Bras & Broomsticks

by Sarah Mlynowski

I let her in. “Lock the door. And stay quiet. If Mom sees you’re in here, she’ll know something’s up.” I sniff. “Gross. It smells like smoke. She’s been smoking in here again. Why does she think she can hide it from us? It’s so obvious.”

  Miri shrugs. I don’t know why she doesn’t care about the smoke as much as I do. She never has. I was the one who used to cry myself to sleep because I was convinced my mom would die of lung cancer. I was the one who, when I was seven, found a pack of her cigarettes that she was hiding from my dad and broke each one in half and flushed them down the toilet. Miri never gets mad at Mom. They’re always on the same page. I’m more like my dad. Maybe that’s why I never get mad at him. How can I get mad at someone who’s just like me?

  “What do we do for the spell?” I ask.

  “We fill the tub with water, add the mixture, then I recite the spell.”

  I turn on the hot water. Miri shakes her head and twists the knob. “The spell book says the water must be cold. Probably written before indoor plumbing and hot-water tanks.”

  “I’m supposed to sit in a freezing cold bath in the middle of winter?”

  Miri shrugs. “That’s the spell.”

  I’m going to get sick for sure. “Let’s get this over with.”

  She sits on the edge of the closed toilet seat and opens her spell book. Then she dumps the concoction into the bathwater and waves her hands over the tub.

  I pass her my toothbrush. “Do you want to use this as a wand?”

  She shakes her brown hair. “No.”

  “Maybe a pointy hat? I can make one out of the tissue box.”

  “What I need,” she says, “is for you to be quiet so I can concentrate and access my raw will.” She closes her eyes, purses her lips, and gets a constipated look on her face. After a few moments of quiet (as quiet as you can get in New York with the constant honking and car alarms in the background), I feel the familiar cold rush as Miri chants:

  From Heaven to Earth,

  From America to France,

  Let this potion

  Make Rachel dance!

  She opens one eye and peers at the water.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I burst out laughing. “That’s the spell?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “That’s the worst spell I’ve ever heard! Ever hear of alliteration? And it barely even rhymes. No Pulitzer for whoever wrote that one. And how come you didn’t say abracadabra?”

  She gnaws on her thumbnail. “Will you just get in the bath?”

  “Can you leave now?”

  “I’ve seen you naked a million times. We’ve taken baths together since we were born.”

  “First of all, Mom will find it odd if we’re both in here. Second, there are some things you stop doing as you mature,” I say haughtily. “Such as biting your nails, for example.”

  “Fine, I’ll leave if you’re going to be such a baby.”

  “How long do I have to stay in here?”

  “At least a half hour,” she snarls, slamming the door.

  I lock the door behind her and then undress. I decide to start small. I hesitate before dipping my right big toe in. Ahh! It’s colder than snow. I take a deep yoga breath and drop my entire foot in. Ahhh! I whip it back out and then thrust it back in. Ahhhh! Does the thirty minutes count from now or from when I’m immersed? Slowly I put both feet into the water. And then my calves. And then my knees, my thighs, my butt, my stomach, my nonexistent breasts. Teeth are chattering. Lips shaking. Fingers turning blue. My skin is tingling as if it’s asleep, but I can’t tell if it’s from the spell or the frigid temperature. The water looks as if it’s been mixed with green slime, and it feels sandy against my skin. Am I supposed to dunk my head? I want my head to have rhythm. I want to be able to swing my hair side to side. I’d better do it. I dunk, keeping my eyes tightly closed.

  Cough, cough. Sputter, sputter. Oops. I bet I was supposed to close my mouth.

  Miri pounds on the door. “You okay?”

  Cough, sputter. “What happens if I swallowed some by mistake? Will my colon do the Macarena?”

  “You’ll be fine. You can get out now, if you dunked your whole body.”

  “I thought I was supposed to soak for thirty minutes.”

  “I lied. You were being annoying.”

  I quickly rinse off, bolt out of the bathtub, and grab a towel. When my shivering subsides, I empty the grossness out of the bath, rinse it out, and return to my room and my sweats. Then I pull my hair into a bun and tie up my running shoes. I turn on the radio and position myself in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door. “Me against the music . . .”

  When I try to do the Harlem shake, my shoulders wobble. Without rhythm. Like they always have. I try a body wave. Nothing. A simple butt groove?

  Nope.

  Abraca-rip-off! I storm out of my room and into Miri’s. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t it working?” My voice is rising and I’m starting to sound hysterical. I took the bath, didn’t I? I can still feel pistachio remnants where the sun don’t shine. What else must I be subjected to? What other indignities await? The madness must end.

  Miri rolls her desk chair away from her computer and searches through A2. “I don’t know. . . . Maybe I didn’t do it right. . . .”

  “Don’t say that. What’s going to happen to me? What if you made my arms become snakes, or elastics?”

  “Hold on,” Miri says. “There’s a footnote. XI. Let me find XI. . . .” She looks up at me. “It says that the spell might take up to half a moon turn to take hold.”

  “What does that mean? A half a month?”

  “I think it’s twelve hours.”

  That’s not too bad. It’s eight now, so that means the spell will be up and kicking by tomorrow morning. “Are there any other footnotes you forgot to read? Like how my skin turns to scales?”

  “I don’t think so. But guess what.”

  “What?”

  She rolls back to her computer desk. “I just got another wedding update e-mail from STB. This time telling us all about the song list.” She groans.

  STB sends out weekly wedding updates to all of her guests. About the caterer, the flowers, the anticipated weather. Like anyone cares. All they do is clog our in-boxes.

  I check my own e-mail on my computer. I don’t even bother opening the wedding e-mails; they go right to the trash. Jewel still hasn’t e-mailed me back about the last e-mail I sent her, two weeks ago. Tammy’s on IM, so I instant message with her for a half hour, then decide just to call her.

  “What’s up?” she asks. I imagine her giving me the scuba thumbs-up.

  “Nothing.” I wish I could tell her!

  “The bio assignment took me forever.”

  Whoops. Forgot to finish that one. After the call I return to my desk, and then at ten thirty, I decide to hit the sheets early. Unfortunately, it takes me forever to fall asleep because I’m too excited. Just as I’m about to nod off, I give my behind a little shake to see if it’s gotten its rhythm yet. Hard to tell.

  At seven thirty the next morning, I bolt from bed. I shower, get fully dressed, flick the radio on, and return to my spot in front of the mirror.

  “Me against the music . . .” Again. I feel shivers down my back, like hundreds of ants formed a conga line on my spine. That must be a sign. What are the chances of the same song being played?

  So for the second time I try the Harlem shake. And my shoulders move. I mean really move. Then I try the body wave. And my body twists in a way it never could before. And then, finally, I shake my butt. And let me tell you, it gets down. All the way down. Touches the pink carpet, back up, and then back down again.

  Oh. My. God. Omigod. My arms are flying, my head is soaring, my behind is grooving, and I do not look like I’m being electrocuted. I look like I know what I’m doing. Abracatastic!

  “Miri!” I yell. “Miri, come here!”

  She runs into my room. I do the Macarena and even that looks good. Sh
e claps and jumps up and down. “I can’t believe it!” she shrieks. “You can dance! And I did it!”

  “Girls?” my mom asks from her marshmallow breakfast in the kitchen. “Okay in there?”

  “Fine!” I say. “Use your indoor voice,” I tell my sister. “Be calm.”

  But I can’t be calm. Because I am good. So good. So good I could be the backup dancer in a music video. Hey, I could star in a music video. “How long does this spell last?”

  “For good. Only emotion spells wear off.”

  If it’s me against the music, I’m kicking the music’s sorry butt.

  10

  ROCHELLE/RACKELLE/RUTH

  Tammy keeps looking at me strangely, as if I’m wearing my jeans and scoop-neck black top inside out.

  “What?” I ask as I moonwalk into world civ.

  “Why are you jumping all over the place?”

  I try to stop the rhythm flowing through my body, but it’s tough. I’m like the Energizer Bunny. “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You haven’t sat still the entire day.” We claim two desks on the side of the room, right under the map of the ancient world that looks as if it may fall and smother us at any given moment. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s terrific,” I drawl.

  “Want to come over after school?”

  “I can’t. I have a hmphsh.” I mumble the last part and wipe my hand over my lips as if I’m removing a milk mustache.

  “You have a what?” she asks.

  “I’m trying out for the fashion show,” I admit.

  Her mouth pops open 180 degrees, exposing her very narrow, very tall teeth. Her entire body is narrow, tall, and straight. Except her nose, which is wide and a bit crooked. Last month we tried to use some of my mom’s makeup to shadow it, but she ended up looking as if someone had punched her. “Why would you do that?” she asks.

  “Because I want to be in the show?”

  “No, you don’t. You said that the show was elitist and materialistic, and that it objectified women.”

  “I never said that,” I lie. I may have said that. But that was when I couldn’t dance and had zero shot of getting in.

  She raises an eyebrow. “So why didn’t you try out last time?” It’s amazing that Tammy can already see through me. We buddied up on the first day of ninth grade, when she warned me that I had a blue line on my face. Apparently, my new pen had leaked all over my hand, and unaware, I had scratched my upper lip. Would you believe, an exploding pen on the first day of high school, which led to a gorgeous Hitler mustache? Before our next class, Tammy led me to the bathroom and helped me scrub it until it was less noticeable. Slightly less noticeable, anyway.

  “I’ve decided I need to get more exercise,” I say. “To be healthy.”

  Now she raises both eyebrows simultaneously. “Healthy? Since when? You just polished off a movie-sized bag of M&M’s after demolishing two slices of pepperoni pizza for lunch.”

  What, does she keep records of everything I eat as well as say? “And that’s why I have to start working out.”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t know you could dance.”

  “Well, I can.” As of this morning.

  “Lucky. I can’t. But I’ll watch you try out. For moral support. You know, Annie and Janice are trying out too.”

  Yes, I know. They’ve been talking and practicing all week. I was trying to be low-key, so no one would ask me to show them my moves until I was magic-ready.

  Annie’s bustline hasn’t helped my self-esteem. I sneak a quick look at her sitting by the door. I don’t know how she dances, but I’m sure she’d be an asset if there’s a swimsuit number.

  When the bell rings, I rush into the bathroom one last time. I’ve gone in between every class to confirm that my booty can still move. I now check again (still moving), fluff my lame wavy hair, scan my outfit (these aren’t just any jeans I’m wearing; they’re my Perfect Butt jeans), then apply black mascara to accentuate my brown eyes (if only I had my sister’s superhuman eyelashes), and pink lipstick. My heart feels like a crazed yoyo. Ready.

  Tammy is waiting for me outside the bathroom. I grab her hand. What if I bomb? What if the spell just makes me think I look good? What if I make a complete fool of myself?

  “Rachel, you’re not breathing,” Tammy tells me at the top of the stairs. “Remember what we learned in gym? In, out, in, out.”

  I breathe in too quickly and end up hiccupping.

  “Deep breath,” she says, holding my hands in the air. “When I’m diving, I have to always remember to breathe. Deeeeeep breath. Deeeeeeep breath. Otherwise you could panic, pass out, and get mauled by a shark.”

  Is this how she tries to comfort me? I cling to her arm and slowly descend the three flights of stairs to the cafeteria. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and except for Annie, I won’t have any competition.

  Wrong. A line of fifty wannabe dancers snakes along the wall toward the caf’s entrance, which is being monitored by suck-up Doree. She counts off the first five girls in line, ushers them into the room, and then closes the door so we can’t see inside. I recognize most of the waiting girls, and I wonder who the real competition will be. Besides Annie, of course.

  I remember the last tryouts. I came with Jewel and stood outside the door, and she was so nervous that she shook. A lot of the girls here today were at the first round, too.

  The music starts inside (boom, boom, boom), and I can’t help it; my feet start tapping. Tammy looks at me as if I’m nuts. The music stops, the five girls are let out, and Doree escorts the next five girls in. A few minutes later she leads in another five.

  Janice joins us. “Ready?” she asks, looking very serious. I so can’t picture her letting loose and feeling the rhythm.

  I nod. Deeeep breath.

  Tammy engages Janice in conversation instead of me. Obviously, she realizes how nervous I am. Five more girls go in. Why is no one coming out? Are they dying of humiliation inside?

  I’m in the next group. Even if I’m the best dancer here, I still might not get in. What if I’m too short? What if they just don’t like me? What if I’m not fashion show material? A few of the girls behind me are whispering about Laura Jenkins, the girl who dropped out.

  “I hear she was failing all of her classes and her parents made her quit,” someone says.

  “I’m not surprised,” another girl answers. “She’s already in remedial everything.” I couldn’t care less why she dropped out. I’m just happy she did.

  The music stops.

  “One,” Doree counts, tapping Janice on the head. “Two. Three.” I’m three. “Four.” She taps Tammy.

  “Oh, I’m not trying out,” Tammy says. “But can I watch? For moral support?”

  Doree gives her the once-over. “No.”

  Tammy squeezes my arm and backs away. “Good luck!”

  As I pass through the cafeteria doors, I see the girls who just tried out exiting through the back door, and I feel nauseous. At the front of the room, the tables have been moved so there’s a space for us to try out in. The eight freshman cast members (there are nine in all, but Doree’s playing host) are sprawled on top of the remaining tables, waiting to watch us. Jewel and Melissa are next to each other, giggling over a magazine, too busy to notice me.

  I have never felt more ridiculous in my life. It’s like that dream when you’re sitting in homeroom and you realize you forgot to put on your pants. Five masking tape Xs mark the cleared area, separated from each other by a half foot.

  “Please stand on the third X,” Doree tells me without even a hint that she’s in almost all my classes.

  We line up, all five of us trembling, as if we’re about to beg for our lives in front of a firing squad. Don’t look up, I tell myself. Don’t look up, don’t look up. I look up. Raf is on a lunch table all the way in back, lying on his sexy stomach, possibly doing his homework. I think I might puke.

  “Please tell us your names,” Doree says.

 
; “Janice Cooper,” Janice says, since she’s first in line. Her voice catches on the p, and the firing squad snickers.

  Poor Janice.

  “Ivy Lions,” says the girl next to me. She’s wearing high-waisted jeans, glasses, and a plaid scrunchy. I know without a doubt there’s no way she’s getting in. Two fashion show seniors whisper and laugh, and I can feel Ivy’s humiliation radiate from her cheeks. I want to cry for her. I can’t decide if she’s gutsy or just stupid.

  “Rachel Weinstein,” I say. Jewel’s eyes jump up from the magazine at my name. I smile shyly at her.

  “You didn’t tell me you were trying out,” she mouths, looking slightly panicked. For the first time it occurs to me that she might see me as another Ivy. After all, she’s seen me dance.

  “Surprise,” I mouth back.

  “All right, girls,” says London Zeal, one of the two producers. Every year two seniors who have been in the show previously are elected to produce. They’re responsible for choosing the ten freshmen, ten sophomores, ten juniors, and eight other seniors who will participate. Half are guys, half girls. And just because someone gets in one year doesn’t mean he or she will make it the next. Everyone still has to try out. Usually the same people make it year after year, but last year one of the sophomore dancers, Kate Small, hooked up with London’s boyfriend behind her back. Guess who got cut this year?

  Mercedes Redding, London’s cohead, is sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat. She is the skinniest person I have ever seen. Honestly, her jeans must be a size zero. Of course, all the guys think she’s hot, even though she has the body of a ten-year-old. Or used to think she was hot. She chopped her long blond locks to her chin over Christmas, and the response has not been favorable. Mercedes is a great dancer, but she doesn’t talk much.

  London, on the other hand, never shuts up, and you can hear her coming down the hall from a mile away— her voice is so nasal it sounds as if she’s holding her nose when she talks. You can also see her from a mile away. She dresses head to toe in one color. Today she’s wearing purple. Purple tank top, purple skirt, purple fishnets, purple high boots. Purple-tinged sunglasses. She’s also lined the rims of her eyelids with purple eyeliner. It’s very striking.