Bras & Broomsticks

by Sarah Mlynowski

  My sister’s eyes widen again, and her long lashes touch the base of her eyebrows. “Does Dad know?”

  My mother shakes her head. “I never told him. I decided in college that I didn’t want to be a practicing witch. When I met your father, I was embarrassed that I was different.” She crosses her arms. “I chose to repress the parts of me he wouldn’t understand.”

  “An excellent basis for a marriage,” I say. “No wonder you’re divorced.” Omigod. Omigod. My sister is a witch. My mother is a witch. It’s impossible.

  It’s true.

  Omigod. Wait a sec. “What do you mean you didn’t want to be a practicing witch?”

  “I preferred, and still do, not to use magic in my life. I excommunicated myself from the witchcraft community.”

  Suddenly, the impact of this entire conversation hits me as if I’ve just been whacked with a broomstick. “But . . . why not?” Is she crazy? She can have anything she wants. I can have anything I want. Zit-proof skin! A flying carpet! No hair on my upper lip!

  “Magic isn’t all ruby slippers and castles,” my mom says sternly, as if she’s reading me a warning label. “There are consequences to every spell. And as I told you, I wanted you girls to grow up having normal childhoods.”

  Of course I’m not listening. Instead, my mind is whirring. Seven-day weekends! School? So yesterday. Knowledge will be automatically downloaded into our brains!

  But . . . where would we meet boys?

  “What was your childhood like?” Miri asks my mom, interrupting my happy fantasy.

  She sighs and looks down at the comforter. “Different. Difficult. One day I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”

  A time machine to see what our parents were like in high school! So we can make fun of their clothes!

  Miri’s face scrunches up. “So I shouldn’t tell Dad? Did your father know?”

  We never met our mother’s parents. They both died before we were born. “He knew,” my mom says. “My mother told him. But he didn’t deal with it well.” She bites her thumbnail. “You’ll have to make the decision about whether to tell your father. It’s your choice.”

  My mouth feels sandpapery. “Can one of you poof me up a glass of fruit punch?” This witch thing is going to make my life a lot easier.

  My mother shakes the burning part of her cigarette at me. “No way. This is exactly what I was talking about. Laziness is no excuse for magic. Trust me,” she says, and gets a constipated look on her face. “I’ve seen the consequences, and I don’t recommend Miri use magic to do homework. Or to ace tests. Or to get fancy clothes or toys.”

  What toys? Am I seven? Did I ask for the deluxe Barbie Corvette?

  Although I wouldn’t mind if my mother or sister poofed up a real Corvette. A red one. Convertible. And a driver’s license. “What consequences? What’s the big deal?”

  “We don’t need to talk about everything tonight,” my mom tells us. “But am I being clear, girls? Miri is not allowed to use her spells for trivial matters.”

  I’m so confused. “What is Miri allowed to use her powers for?”

  My mother stubs out her cigarette. “Every witch has to decide what’s right for her. Including Miri. That’s why I’m training her; so she’ll be able to make an informed decision. I’ve chosen not to use my powers. Some witches take advantage of them for personal gain. Others use them to illuminate a path, and show people the way to goodness. A witch could try to make the world a better place by putting suggestions in people’s minds to end various wars. The problem with that is that sometimes a spell meant for good ends up causing unintentional disastrous consequences. One witch I knew once tried to end an African heat wave and ended up causing an ice storm in Kansas City. After Miri’s training is complete, she’ll have to decide for herself whether or not she wants to pursue her witchdom. And if she does, I’m hoping she’ll take the altruistic route. Carefully, of course.”

  “Mom.” I tut-tut, shaking my head. “Is it fair to make a twelve-year-old feel responsible for world peace?”

  My sister smiles serenely. “I understand what Mom means. If I choose to use magic, I can will people to do good deeds at school and stuff. Maybe if a bully is about to beat up a smaller kid, I can mentally suggest to him how he would feel if the tables were reversed. And then maybe he won’t be mean.”

  I eye Miri warily. She so isn’t going to make the most of this. This is a girl who does all her homework on the day it’s assigned. Magic will be wasted on her. Like boobs. She’s not even excited—I’d be bouncing off the floor like a basketball. She’s definitely going to need some sisterly steering. “Hello? Miri, can you get psyched, please? You have magical powers.”

  She shrugs her small shoulders. “I am excited. But I always suspected something was different about me. Like how Tigger always obeys me, and why no one ever found me during hide-and-seek.”

  Tigger always listens to Miri. She says, “Tigger, I’m freezing. Will you bring me a blanket?” and the fat fur ball digs his pointy little teeth into the purple afghan and drags it across the room. And me? Nothing. I can call “Here, Tigger, Tigger” for centuries and that cat won’t even blink. He’ll squat on my biology textbook despite my waving my arms and screaming that I have a test the next day. Does he care? Does he move? No. I assumed cats just didn’t like me. I didn’t realize Miri could communicate with them.

  And now that I think about it, I could never find her during hide-and-seek. I would cover my eyes, count down from twenty, then look in the traditional places: under the bed, between the coats at the backs of the closets, behind the couch. No Miri. Not even my father could find her. My friends couldn’t. Dave the fireman couldn’t. (Although my mom might have asked him up just to ogle his hotness.) “Where did you hide?”

  “In the bathtub. But I would suggest to you not to look there, and you wouldn’t. See? I always wondered what was different about me, and now I know. And anyway, I’ve had some time to let the news sink in. Mom and I talked about this all last night and today.”

  Excuse me? “You knew this since yesterday? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I heard them talking, but I thought they were discussing pollution or something, not anything important.

  My mom puts her arm around Miri. “I wanted to see how she felt. And emphasize that she’s not allowed to use any magic at all, until she’s fully trained.”

  She said that will take at least a year! Reading my mind (really reading my mind?), my mom gives me a serious look. “I didn’t want anyone to tell her otherwise.”

  “But . . . you zapped me up new shoes,” I say feebly.

  “I did that when you called to ask if you could go for pizza, before I knew the rules,” Miri admits. “I wasn’t sure it would really work. Mom said you were excited that you were invited, and I thought I’d give you something to show off.”

  I guess that’s why I didn’t notice them all day. They only appeared on my feet after French class.

  “Miri didn’t tell me what she had done,” my mom clarifies. “So when you called back to thank me, I couldn’t have you run around the city in magic shoes. What if they disappeared and left you barefoot in the restaurant, or on your way home? The sidewalks are cold.” Then she shook her head at Miri. “I knew we needed to talk.”

  Miri picks up a sneaker and squeezes it like an orange. “Seems fine.”

  “Still,” my mom reminds Miri and me for the hundredth time, “no more magic until you’ve finished your training.”

  She can remind me five zillion times. There is no chance I’m waiting 365 days to test out Miri’s magic! Obviously, I’ll have to have a word with my sister in private. My stomach grumbles. “So conjuring up cup-cakes from Magnolia Bakery is out, too?” They’re delicious.

  “No Magnolia Bakery,” my mother says, exasperated.

  “But they don’t deliver!”

  Miri is shaking her head in disbelief.

  I narrow my eyes. “If she starts suggesting to me that we switch rooms, that’s
completely unfair. I’m older and I’m entitled to the bigger one.”

  My mother and Miri sigh in harmony.

  “Good thing Miri is the one with the powers,” my obnoxious mother says.

  So now it’s three in the morning, and I can’t fall asleep. I keep flipping my pillow over, trying to find the cold side, but both feel like chairs that have just been sat on.

  I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at the pyramid-shaped reading lamp on my night table.

  Reading lamp . . . turn on!

  Nada.

  Reading lamp . . . make it light! I wiggle my fingers at it.

  Stupid lamp.

  I know the witch stuff sounds insane, and I wouldn’t blame anyone for not believing me. If it weren’t my own crazy family, I wouldn’t buy it either.

  But . . . it is my family. And the more it sinks in, the cooler it is. With Miri’s help, I can have movie stars on my speed dial. A Jacuzzi in my closet. A boyfriend. She’ll zap my room clean. (Who needs a robot?) Give me bionic hearing. Poof me up a new wardrobe. The possibilities are endless. Endless!

  And I’m not waiting a year. Nice try, Mom. I got Miri to watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy with me four times in a row during my Tolkien phase; surely I can convince her to whip me up a spell or two. Where to begin?

  Hmm.

  Watching them fly around on Halloween will be nerve-wracking. But this is the most kissed-by-a-prince/ win-the-lottery/so-amazing-it’s-unbelievable type of thing that has ever happened to me.

  Ahhh. I lie down and pull the covers over my head. Then, for the first time, realization washes over me.

  It’s not the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me. It’s the most amazing thing that has ever happened to . . . Miri.

  Witchcraft, an ability normally passed from mother to daughter, has skipped me. As with breasts, nature has decided I don’t qualify.

  By four thirty I still can’t sleep, so I decide that my mother shouldn’t either.

  Her ghastly early-morning breath wafts over me as I poke her in the shoulder. Unfortunately, that’s a trait I did inherit. I’m sure my future husband will appreciate it.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, sitting up. She’s still in her ratty concert tee. You’d think a witch could spruce herself up a bit. Give herself a free makeover or fake nails. Get her roots done. She has a blond ring orbiting her brown roots, as if she’s Saturn.

  I crawl into bed beside her. “You owe me an explanation. Why can’t I resuscitate lobsters? Do any witches get magic later in life?”

  She switches on her bedside lamp. “Normally magical powers appear during puberty, but some witches come into them when they have their first child.” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Mom!”

  “Just saying. Anyway, one woman I knew traumatized herself and her husband when she levitated their baby right out of the crib.”

  A balloon of hope fills me. “So it can still happen?”

  She nods. “It can.”

  Fantastic!

  And then she adds, “But it might not. Some daughters never become witches.”

  My balloon pops and sags lifelessly to the ground. “That’s so unfair. Why does Miri get powers and not me? She didn’t even finish the first Harry Potter and that was the shortest one. I read them all!”

  “Honey, I know you think witchcraft is all fun and games, but it comes with serious responsibilities. Maybe when you’re more mature and responsible—”

  “What do I have to do?” I whine. “Keep my room clean and make hundreds of useless lists like Miri?”

  “It’s not about specific actions. It’s more of a mental state.”

  “Oh,” I say, not sure whether I want to pout or cry at the unfairness of it all.

  “Miri looks up to you, and I expect you to help her deal with the changes in her life and to guide her to do the right thing.”

  Help Miri, guide Miri, blah, blah, blah. Miri gets everything.

  I rest my cheek against the pillow and look at my mom. “Remember in fourth grade when all the girls in my class were invited to Krissy Backer’s sleepover and I wasn’t?” I ask, feeling sad at the years-old memory. Then indignation fills me. Looking like a dork with those braces? Totally unnecessary. That haircut that had total strangers gasping with pity? Completely avoidable. I blink back tears.

  My mom studies me. “I know what you’re thinking, honey.”

  “Well, why didn’t you?” I blurt out. “You could have made my life a zillion times better if you had only used a smidgen of magic!”

  My mom smoothes back my hair. “I understand how it could seem that way to you. But trust me, magic isn’t all that it appears to be. I wanted you and Miri to experience life—with all its joys and its sorrows—not some artificial world that I created to make you happy.” She kisses my forehead. “I love you, Rachel. More than you’ll ever know.”

  “I love you too, Mom,” I say, sniffling. After a few minutes of witch-daughter bonding, I sit up. “Did Miri use magic to give herself boobs?”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “I developed early too. You take after your father. He didn’t have his growth spurt until he was seventeen.”

  Life is so unfair. “So I guess you can’t put a spell on me to become a witch.”

  “Afraid not,” my mom tells me. “If you’re meant to be one, you will be.”

  I get up and walk to the door with a sigh. “Well . . . can I at least keep the shoes?”

  My mom hesitates, then smiles. “I’ll make an exception just this once.”

  With that victory in hand, I drag my bare feet back into my bed. But instead of sleeping, I spend the next two hours trying to levitate my duvet.

  Unsuccessfully.

  4

  FLY, MIRI, FLY!

  It’s only quarter of nine on Friday morning and the day is already a disaster.

  First, I cornered Miri in the kitchen, begging her to zap away my horrendous under-eye circles.

  “Did you listen to a word Mom said? No!”

  “I was up all night digesting your witch news. Take some responsibility!”

  But noooooo.

  Then, she borrowed my new sneakers without asking, and since my black boots have been MIA since the switcheroo, I had to wear my smelly gym shoes. If she ever takes them again without my permission, I’m fully dropping a house on her.

  Except she’s the one with the powers, so I can’t even do that.

  Third, because I’m still in a trance from yesterday’s news, I tripped between the third and fourth floors and banged my knee on a metal stair. The bruise ain’t gonna be pretty.

  Fourth, Tammy went on and on about how fantastic yesterday’s pizza excursion was for the entire twenty minutes of homeroom, and she made me miss all the announcements.

  (I’m getting so much better at these lists. Maybe now I can have my powers?)

  “I really had the best time at Stromboli’s,” she says, for the eighty-seventh time, while unsnapping her lock. Her locker is right next to mine, because we’re in the same homeroom and our last names both start with Ws. I’m Weinstein and she’s Wise.

  “So who was there?” I ask.

  “Everyone.”

  She must see the look of dismay on my face, because she quickly wrinkles her nose, which makes it look big (I’ll admit it’s a bit on the large side, even though I always swear to her it isn’t), and adds, “I mean, not everyone. It wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t miss much.” She wobbles her right hand, which is her so-so signal.

  I don’t need psychic abilities to know she’s trying to make me feel better. “Was Jewel there?”

  “Um . . .” She pulls her green binder off her top shelf. “Yeah.”

  “And Raf? And Mick?”

  She bows her head. “Mick was. We sat at the same table.”

  Ouch. An oversharpened pencil spears my heart. “He would have been at my table if I’d been there,” I moan.

  “I hadn’t rea
lized he was such a nice guy,” she says, intensifying the chest stabbing. “I stuck my elbow in tomato sauce and he was the first one up to get me a napkin.”

  So unfair. It should have been me staining my shirt.

  “Maybe I’ll find out where they’re going tonight,” she says.

  “No point,” I say, and sigh heavily. “I have to go to my dad’s.”

  The most annoying part of having divorced parents is spending every second weekend on Long Island. I love my dad, and I want to spend time with him, but the packing, train taking, and missing out on all the weekend festivities are a massive disruption to a fourteen-year-old’s social calendar.

  Of course, if I have an important event—bat mitzvah, school function, shoe shopping—I can stay in Manhattan, but then I burn Miri by making her go to Long Island alone. My sister says STB nags her more when I’m not around. (“Stop biting your nails!” “Don’t pick at your food!” “No practicing your karate in the house!”) I don’t doubt it. STB never nags when my dad is there. She pulls a Jekyll and Hyde every time. When he’s there, she’s supersweet and helpful: “You’re so creative, Rachel!” As soon as he walks into the next room, she instantly becomes evil: “Why are you such a slob?”

  My dad hates when we miss a weekend. But now that he has STB, he can’t switch dates easily. She’s always got something up her wrinkle-free sleeve—dinners, theater tickets, trips to the Caribbean.

  We never went to the Caribbean when he was married to my mom. We never even went to the Jersey shore. To be fair, he wasn’t a partner in his law firm then and didn’t have as much money. We drove to Florida twice and took some weekend ski trips to Stowe, but we never left the country (unless you count World Showcase in Epcot). Those car rides were long. We’d play Geography, the game where you name a city/state/country that starts with the final letter of the place last named.

  “Vermont,” I’d start.

  “Texas,” my dad would say.