Bras & Broomsticks

by Sarah Mlynowski

  She shivers again. That zit (which I referred to as Santa’s Gift—we joked that I must have been really bad last year) had freaked her so much that she’d started stuttering in its presence. I don’t know how she’s going to manage high school. “Maybe if he’s not so mesmerized by her beauty,” she reminds me, “he’ll see her true self.”

  I’m not convinced. “Hey, did you ever find out what Taraxacum officinale was?”

  “Of course. It’s in the spell. It’s a fancy name for a dandelion.”

  “I’m going to the drugstore,” my father says through our closed door. “I have to pick up some pimple medicine and some vitamin A. That’ll be good for Jennifer’s skin.”

  I climb back into bed. What would be even better for her skin is packing up and moving out. Can we give her that in a pill?

  A few hours later, at a normal waking time, I pass my father on the stairs. My stomach is growling from hunger, and my dad is getting ready to go to the office.

  I can’t believe he’s working again on the weekend. Which means Miri and I get to spend the day with the Pimple Queen.

  And then I notice it. The nasty fist-sized red zit on his chin. I stop him in mid-step. “Dad, you’re breaking out too.” I’ve never seen my father with a pimple. Fathers aren’t supposed to have them. They’re also not supposed to cry or show signs of weakness. Or leave you alone with a wicked STB.

  “I am?” He touches his chin. “I was wondering what that bump was.”

  I race back to our room and close the door. Miri is reading the spell book shielded by her science textbook. “He’s breaking out too,” I whisper breathlessly.

  “What?”

  “Dad has a pimple on his chin. Is it possible it’s a coincidence?”

  She stares at me. And continues staring at me. Then with a trembling hand she points at my nose. “It’s b-b-back,” she stammers.

  No. No, no, no. No way. “Don’t tell me that.”

  She drops her book and covers her face with her hands. “I screwed up.”

  I can’t break out now! Santa’s Gift lasted for two weeks! Raf or Mick will never ask me to Spring Fling if I have a massive boulder on my nose! I push Miri away and peer into the nearest mirror. “No!” I cry, horrified. It is back. Bigger and badder than before. I thought sequels always paled when compared to their originals. And what’s that on my forehead? “How did this happen?” I shriek, spinning toward Miri. “Did you put the spell on me, too?”

  Miri gnaws on her thumb. “I don’t know. Maybe it can spread. Maybe Dad touched STB with the potion and it spread to him and then you when he kissed you goodnight.” Her hand flies to her cheek. “What if I get it too?”

  She starts scribbling in her spell observation notebook.

  I’m going to cry. What if it spreads all over? Onto my hands, my neck, my stomach? Who knows what this spell is capable of? My entire body could become one big erupting pimple. I grab her shoulders. “You need to fix this. Now.”

  Her eyes fill with tears. “I don’t know how.”

  “Figure it out!” I storm out of the room and knock on my dad’s door. I expect to find him and STB in a state of hysterics, but instead they’re lying on the bed, cuddling and, worse, giggling.

  “I have it too,” I say, which for some inexplicable reason just makes them laugh louder.

  “Let’s see,” my dad says.

  I stand over them and point to my nose. STB’s face has worsened. Her forehead is covered in pus. My father’s acne has spread to his bald spot.

  “The pimple cream is in the medicine cabinet,” my dad offers.

  As if that would work.

  “We should call Harry,” STB says. Harry is my father’s friend who also happens to be a doctor. “In case it’s shingles or the chicken pox. Or measles.”

  “I think those spread to your whole body and not just your face,” my father says. “But I guess I should call him.”

  STB points to his blistering forehead and cracks up. They both start rolling on the bed, they’re laughing so hard. Why isn’t he repulsed and realizing how horrible she is? Apparently, like pimples, laughter is contagious. I back out of the room before I catch the latter, too, and run back to our room. We need a cure. Pronto.

  I open the door to find Miri having a minor panic attack. A zit has appeared under her left eyebrow. I grab a paper bag from the kitchen and tell her to breathe into it so she won’t pass out.

  Then I start reading the book. Fixing this is obviously up to me.

  “Aha,” I say an hour later, when Miri’s cheeks have regained color. “There are two potential solutions. Spell reversal, or a new spell for clear skin.”

  “Spell reversal,” she says, pacing the length of the room. “No need to throw another unknown into the mix. We could end up translucent.” She trips over the pants I wore yesterday and gives me a withering look. Then she hangs them up.

  “The only problem with spell reversal is that it’s a five-broomer. If you can’t even handle an easy spell, how would you handle this one?”

  Her face brightens. “I could call Mom.”

  “Are you crazy? She’d freak!” She’d be furious about our plan to make STB ugly, and she’d demand to know what other spells Miri has concocted. I’d lose my rhythm for sure. “Keep Mom out of this.”

  “Then I’ll do the clear-skin spell.” She lies on her bed, sticks her feet up against the wall. “Let me see the book.”

  I pass it, lie down beside her, and cross my big foot over her tiny one. She sighs. “I don’t know about these ingredients. We need a teaspoon of salt from the sea, two-fourths of a cup of lemon juice, and five-fifteenths of a cup of milk. What is that?”

  “A third of a cup,” I say smoothly.

  Miri slams her hand against the book in exasperation. “Why can’t these ancient sorcerers just say what they mean?”

  “Maybe it got screwed up in the translation.” Or maybe it’s the book’s master plan to get me to help my sister.

  “But where are we going to find salt from the sea? Do you think Dad will take us to the beach?”

  Brainstorm! “Remember before school started when I used STB’s mud mask and I got all pissed because it took off my tan?”

  She nods.

  “That was a Dead Sea mud mask. STB has a whole collection of beauty products from the Dead Sea, including salts. They’re in the back of the bathroom cupboard behind Dad’s Vi—” There’s probably no reason to share the Viagra finding with Miri. It freaked me out enough for the two of us. “Behind Dad’s vitamins. I’ll get the salts. And there are lemons in the white pottery bowl in the kitchen.”

  Miri shakes her head and starts biting the skin on her pinky. “Rachel, those are fake. Haven’t you noticed they’ve been there for a year? And that they don’t smell?”

  “Why would someone showcase fake lemons?”

  “Why are there drawers in the kitchen that don’t open? Who knows? They have lemonade in the fridge. I guess that will have to do. And they must have milk.”

  The skin on her pinky is bleeding. “They do, but since STB is lactose intolerant, it’s all Lactaid milk. Do you think that makes a difference?” I take a breath, then frown. “Can you please stop mutilating your fingers? It’s grossing me out.”

  She looks at her hand. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

  I throw her a tissue. “You’re lucky STB’s been too preoccupied to make you wear Band-Aids. Okay, let’s get Operation Clear Skin in motion.”

  The doorbell rings, and we join the rest of the family downstairs.

  “It’s not measles or shingles,” Harry says, scanning our faces. “It looks like acne. But I have no idea why all of you have it.”

  STB swats Prissy’s hand away from her face, which is now covered as well. “Stop scratching, honey. You’re making it worse.”

  Prissy looks the most ridiculous with her acne, but seems to mind the least. “They’re fun,” she says, poking her pimples. “I can play connect the dots
. In school we sometimes play connect the dots. . . .”

  I tune her out and watch Harry write us a prescription for a new medicine called Xonerate. “It should alleviate your symptoms by midweek.”

  Midweek? This problem had better be history tomorrow. I can’t go to school like this.

  Thirty-five minutes later, while my father and STB go to the pharmacy to fill the prescription (STB is wearing a baseball hat and large sunglasses as a disguise—I couldn’t believe she even went with my dad but she’s probably wanting to get out of spending any extra time with the two of us), Miri cleans the beaker with boiling water, as the spell book directs. Then, in the bathroom—Miri by the sink, me on the rim of the tub—she mixes the lemonade with the lactose-free milk and the Dead Sea salts.

  Prissy knocks on the door. “Can I come in?”

  “We’re busy!” Miri yells. “Come back later.” Sometimes she talks to Prissy the way I talk to her. Or the way Jewel talks to me, as if I’m a groupie.

  I wonder what Jewel did today. I called her yesterday, but hung up when I got her machine, and called Tammy instead.

  “Why not now?” Prissy whines.

  Because then you’ll tell your mother we’re casting evil spells on her, and she’ll make us see a shrink? “We’ll be out in a second,” I say through the door. “I hope she doesn’t set the house on fire while we’re in here,” I tell Miri. We’re the worst babysitters ever.

  “It’s done,” Miri says. “Now be quiet.”

  Skin so smooth,

  Feels like silk,

  Face like an angel,

  White as milk.

  I shiver from the cold and then snort. “Honestly, I could write this stuff. What if the witch is African American? Or Hispanic? If it adjusts to the twenty-first century, shouldn’t it be politically correct?”

  She shakes the potion and then dabs it on her face. “Did it work?”

  “It’s been a second and a half, so no,” I say, applying it.

  She stares at her reflection in the mirror. “I need it to work now.”

  “You’re certainly not the fairest of them all,” I tell her.

  Prissy slams her foot into the door. “Let me in! Please?”

  I unlock the door and Prissy falls through. Oh, no. She’s taken the connect-the-dots idea to a new level, having drawn black lines all over her face.

  “What did you do?” I ask incredulously.

  “I used Mommy’s makeup.”

  “I’m washing that off. Now.” I gingerly wipe her face with a washcloth, trying not to gag. Then I medicate her. Touching someone else’s pimples is not a pleasant activity. I’d rank it up there with changing a baby’s diaper or cleaning up someone else’s vomit.

  “Thank you,” she says softly, and blinks her big blue-green eyes at me. She has the same beautiful ones as STB.

  My repulsion thaws. She’s not so bad. Kind of sweet, actually. I hope she doesn’t have the mean gene like her mother.

  I rinse the cloth and when I face her again, her little finger goes up her nose. I can’t help laughing. She laughs too, and wipes her hand on my wrist.

  I laugh even harder.

  “We should put the conconction into the Xonerate cream,” Miri suggests, tidying up. “I don’t care that STB looks like a pin cushion, but Dad shouldn’t have to suffer.”

  When my dad and STB come home, Miri claims she needs to use the medicine first, grabs it, and sneaks it into the bathroom to replace it with her concoction.

  By Sunday morning, all five of our faces are clear.

  “I’m definitely investing in Xonerate,” my father says over breakfast. “It’s a miracle drug. And I’m sure the vitamin A didn’t hurt either.”

  “You know,” I tell Miri on the train home, “we could make a fortune if we sold your clear-skin potion at school.”

  “No. And we need a new plan.”

  “Why no? Try to see the big picture. We could be millionaires.” I’d make a great businesswoman. I can easily imagine myself walking down Fifth Avenue, screaming into my cell phone, high heels click-clacking against the pavement, hair flowing in the wind as I climb into my private helicopter on the roof of my office.

  Miri taps me on the head. “Can you stop daydreaming and focus?”

  “What new plan?”

  “The new plan on how to get our father to cancel the wedding. Our first plan backfired. Dad didn’t even notice how ugly she was.”

  I laugh. “She did look pretty ugly.”

  Miri bites her thumb and I slap her hand away. “I know,” she says. “But he didn’t care. In fact, he seemed to love her even more. How is that possible?”

  “Well, he wasn’t looking his best either.” I think for a moment. “It’s not enough to make her appearance ugly. We have to help him see her real personality, how awful she is. She’s sweet in front of him, but as soon as he’s out of the room, she morphs.”

  Miri nods. “So what do we do? Tape her with a hidden recorder and then play it for Dad?”

  “Come on. You’re a witch. You can do better than that. Otherwise, start thinking bridesmaid. As in dresses. As in putrid, puffy, and pink.”

  12

  CRAZY, COOL, OR JUST PLAIN GOOD

  Can’t look. Must look. Can’t.

  It’s first period, and I’m standing in front of the events bulletin board. I excused myself from homeroom as soon as I saw London walk past the door. I knew she was posting the results. I asked to go to the bathroom and then bolted to the board that holds my future in its thumbtack grasp. I’m too terrified to open my eyes.

  If I got in, wouldn’t Jewel have called to tell me? I so didn’t get in. Maybe she wasn’t allowed to tell me.

  Maybe London threatened her. Told her she’d get booted out if she spilled the beans about the fashion show.

  Maybe I did get in! My feet start tapping to an imaginary salsa beat. I picture myself as the star of Dirty Dancing III: Manhattan Nights.

  Or maybe not. Maybe they chose Wendy. Maybe Jewel blackballed me. Maybe she’s not too busy for me; she just doesn’t like me anymore.

  Can’t look. Must look. I’ll open just one eye so if I don’t get in, both my pupils won’t be scarred.

  First I see the words freshman fashion show replacement dancer. And then I see—

  rachel weinstein.

  I open both eyes to make sure it still says my name, then proceed to jump up and down. Abracarific! I’m about to moonwalk down the hall when I see the sadistic Mr. Earls. I skip back to class before he has a chance to give me another detention.

  Not that detention is such a bad thing.

  Detention + eavesdropping = fashion show.

  Did I mention that I love math?

  By the time we get to our lockers, the whole school knows.

  On the way to my next class, Doree throws her arms around me. “Congrats!” she squeals. “I’m so excited to have someone in class to talk to about the show! This is so awesome!”

  “Congratulations, Rachel,” William Kosravi says.

  The president of our high school just talked to me. To me. He knows who I am. Now I can call him just Will too! Suddenly, everyone knows who I am. People I’ve never even seen are congratulating me.

  This is so much more effective than a math tournament.

  Or even bowling.

  “Je suis très excitée de te voir danser!” Madame Diamon says as she passes me in the hallway.

  “Enchantée,” I murmur, sashaying past.

  Tammy can’t stop smiling. “I’m so happy for you.” She gives me a thumbs-up. “Want to celebrate after school? We can go for pizza.”

  “Yeah, great,” I say. We turn into the second-floor stairwell, and before I know it, I’m being suffocated by arms.

  “Congratulations!” London and Mercedes scream. Two of the most popular girls in school are hugging me. Unbelievable.

  “Practice starts today after school,” London says, ignoring Tammy. Today she’s in navy blue. Jeans, sweater, Yankees
hat, boots, and eyeliner. “Plan on working your butt off. You have a ton of catching up to do. We expect you to be at practice every day after school except Wednesday for the next month.”

  Like that’s a bad thing? I can’t think of a better way to spend my afternoons than with Jewel and Raf.

  “What are we practicing today?” I ask, trying not to appear eager.

  London whips out her clipboard. “Jewel volunteered to teach you the opening during lunch. It’s extremely vital that you know what you’re doing because the freshman girls start off the dance, which sets the tone for the entire show. All lunch practices are in the drama room.”

  She offered to teach me? That’s so sweet. She is such a great friend. See? She still likes me! “After school, the cast is meeting in the caf to review the first dance,” London continues. “It’s a medley of music from Chicago.”

  I knew there was a reason I bought Mom the DVD for her birthday. Besides her birthday, I mean.

  “And tomorrow after school is the freshman and sophomore Moulin Rouge rehearsal. Raf Kosravi is your partner.”

  I know! Hooray! Abracazam! He’ll fall in love with me and invite me to Spring Fling!

  “And the girls will all be wearing Izzy Simpson.”

  Yes! Yes! Yes! “Oh. Cool,” I say, shrugging.

  “You have Wednesday off. Mercedes and I have Pilates. Thursday is the practice for the all-girl freshman and sophomore dance. It’s to Will Smith’s ‘Miami’ and I’m choreographing and it’s going to be incredible. You’ll be wearing Juicy. On Friday Mercedes will work with everyone on the closing, which is also the entire cast. It’s to a dance version of Frank Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York.’ Everyone will wear black Theory clothes.” She snaps the clipboard under her arm. “Those are all the numbers you’re in.”

  Can you say overwhelming? That sounds like a lot of work. Not that I’m going to complain. London seems to take this show very seriously.

  “Oh wait—there’s also the all-freshman Vegas dance. Melissa put together a stripper theme that was fantastic, but the administration heard about it and said it was inappropriate. So you didn’t miss anything because she’s redoing it. Later,” she concludes without ceremony, and they slink off.