11:11 wish at the universe. “I wish it would snow today.”

  I opened my eyes. A flash of lightning filled the classroom, and I felt a surge of hope. I sat up tall. Middle school, Arizona, this zap—this was my big chance. New school, new opportunities, new me. With a few seconds left on the clock and another crackle of thunder, I added, “And give me some magic, too.”

  The rain stopped and the classroom was quiet, everyone writing in notebooks. The air conditioner rumbled, churning and chugging out puffs of lukewarm air like it was mocking me for wishing for snow. It was 110 degrees outside, nowhere near the freezing point of water. I leaned my forehead on the back of my hand. What was I going to do by three p.m.? Wishing wasn’t going to help with a zap dare.

  The teacher’s voice registered in my brain. “Megan, are you okay?”

  I looked up. Mr. Kersey and twenty-nine students were staring at me—yep, two classes in a row of awkward, gaping attention. “Ahh, yeah, I’m good.” I bounced my head up and down for emphasis, a move well played if I was going for the bobblehead look.

  “Okay.” He patted the air, trying to press down everyone’s muffled giggles. “Megan,” he said in a confidential tone, which of course made everyone listen extra carefully. “You’ve got ink on your forehead.”

  I looked at the back side of my hand. The “ZAP” had smudged thanks to a sweaty forehead, which probably meant I had a twin “ZAP” or “PAZ” or something blue and inky plastered above my eyebrows. Ugh. I rubbed it off with my thumb.

  “Class,” Mr. Kersey announced, “our quiz on Wednesday will cover the chapter on ancient Greece. It will count as five percent of your history grade, so I expect you all to make a positive start to the school year.” He looked at me again. “Megan, since you’ve missed the first two weeks of class, you’re not expected to take the quiz unless you feel prepared.”

  “Excuse me?” Turner raised his hand.

  “Yes, Turner?”

  “I don’t feel prepared. Can I take the test later, too?”

  Mr. Kersey exhaled. “You’re welcome to come see me during office hours, or you can study with a friend. Which brings me to my next point: it’d be a good idea if everyone could find study partners.”

  The bell rang and Mr. Kersey plopped a pile of papers onto his desk. “Take a study guide on your way out.”

  Turner shoved his notebook into his backpack and turned to the guy with the Cardinals hat. “Lunch, dude?”

  “Sure,” the boy said.

  I wondered if I could just turn to one of these girls and make a lunch plan that easily. I looked at Yoona, testing out my best hopeful smile.

  Yoona dropped her gaze to her shoes, her licorice-black hair covering her face.

  Shelby shook her head. “You made a big mistake on that zap, new girl.” She turned to Yoona. “Come on.” They gathered their stuff and headed out.

  Suddenly, the reality of being saddled with a zap dare hit me hard. I had to make something exciting happen. Today. Or my reputation as a dud would be sealed for the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER

  4

  When the classroom emptied, I headed to my locker, alone. Again.

  As I rounded a corner, I nearly bumped smack into a girl carrying an oversized leather messenger bag.

  “Ah, good,” she said. “I finally found you.”

  I stopped. “Me?”

  The girl unsnapped the bag hanging at her side. She lifted a tan leather flap and the sweet smell of tangerines filled the air. “Yes, you,” she said, rummaging inside her bag.

  For a half second, I wondered if she was my missing ambassador. Maybe she’d help me with the zap or save me from facing the cafeteria alone. But she looked too old to be a student. And her lens-free glasses, pigtails, and gold nose ring told me she wasn’t a teacher, either. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. The office is just a few doors down. I’m sure they can help you find whoever you need.”

  Her almond-shaped, green eyes matched the cat’s on her T-shirt. “Nope. No mistake. I’m looking for you.” She gave me a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring. “Seriously,” she said, returning to scrounging through her bag, “I should get organized. Maybe if I arranged things alphabetically, or by location, or by wish.”

  “Huh?”

  Her sentences spilled out in a rush. “Now, let’s see. Where is it? It would be tragic if I gave your package to my previous delivery.” Her eyebrows popped up. “Can you imagine how horrible that could turn out?”

  “I really think you’ve made a mis—”

  “You are Megan Meyers. Right?” She tucked her chin, looking in her bag, both hands now sorting through it.

  “Does this have something to do with that zap dare?” I looked around to see if Rhena or Ally was hiding behind a doorway. “Or the Spirit Week elections?”

  She giggled and the fluorescent light overhead flickered. “Nope. At least I don’t think so.”

  My mouth went dry. What was going on?

  “Ah, yes.” She pulled a thin box from her bag and held it out. It looked like it had been meticulously wrapped in a paper grocery bag and measured a little larger than a spiral notebook. “This is for you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. Yep. Yep,” she trilled. The light overhead sparked and then hummed.

  Again, I glanced both ways down the empty hallway, before looking at the box in her hands. Shiny golden twine wrapped the outside of the package. The folds were perfect on every corner. Everything about it seemed to sparkle, even though the paper wrapping was dirt brown.

  She pushed it forward. I took it and the hair on my arms spiked. I swear the package vibrated. “Whoa!” I said, dropping it on the floor. “Sorry.” I knelt to pick it up, and as I did, I noticed the glamorous and curlicued writing, like calligraphy on an invitation to an actual ball. And there under elaborate stamps and markings was my name. Miss Megan Meyers.

  Who would send me a package? And who would know the name and address of my new school other than my dad?

  “Did my dad send this?” I asked.

  “Your dad? That would be crazy. He’s a bit too scientific for something like this. Am I right?” The girl laughed like we were in on a joke together.

  “How did you get my name?”

  “From the delivery roster, of course. Oh, and one more thing.” She reached back into her bag and whipped out a scroll, adjusted her lens-free glasses, cleared her throat, and began reading. “No returns. No guarantees . . .” Her words flew a hundred miles a minute, like a radio announcer at the end of a used-car ad.

  The speeding chatter ended with “. . . does not include tax, title, or license.” She shoved a golden fountain pen into my hand. “Please sign here, accepting terms and delivery.”

  “But—”

  “I know you think there’s a mistake, but there’s no mistake. It’s your package. It says so right here. Now, quick quick. I have a full bag and a busy day.”

  I signed, glancing at the return address. It had been written longhand: 1111 Desear Lane, Pique Z. & Phair. E. Conservatory, When You Wish for Magic We Deliver.

  Maybe it wasn’t from Dad after all.

  “Who . . .” I looked up, and the girl was gone.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The bathroom reeked
of lemon Clorox. I ducked into a stall and sat on the toilet seat lid, backpack squished between my feet and package resting on my lap. I pulled out my phone and thumbed a text to Dad, asking if he’d sent something to me.

  Dad: No. Why? And please tell me this is your lunch hour and you’re not texting in the middle of class.

  Okay, not from him. I picked up the package and examined it more closely. The bottom left corner had something written in elfin-sized print. I leaned in and squinted. It said:

  LEGAL NOTICE: UNWRAPPING THIS BINDS YOU TO THE ENCHANTED CONTENTS AND CHARMED OBLIGATIONS. IF YOU CANNOT MAKE SUCH A COMMITMENT, DO NOT PROCEED. DO NOT UNFASTEN A SINGLE PIECE OF TAPE, OR UNTIE THE TWINE. SIMPLY DEPOSIT THE UNDISTURBED PARCEL IN THE NEAREST POSTAL BOX. HOWEVER, IF YOU ARE ALLURED BY THE PROMISE OF MAGIC, AND CHOOSE TO REMOVE THE TAPE AND UNRAVEL THE WRAPPING, UNDERSTAND THAT YOU ARE PLEDGED, AND RESPONSIBILITY WILL REST IN YOUR HANDS TO BE A GOOD CUSTODIAN OF THE MAGIC.

  “What the—” The main bathroom door scraped open.

  “Do you think he was looking at me?” a girl said.

  “Yes. He is so crushing on you,” another girl replied.

  “Seriously? I hope so. Should we go back and hang out with him or wait till he comes over to us?”

  I sat motionless in my stall and tried to make sense of everything. Not whether the guy was crushing on the chatting girl—I mean, science can go only so far in predicting attraction—but enchanted contents? Charmed obligations? Ummm, yes, please. I could absolutely positively use some magical help.

  I rested the package on my knee and started tearing open a corner. The girls stopped talking, maybe because all the crinkling noises in my stall made it sound like I was struggling with a giant tampon wrapper. I froze and stayed still until they left, which gave me time to think—maybe I’d better not open this at school in case it was a prank. Who gets real magic other than Disney characters?

  Still, that delivery girl knew my name and she had said “wish”—I did make a wish at 11:11, after all, so that left a few options: either everything was a colossal coincidence or a practical joke, or this package was . . . magical?