The 11

by Kim Tomsic

  The magic kept going all kinds of wrong, and I still had to figure out what flashmob to wish for . . . even though the potential consequences were clearly CATastrophic. I shook my head at my dorkiness, but at least I could still laugh at myself.

  I texted Hannah again.

  Me: Ideas???

  Mrs. Matthews’s advice buzzed in my brain—it’s important to develop multiple strategies for solving difficult equations. That’s when I thought of the mathematical formula for creativity, C = fa(KIE).

  CHAPTER

  28

  Twinkle. The bell chimed as Ally swung open the door to Mojo’s. A blast of cool air hit my face, along with the smell of baking waffle cones. The floor was teal and white checkers, and the walls were lined with silver-handled frozen yogurt machines.

  “Good stuff,” Ally said, breaking the silence.

  I nodded, but I was busy calculating C = fa(KIE).

  Back in the 1970s, this professor, Dr. Ruth Noller, had come up with a mathematical formula for creativity: C = fa(KIE). Her formula says creativity (C) is a function (f) of knowledge (K), imagination (I), and evaluation (E). The small letter a is the most important part; it stands for a positive attitude.

  Why not use the formula to come up with a flashmob? You can do this, I told myself. That was my big pep talk. You can do this. I had the positive attitude. Now all I had to do was fill in the KIE.

  Here are the details of what I could plug into Dr. Ruth Noller’s formula:

  (K) Knowledge. I’d seen enough flashmobs on YouTube to know fun meant music, lots of people, plus high energy. Also, I couldn’t copy. Got it.

  (I) Imagination. One imagination is fine, but several combined could be the ticket. All I had to do was find a way to get everyone to collaborate. Then I could gather suggestions and go with the most popular idea for the flashmob. That way, everyone would be as invested in the plan as I was.

  (E) Evaluation. After gathering ideas I’d evaluate the positives and negatives and pick one.

  We filled our cups and paid, and between the two groups, we took every chair in the tiny place. Rhena sat at the table directly next to Ally and me—probably to be obnoxious. Nerves twisted my stomach tighter and tighter, and I kept looking out the window to see if any cats had followed us.

  “Megan?” Rhena said.

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t you like it?” She pointed her spoon at my half-melted yogurt. “Or do you and your cats prefer plain milk?”

  “Ha-ha, Rhena.” I wished I had the guts to challenge her meanness, but I just stirred my yogurt, staring at the number two that was still on my hand. Everyone else was almost done already.

  “So tell us, Megan. What ideas do you have for the flashmob?” Rhena asked casually.

  “Hey,” Ally said. “No. We’re not talking about that.”

  “What’s the big secret?” Rhena shrugged. “You said it’s for our class. We’re members of the seventh grade, so it’s not like we’d sabotage it.”

  “So you say,” Ally said.

  “Paranoid much?”

  “Maybe we could all brainstorm together,” I said, grateful for the perfect opening to get collaboration under way.

  “You don’t even have an idea,” Shelby said.

  “No, I do,” I said, my voice high-pitched. “I was thinking . . .” Think. Think. Think like a Math Olympian. The odds of someone just blurting out an unprompted idea was probably like the odds of someone losing a limb in a chain-saw accident—1 in 4,464. But if I started the metaphorical idea ball rolling, the chances of someone else offering up a suggestion had to increase.

  Ally’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Well.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve seen all those flashmob dances on YouTube.”

  Shelby rolled her eyes. Rhena yawned.

  Breathe, I told myself. There are many paths to solving a problem. “But instead of a dance,” I hurried, “we could choreograph ahh . . .” A what? I thought. “Umm . . . a cartwheel routine?” The tone of my voice swung up with each punctuation, making what I said sound like a question. Math club was still on my mind, so I added, “Like three girls could cartwheel? Then nine people could go? And then twenty-seven? You know, like in increasing exponentials of three.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Ally said. “I like.”

  “Sounds fun,” Yoona said.

  “Huh?” Shelby said.

  “Three, then three times three is nine,” I said. “Then nine times three is twenty-seven, and then twenty-seven times three is eighty-one, and so forth.”

  “Seriously?” Rhena frowned. “You want us to have a math flashmob?”

  “I guess it would be rough when we got to two forty-three.” My words dwindled to a mutter. What a mistake.

  “Anything else?” Rhena asked.

  “Maybe someone else wants to offer an idea?” I suggested.

  “No,” Ally said, smacking her hands together in one loud clap. “We’re putting this to rest. The flashmob was announced as part of our campaign, Team Free Spirit, and we’re not talking about any more parts of the planning phase in front of you, Rhena. If it flops, it’s our neck on the line, not yours.”

  There went my plan to collaborate.

  “Yeah,” Erin said. “Your pack of patchoulis needs to back off.”

  “Whatever.” Rhena glanced at her phone. “Hey. My mom’s here to drive me home. Who wants a ride?”

  The Rhenites stood.

  “Bye, you guys,” Yoona said.

  A few other Rhenites said good-bye. Shelby and Rhena left without a word. Soon others left, too.

  Erin, Noelle, and Mia walked back to the dispensers for refills while I stared at my melted yogurt, feeling dumb about my exponential cartwheel idea.

  “Hey,” Ally said. “Moving’s tough, huh?”

  “Does it show that much?”

  “You’re doing great.”

  “Sorry about freaking out on the cats.”

  “Yeah. That was a little bizarre.” She laughed and wiped a napkin over her mouth. “So how’s everything else going? At school, I mean.”

  “Good.” I nodded. “Good.”

  Ally smiled. “Other than Rhena, Saguaro Prep’s a decent place.”

  “Yeah. I’ve met a lot of nice people. You guys. And Jackson. And Turner. He’s in my history class.”

  “Turner is great.” Ally looked thoughtful, then smiled. “So quirky.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t have any classes with Jackson, but . . .” I looked down and moistened my lips.

  “He’s pretty cute, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “Crushing?”

  I nodded again.

  “So I moved here four years ago,” Ally said. “My mom wanted us to live closer to my abuela after my parents divorced. The first month sucked.”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  “It sucked bad. I cried every day after school and before school and sometimes during school.”

  “About your parents?”

  “Yeah. But I thought I was crying about school. I hated leaving all my friends and my neighborhood. And I dreaded lunchtime.”

  “Come on. You probably had a thousand friends by the end of your first day.”

  “Not after the first day.” She smiled. “But pretty quickly. Like you have all of us now.” She spooned a Swedish fish into her mouth and between chews said, “Oh, and we’re meeting at the bagel stand for lunch tomorrow. Can you come?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Even after all the weirdness, Ally still wanted to hang out with me. This was so different from Colorado, where I would just tag along with Hannah and no one else really gave me a chance.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about Rhena and the way she treats you and how she’s negative about your flashmob ideas. I think your idea was creative.”

  I nodded, wanting to ask—to beg—if we could call it off. But then what would everyone think of me?

  “Rhena’s such a pickle princess,” Erin said, returning with the others
and sitting down.

  “Whoa, language,” Noelle said.

  Ally and Mia laughed, but then Mia adjusted her glasses and grew serious. “She really is mean.”

  “Right,” Noelle said. “Remember when she shut Yoona out of their group for a few weeks last year and no one would sit with her?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Ally said with a scolding look. “She thought no one would sit with her. She could’ve sat with us. I invited her, but she said she didn’t want to cause problems. That’s why she chose to eat in the counselor’s office instead.”

  “If you say so.” Mia spooned up a bite of yogurt.

  “I have no idea why people care what Rhena thinks,” Ally said.

  “I’m with Ally on this,” Erin said.

  “I don’t know.” Noelle traced a finger over her henna. “I wouldn’t want Rhena’s attention aimed at me.”

  “You guys!” Ally let out an exasperated breath and turned to me. “Never mind them. You stand your ground. Rhena’s probably just freaking out since Jackson’s crushing on you.”

  My heart hammered. “No he’s not.”

  Mia nodded.

  “Really?” I said, looking at my hands.

  “Uhhh, yes, you gourd,” Erin said. “Of course he is.”

  I couldn’t hold down my smile.

  Noelle smiled back. “We all saw him at lunch.”

  The door dinger chimed. Rhena stepped halfway inside and said, “Hey, Ally.” She made her voice sound bored and monotone. “My mom’s making me ask again if you’d like a ride since we’re neighbors and all.”

  Ally shrugged. “All right. Sure.” And then in a whisper to us, “I’ll take the ride just ’cause I know it’ll bug her.” She tossed down her napkin and headed out the door.

  Erin, Mia, Noelle, and I stayed to finish our yogurts. Then we said good-bye and headed in separate directions. The walk home was a scorcher. In addition to keeping a wary eye out for cats, I looked for any shaded paths I could find.

  After twenty minutes, I got to my street. My nose twitched, and then I spotted two gray rabbits hopping around a saguaro cactus. It was like I could smell them before I saw them. Suddenly, I felt like I needed them. I had to have those rabbits! My shoulders lifted. My eyes locked on the bunnies, and before I knew it, the chase was on. “Rabbit! Rabbit!”

  They circled a cactus. I kicked up gravel and circled with them. They dashed toward another yard, and I pumped my legs to keep up.

  “What are you doing?” a lady called. “Stop. You there. Stop!” She flailed her hose in the air, cool water splashing me. I froze in place and peeled my laser focus away from my prey. My mouth formed a small silent o.

  The lady sputtered words and held a hand to her heart. Her face expressed the very question in my head: Have you lost your mind?

  “Young lady. You should not torment nature. Those wild rabbits are part of our ecosystem.”

  “Yes, meow. I mean ma’am. I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

  I ran the rest of the way home. The weirdness was getting worse.

  Was I turning into a cat?

  CHAPTER

  29

  My hands shook as I jiggled the key into the slot. “Piper? Dad? Anybody?” I hollered. I was alone. Even Archie was at that doggie camp. I raced to the bathroom mirror and inspected for whiskers and fur. Nothing, thank goodness.

  I ran up the stairs, losing my flip-flops on the way. I dropped my backpack on the floor and rushed to the bathroom mirror to inspect my face again. Still nothing. I took a deep breath. I needed to talk to Grams. Her technology-free bike tour couldn’t have come at a worst time. A growl rumbled from somewhere, either my stomach . . . or my throat!

  I upended my backpack and dumped out my Moleskine journal and the magazine. Enchanted Teen had to give me more information. It had to!

  “Expired Issue” flashed on the cover, and the inside pages were all blank. The only page that had kept its print was the Marilyn Monroe quote I’d torn out and tacked up on my wall. I dropped onto the bed and Googled the name of the perfume sample I had used today, “Parfum de Cataire.” Obviously “parfum” meant “perfume,” but what was “cataire”? Nothing came up, so I typed “cataire” by itself. Google popped up with a result line that said: “Tip: Search for English results only.” Under that was an image of a green plant and the word “catnip.”

  “Perfume of Catnip!” I said out loud. No wonder the cats had followed me!

  My breath was unsteady. Stop panicking and be smart, I told myself. It was time to reassess the hypothesis. I opened my orange journal and scanned my notes. Seeing the stuff I’d written about specific and unspecific wishes made me start laughing. Not a happy laugh, but the kind of sound you might hear from a mad scientist who realizes she’s gotten everything wrong.

  Costs had been racking up over the past three days, and the formula was simple: the more magic I used—clock or magazine, specific or unspecific—the more costs I had to pay. Plain and simple.

  My heart hammered. Grams would know what to do. Magic wasn’t free, and I had no idea what the rest of the costs would be, but I was starting to think they had something to do with turning me into a cat!

  Desperate times called for researcher thinking—Grams might not have her cell phone, but the hotels she stayed at during stops must have phones. I got online and searched the tour group Hannah had mentioned, Seniors in Provence. I scrolled down until I found a list of their Wednesday activities. The roster said: “Today includes thirty-one miles of riding—Joucas to Blavac to Pesquie to Mazan. Truffle picnic at Chateau Pesquie. Hotel at Chateau de Mazan.” I clicked on the website link for the hotel and—ahhhhh, a phone number.

  I dialed and it rang and rang and rang. Just when I thought no one would ever answer, someone picked up.

  “Hello!” I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest and jetting out my words. “Hello. Do you speak English? I hope you speak English. I’m calling for a guest. Esmerelda Meyers. She’s my grandmother. This is Megan. Meyers. May I please speak with her? It’s urgent.”

  “It is very late,” said a woman with a thick accent.

  Right. I gulped. The nine-hour time difference meant it was almost two in the morning.

  “Please. Lo siento . . . or . . .” I paused. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak French. This is important.” I squeezed an arm around my shins.

  “You are her granddaughter?”

  “Yes.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Alors. Please hold.”

  Some time passed, and then I heard Grams’s tired voice. “Hello?”

  “Grams. It’s Megan.”

  “Megan, honey! What’s wrong?”

  “Ummm.” My words stuck. I pulled at a green thread on my ruffled pillowcase and gulped.

  “Out with it. I’m getting older by the minute.”

  I rushed out the full update on the catnip, meows, et cetera, ending with a high-pitched “I think I’m turning into a cat!”

  Grams was chuckling. Chuckling! And under her breath she said, “Catnip. Giuseppe Bellini, you are funny.”

  “Hello! What do I do?”

  “For starters, calm down,” Grams said. “There’s no point in panicking. You said no whiskers, no fur, so there’s no outward sign that you’re becoming a cat, right? My guess is that you’re just taking on catisms.”

  “Catisms! I can’t go around middle school meowing!”

  “True.”

  “When will I be finished paying?”

  “When, indeed.” She laughed. She actually laughed!

  “Grams!”

  “Listen, sugar. You invited this problem in, so now the cat noises are with you until you figure out how to send them away.”

  I bolted up to sitting. “How am I supposed to do that? I don’t even know why I’m still paying. I’ve only wished for frivolous stuff. Or . . .” I paused. “This is about my original wish. Isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do you think asking for some magic is
lazy, Grams?”

  “When you said it, what did you really want? What was the truth behind that desire?”

  I stared at my ceiling and shook my head.

  “Well?”

  “I guess I wanted to be popular.”

  “Pshaw,” Grams said. “That’s surface stuff. What’s at the core of what you want the most?”

  “Well.” I thought for a moment of how easy it had been talking to Ally’s friends when I believed the perfume made me sound interesting. “I guess the truth is that I struggle with what to say or with tripping over my words or clamming up or saying a bunch of stuff that’s not even true just to impress people.”

  “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. You want the courage to speak up authentically. Good. Think hard,” she said, urgency in her voice. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

  “I . . . I think I understood the cats today. I just don’t know what it means.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Everybody else heard meows. But I heard the cats say, ‘Cat got your tongue?’”

  “Interesting,” Grams said.

  The panic of understanding sent my tone high-pitched. “Is the cost my voice?”

  I wanted Grams to say no, of course not. But she stayed quiet before softly saying, “What do you think?”

  I knew what I thought. But I also wanted to be wrong. I wanted a loophole. “How do you know about the clockmakers and stuff?”

  Grams sighed. “Let’s just say Giuseppe Bellini was sweet on me back in the day.”

  “You dated the clockmaker!”

  “For a short while. He had his good traits. But he wasn’t for me. Grandpa was friends with him, too, so when Gramps and I got married, Giuseppe gave us one of the eleven cat clocks he and his brother had crafted.”

  “And he told you all the rules.”

  “Not exactly. His brother, Remy Bellini, was sweet on me, too. He’s the one who etched the rhyme on the back of the clocks and fessed up the secret of how to use the magic properly. Remy couldn’t remove the magic Giuseppe had attached to the clock, but as a favor to me, Remy cast his own spell that would provide an energy source to help influence good choices.”