Bras & Broomsticks

by Sarah Mlynowski

  Yes!

  “Rachel?” Tammy asks, linking her arm through mine. “When you’re finished stalking, do you want to come for lunch?”

  Busted. “I was just—”

  She laughs. “Daydreaming. I know. He’s hot. But I’m starving.”

  Since I can’t confide in her, I nod and secretly plot my next move. I’ll have to take five minutes during class, when the hallway is empty, sneak back here, borrow Mick’s hat or his puke green gym shirt, hide it in my locker, and then run back to class. The obvious choice is to miss English, since I’m in advanced and therefore supposedly know what I’m doing.

  But French is boring.

  I can barely keep my eyes open.

  One of the reasons French is so boring is that I have no friends in the class. Tammy and Janice are in accelerated; Jewel and Sherry are in Spanish. Annie is in regular too, but she’s in another class.

  “Je parle, tu parles, il ou elle parle, nous parlons . . . ,” Doree Matson recites. As usual, she’s sitting in the front row and answering all the questions.

  When she finally gets to the end of her conjugation, I decide it’s now or never. “Excusez-moi, je dois aller à la toilette.” I hear a few titters from the peanut gallery in the front. They’re so childish. I hope I didn’t ask if I could pee on the floor.

  Did I?

  Madame Diamon nods and asks if anyone would like to conjugate parler in the conditional tense.

  Doree raises her hand.

  As I exit the class, I wonder what it’s like to teach a language all day that no one understands. To have to listen to people sounding like morons. Staring at you as if you’re not making sense. Asking if they can pee on the floor. I couldn’t ever become a second-language teacher. Partly because I barely speak a second language. But mostly because I don’t think I could teach.

  Not that I have a clue what I do want to be. A businesswoman? A rocket scientist? I don’t know what a rocket scientist does, but how fun would that be? To say you’re a rocket scientist. “It’s not rocket science,” a sexy stranger at a cocktail party would say. I’d lean in closer, allowing him an eyeful of my extraordinary cleavage (this is way down the line, so glistening cleavage is very plausible, if not likely). “Actually,” I’d say, “I am a rocket scientist,” and gasps would ensue. Mon dieu!

  Must concentrate on covert mission. James Bond music plays in the background. I really should have worn all black today instead of jeans, an orange sweater, and sparkling green shoes. How un-covert can I get?

  I skip down the stairs from the third floor. First stop, my locker. I need my geometry book. (When this spell is done, I should ask Miri to find one to improve my memory. I’d better write that down in case I forget.) Hmm. I probably should have noted which locker is Mick’s. They all look the same. Metal and narrow.

  I close my eyes and try to remember where he stood. Four to the left. No, five to the left. Six. Definitely six. This would be so much easier if I were a witch. I could purse my lips and make his locker glow.

  I purse my lips. Make the right locker glow!

  Nothing glows.

  Must remember. I think I was right the first time. Four to the left. I peer down the hall to make sure no one is coming. All clear. Peer down the other side. Also clear.

  I look at my textbook and see the seven, twenty-two, eighteen, then position myself in front of the fourth locker to the left. Here we go. I take a big breath and turn the dial to the right. Seven. Left, twenty-two. And then a quick eighteen. And . . .

  No go.

  I turn to the right. Seven. Left, and around once for good luck. Twenty-two. And then a slower eighteen. And . . . nope.

  Maybe it was the fifth locker over and not the fourth. If only my brain were like a TiVo and I could skip back to the last episode. I try the fifth locker. And then the next one. And the next one. And the entire row. It isn’t working. I need to concentrate.

  I slide to the floor, rest my head against the locker behind me, and breathe just like we learned in gym. In. Out. In. Out. Am I turning too fast? Do I have the wrong code? Why isn’t my plan working? Why is it so hard to steal a piece of clothing? Maybe I’ll tell Mick that I’m doing a project on shoes, and that I need to borrow his. Or maybe I’ll stand really close behind him and cut out a piece from the back of his sweater. It wasn’t tucked in. He’ll think he caught it in a door. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll try to catch him when the bell rings. But right now I’m tired. So very tired. It’s Miri’s fault for waking me up so early. Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a second. They’re so heavy. Yes, that feels good.

  The next thing I know, I’m being tapped on the shoulder.

  I open my eyes to see Mr. Earls, JFK’s vice principal, looming over me.

  “Taking a nap?” he asks. His eyebrows are too close together, like Bert from Sesame Street. I’ve seen him at assemblies and lurking in the hallway corners before, but I’ve never had the pleasure of being this close to him until now.

  “Just thinking,” I say. “I’m on my way back to class. Sorry, sir.”

  “There will be no thinking in the hallway on my watch. And I don’t think you were thinking. I think you were napping. And skipping class.” He scribbles something on his notepad and throws it at me. “Detention today after school. You can think then. But no napping.”

  What? Detention? Me? I’ve never had detention before. Ever. “Oh, please, sir. I was only here for two seconds.”

  “Do you want detention again tomorrow? That’s what you get for arguing with me.”

  Gulp. Someone’s on a power trip.

  Blinking back tears, I walk to French. Mr. Earls doesn’t realize who he’s messing with. One day I’ll have magical powers and then he’s so going to be morphed into a cat. A neutered cat. Yes, Mr. Earls, do you understand? One day people will call you Fluffy.

  As I return to my lonely seat in the back of the class, I feel a heaviness inside my lungs, like when I wake up some mornings and realize that Tigger is sitting on my chest. Life is so unfair. My mom has magical powers. Miri has magical powers and boobs. My dad has STB. Jewel is popular and has a new best friend. Tammy has . . . well, Tammy has Sherry, Janice, and Annie.

  And I have nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing . . . but detention.

  8

  DETAINED

  I am such a detention novice that I don’t even know where to go.

  I head to the school office on the first floor. “Excuse me.” I address the secretary. She’s staring at her computer screen and doesn’t appear to notice me. “Where do I go for detention?” Is it like prison work? Do they chain us evildoers together and force us to mop the gym? Repaint the halls?

  “Room one-oh-four,” she says without looking at me. “Next to the events board.”

  I was hoping she’d cry out, “Rachel Weinstein? A sweet freshman like you couldn’t possibly have done anything to deserve this awful punishment! Don’t be silly! Whoever gave you detention will be dismissed from his post! Go home and don’t worry your sweet self for one more minute!”

  I guess I’m dreaming. She wouldn’t know who I was unless she checked out the trophy case outside the office. When I ranked second at the math competition, I had mixed feelings about my placement being showcased. On the one hand, anyone who passes it will see my engraved name. On the other hand, winning math competitions is more likely to be the ticket to a Star Trek convention than to the kingdom of coolness. But I quickly realized that it didn’t matter. My name is barely even visible. The trophy was shoved into the back, behind the bowling club’s trophy. Yes, the bowling club. I would have assumed a math competition would be considered worthier than a bowling match at a high school, but what do I know?

  Anyway, the secretary doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t care that I’m not the type of girl to get detention. Not that I can blame her. I don’t know her name either. “And, um . . . what am I supposed to do in detention?” I ask.

  “Homework.”

  I slithe
r toward Room 104. Boring. The only thing keeping up my spirits is the possibility of a supremely hot rebel guy sitting near me in detention, à la the eighties movie The Breakfast Club. I’ll be Molly Ringwald, all princessy and serene, and he’ll be Judd Nelson, with that who-cares attitude. He’ll be wearing ripped jeans and a stashed cigarette behind his ear. At first we won’t speak. We’ll just eye each other. And then he’ll say something rebel-ish, like “Do you think we can smoke in here?”

  I’ll say, “I don’t smoke.” And then before the hour of detention is over, we’ll be hooking up. I’m not quite sure how we’ll get from my retort to the hooking up, but I’ll let him figure it out since I’ve already done more than my share of the planning.

  I hold my breath and open the door. Except for a scrawny teacher I recognize from the science department, the desks and chairs are empty. He looks up from his grading. “You’re Rachel?”

  At least someone knows my name. I sit down in the back row. “Yup.” I watch the front door for the rebel. I keep watching. Five minutes later, I raise my hand. The skinny teacher is scribbling all over the paper of some poor student and doesn’t notice. I wave again. I’d like to call out, but I don’t want to get another detention. I cough. Loudly.

  He looks up, annoyed. “Yes?”

  “I was wondering where everyone else was.”

  “You’re it.” He looks back down at his papers.

  I’m it? I was JFK’s worst student today? The biggest school rule that was broken in the last twenty-four hours was no napping in the hall? Where are the drugs? The weapons? The kids who skip class? The rebel caught smoking in the bathroom, who still has the audacity to stash a cigarette behind his ear?

  Bet this Mr. Science Teacher hates me. If it weren’t for my detention, he’d already be at home in his pajamas.

  La, la, la.

  I would have closed the door if I had thought I was the only one coming. I wonder if I’ll get a bad-girl rep if anyone sees me in here. I’ll have to dye my hair pink and get a tongue ring.

  In an attempt to suck up, I pull my bio homework out of my schoolbag. We have an assignment due on Friday.

  Twenty minutes later there’s a rustling of voices outside the door. “They’re not going to be able to find anyone,” a girl’s voice says.

  “But we have no choice,” says someone else. Someone who sounds like . . . Jewel?

  “Putting these posters up is such a waste of my time.”

  If I were just a fraction farther up, I’d be able to see them. I try to covertly scoot my desk up an inch. Nope. Another inch. One more. Five more.

  Science Man glares at me.

  I smile.

  I spot Melissa’s long red hair. Melissa and Jewel are outside my detention room.

  “Stop whining, Bee-Bee,” Jewel says.

  Bee-Bee? Bee-Bee? I feel nauseous.

  “If they weren’t good enough to get in the first time, they’re not good enough to get in now,” Melissa snaps.

  What are they talking about? The click-clack of their shoes tells me they’re about to pass my door, and I quickly scoot my desk backward so they won’t see me.

  I must see that poster.

  The remaining thirty-five minutes of detention takes at least three hours. Finally, finally, the hands of the clock above the door say 4:00. Freedom! I grab my bag and launch myself like a rocket from the chair into the empty hallway. In the distance I hear the muffled voices of students with far more energy than I have.

  As soon as I see the poster, I feel giddy, fizzy, like a soda can that someone shook and opened.

  freshman replacement dancer needed

  tryouts friday after

  school in the caf

  citygroove

  So that’s the crisis. Someone dropped out. Or broke a leg. They’re missing a dancer. Whoever the new dancer is, she’ll receive automatic A-list status. She’ll be able to hang around Jewel. She’ll be able to hang around Raf. She’ll definitely have a date for Spring Fling.

  My heart pounds in my chest. I want to be in the fashion show. I want to have automatic A-list status. I want to hang out with Jewel and Raf. I want to be so cool that I don’t have to capitalize.

  I’m going to try out.

  I clap with glee and do my hooray dance (which looks a lot like my victory dance) in honor of my new plan. In mid-twirl I trip and fall on my behind.

  So what if I have six left feet and the show is primarily a dance show?

  I know someone with a cure.

  9

  RUB-A-DUB-DUB, GREEN SLIME IN MY TUB

  I poke my head into Miri’s room. “Are you finished yet?”

  She throws her pencil case at me and nails me on the head. Since she’s started martial arts, her aim is much improved. “If you’d stop harassing me every four seconds, I would be. Can’t you just sit on the bed and wait?”

  “Miri, it’s been two days. The tryouts are tomorrow.” I close her door behind me so Mom won’t see the trouble we’re brewing in here. And I mean brewing, literally. Between Miri’s smelly feet is a white plastic bowl. They make her go barefoot in Tae Kwon Do, and I wouldn’t let her waste any time showering until she finished the spell. “What are you doing now?” I ask.

  “Mixing.” She’s sitting on her deep-green carpet, leaning against her bed.

  The blinds are closed. Wow, she’s even more paranoid than I am. Does she really think the sixty-year-old woman and her eight cats who live directly across from us care what we’re up to?

  Funny, the neighborhood watch would definitely peg her as a witch before Miri.

  I peek over the bowl’s edge to see what she has going on. The mixture is a weird orangey green. “You’re using the popcorn bowl? Gross.”

  “This was the popcorn bowl. It’s now a cauldron.”

  “Guess I’ll be having chips for a snack tonight. You should probably buy a new popcorn bowl.”

  “You get it, then. I’m doing this for you, in case you’ve forgotten.” She points to the spell book. “I need you to help with something. What is eighteen twenty-fourths of a cup?”

  “Three quarters,” I answer automatically.

  “Perfect.” She fills her mixing cup with some sort of crushed fruit. “The spell book is like a deranged math test with all these fractions.”

  I take a sniff. Yum. “It smells like an orange.”

  “It is. And a cup of crushed pistachio and two-fourths of a cup of butter, which is a half, right?”

  I nod. I got the math gene while she got the magic gene. Not fair.

  “And,” she says, dumping in the final cup, “ground red pepper.”

  Hmm. That actually sounds tasty. I do love pistachios. “Need any more help?”

  “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  I find my math homework. I’m suddenly in the mood.

  While I’m clearing the table after dinner (of course I’m clearing the table—these days I’m always setting or clearing the table. “Where’s Rachel? She must be in the kitchen setting or clearing the table”), Miri sneaks up behind me. “It’s done,” she whispers, and hands me the bowl, which is now greenish brown.

  “Am I supposed to eat this?”

  She laughs. Actually, it’s more like a cackle. Something I’ve noticed as part of her repertoire lately. “Only if you want major indigestion.”

  Witch humor? “So what do I do with it?”

  “Bathe in it.”

  “Are you insane?”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “That’s the dancing spell. If you don’t want to do it, don’t.”

  “I’m just kidding, Mir,” I say, feeling guilty for giving her a hard time. “Thank you. I appreciate your cooking it up for me.”

  “You’re welcome. Want to test it out?”

  I smile. “Definitely. So that’s all I have to do? Bathe in it?”

  “Yup.”

  “Do you think Mom will wonder why I’m taking a bath for the first time since I was six?”

 
Worry clouds her face. “Good question. What should we do?”

  I have a plan. I finish putting the dishes into the dishwasher, then knock on Mom’s door. She’s under her covers, her face peeking out, reading a romance novel. My mother loves romance novels. I think she’s waiting for Prince Charming to magically appear.

  She could have him magically appear if she wanted to. Just poof him up. Tall, strong, and a cleft in his chin. Why not, huh? What’s wrong with her?

  “Mom,” I say, “can I take one of your pills? The robo whatever? My back is killing me.”

  She rests her book against her stomach and waves me over. For a second I think she’s on to me, but then she asks, “Did you pick up something too heavy?”

  “Um . . . yeah. My desk.” Why in the world would I pick up my desk? I am useless at coming up with believable lies.

  She sighs. “Rachel, you only get one back in life.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Mom,” I say in my earnest voice. Under normal circumstances I would make fun of her for being such a cheeseball.

  “The pills are in my medicine cabinet.” She resumes her reading.

  “Thanks.” And now for the epiphany/performance of a lifetime . . . hands caressing back . . . eyes light up with an idea . . . eureka! “Wait a sec. Do you think taking a bath would help my extremely sore back muscles?”

  “Good idea,” she says, already lost on a beach with Prince Charming and no longer paying attention.

  Mission accomplished. I back out of the room, making sure to close the door behind me, and then I run back to Miri.

  “All set. Pass me the bubbles.”

  “They’re not bubbles,” she says, and hands me the popcorn bowl.

  I open the bathroom door and try to shut it behind me. She pokes in her hand.

  “Do you mind?” I ask.

  “I have to come in with you.”

  “I prefer my privacy.”

  She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Without my incantation you’re just bathing in fruit salad.”