What? “You’re mad at me?”
She nods. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“You can’t be mad at me.”
“Why not? You’re deserting me to be with your friends. This is our time together. And I think you’re being selfish. Yesterday I had to play solitaire in bed so I could stay up until midnight.” Her face looks so sad. “Why couldn’t you have waited up with me? And then you made me feel guilty for waking you.”
My cheeks feel hot. “Mir, I was exhausted. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not just that. I know you’re jealous about this whole witch thing, and I’m sorry about that. I don’t know why I have it and you don’t, but it’s not my fault. And I’m scared. I’m really scared. I’m afraid I’m going to accidentally cause someone to get hit by a car, or maybe start a war. And I don’t like doing spells by myself. I made up that thing about needing a Cosmic Witness.” She starts to blink repeatedly. “I’m just really scared of this power.”
Miri—scared? I do a backward somersault off the bed and lay my head in her lap, resting my ear against her knee. “I’ll try to be more supportive, okay? But I have to leave early tomorrow. I don’t have a choice. If I’m not at practice, I’ll get kicked off. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”
She shakes her head and waves her hands in the air, as if she’s trying to get someone’s attention. “The whole idea of the show is stupid. I know it’s how the seniors raise money for prom, but I think it’s just an excuse for obnoxious elitism.” She clamps her hand over her mouth again, stifling a gasp. “Sorry!”
“I guess the spell is working, huh?”
She nods, mouth still held closed.
“Girls?” STB calls from the hallway. “Are you going to join us?”
I cover the spell book with my feet, and Miri wipes her eyes.
STB opens the door without knocking. “I wish you girls would want to spend time with me. I know you think I’m mean, but I only get mad at you when I think you’re doing something wrong. I wish you liked me. Because we’re going to be a family. I’m going to be your mother and—”
“We already have a mother,” Miri interrupts.
Uh-oh. Two truth-tellers cannot possibly lead to anything good.
STB nods. “I know. Your poor mother. I feel terrible for her.” She licks her lips, as though all this honesty is drying them out. “Sometimes I worry that your father will stop loving me, and leave me. He’s so wonderful. Smart and generous and loving and full of energy. I’m so crazy about him it terrifies me. Maybe I’m also tough on you two because I want to keep my emotional distance in case he does leave me—”
This is too much. I do not want to hear about STB’s deepest fears and insecurities. Especially since I’m trying to make them come true.
Miri nods. “We’re hoping that’s what’s going to—”
“Never happen.” I tackle her before she gets us grounded for life.
STB backs out of the room. “Well, come join us when you’re finished.”
“Are you crazy?” I whisper to Miri.
“I couldn’t stop myself. Next I was going to stand up and scream that I’m a witch.” She gives me a sheepish smile. “I guess the spell really does work.”
“Well, you downed a huge amount.”
What does that mean, then? STB likes us? Does she really think we’re role models? Did she realize she was acting out of character? Is she looking forward to us being a family? I don’t buy it. And I don’t care. She’s still not good enough for my father.
But something she said is bugging me, like a tag left in the back of my underwear, scratching at my lower back. About being afraid that my dad will stop loving her. Is that why I never get mad at him? Or tell him when his clothes are ugly? Am I afraid that he’ll stop loving me too? Like he did Mom? My head hurts from all this truth-telling.
“Antidote,” I say. “For both of you. Now.”
She starts mixing.
17
PLAN C
“Hi, Bee-Bee,” Jewel says, pinching my waist. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine. Yours?” My weekend was not fine at all. What am I going to do? My father is never going to break it off with STB if our plans keep backfiring.
“Crazy. We went to Sean’s on Friday.”
Groan. “Was it fun?” Perhaps a pipe burst and the apartment had to be evacuated?
“It was the best,” Melissa interrupts. “Too bad you couldn’t make it. Hope coming today wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.” She’s lying on her back on a cafeteria table, her chin pointed up at the ceiling as though she’s tanning.
Excuse me? What is with the attitude?
London shows up twenty minutes late, clad in cherry red. Red sweatpants, red tank top, red running shoes. She looks as if she’s bleeding.
We spend the next two hours practicing. And I have to say, I’m pretty good.
“I just can’t get that move,” Jewel complains, hands on her hips.
“The spin at the end?” I ask, shuffling over to her. “Let me show you.”
Melissa butts between us. “I can show her,” she says, grinding her teeth.
Why does she look as if she wants to bite my head off? Jewel was my friend first. Really, this chick has some nerve. “What’s your problem?”
She points a finger at my face. “You’re my problem.”
Uh-oh. This is getting a wee bit heavy for me. She’s not going to want to fight me, is she? I have no idea how to fight; that’s Miri’s department. And she’s way taller than I am, so I’m pretty sure I’d lose.
The other dancers are staring.
“Liss, you’ve got to chill,” Jewel warns.
Melissa looks as if she’s about to yell at all of us, but instead she storms out of the cafeteria.
Jewel shrugs, as if this happens all the time. “I’ll go get her.” She chases her out of the room.
What was that? “Did I miss something?” I ask the other girls.
Doree shakes her head. “She’s such a prima donna. Just ignore her.”
“But what did I do?”
“She asked Raf to Spring Fling and was not pleased when she heard he’d already asked you.”
“Melissa likes Raf?” I ask. That’s news to me.
“Yeah,” Stephy says. She’s sitting on the floor, stretching. “I didn’t know until Friday. When she freaked out. She actually puked in the bathroom.”
“I heard she might be bulimic,” Doree says.
“She’s so pathetic,” London adds, then waves us closer. “When Laura dropped out, Melissa begged Mercedes to let her be Raf’s partner for the formal wear number. She can’t stand Gavin. She claims he’s a goth freak who steps on her feet.” She lowers her voice. “But Mercedes can’t stand her and said no.” She looks around the room. “Why don’t we break for lunch? Everyone’s coming in thirty minutes anyway.”
Stephy, Doree, and I head back to our lockers. “So that’s why Melissa is so rude to me, huh?” I say. “Because of Raf.”
“My hair must look like crap,” Stephy says, re-parting her hair into new pigtails. “What were you saying? Oh right. Liss. I’m sure it doesn’t help that Jewel’s your new best friend. They used to be inseparable.”
My new best friend? Jewel and I were best buds for ten years before we even knew Melissa existed. But to these girls I didn’t exist before the show. They probably think I transferred to JFK in February. Something occurs to me. “If Mercedes and London don’t like Melissa, why is she choreographing the freshman dance?”
“Because of her mom. London thought that if she was nice to her, she’d get to be in a video.”
“It ain’t going to happen with those thighs,” Stephy comments.
“What thighs?” London has no thighs. Are these girls insane?
“They’re massive,” Doree agrees. “A junior who saw them in the flesh in the Hamptons last summer said they’re all cottage cheesy.”
“Just because Melissa was
the best dancer doesn’t mean she knows how to string together a routine,” Stephy declares. She snaps an elastic on her pigtail. “So, what do you girls want for lunch? Mixed or low-fat Caesar?”
I’d suggest burgers, but they’d probably faint if I so much as mouthed the word. Calories! Carbs! Grams of fat! But before I can even think about lunch, I need to have something cleared up. “What do you mean, ‘was the best dancer’? As in past tense. What happened?”
Stephy snorts. “You did.”
I’m known as the best dancer in the cast? Imagine if that goes on my yearbook caption! Best dancer. Awesome. Much, much cooler than math genius. Although together they make me look pretty well-rounded. Perfect for college applications.
I’m starting to feel sorry for Liss. After all, I’ve stolen her boyfriend, best friend, title, and potential Ivy League position.
My sympathy subsides after lunch when I sense her sending virtual poisonous darts at my head. If Melissa were a witch, I’d be a cat for sure. Not even. Catnip.
The glowering gets worse when the rest of the cast, specifically Raf, shows up. “Hey,” he says after giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “I missed you at Sean’s.”
He kissed me! He missed me! “I was at my dad’s.”
He tosses his coat onto a table and unravels his gray wool scarf from around his neck. “You go every second weekend?”
“Yeah.”
“Good thing the dance falls on an odd weekend, huh?”
“Yup,” I say quickly. Nothing else important happening on that weekend. Nope, nothing at all. Especially not my dad’s wedding. Sigh.
I have got to take care of that.
When I finally arrive home at seven that night, I discover that the elevator is broken. Again. I trudge up the stairs, and even though I’m exhausted, I am far less out of breath than I was a few weeks ago.
I open the door to find my mother, hands on her hips, glaring at me. “Freeze, young lady.”
Uh-oh. The apartment reeks of smoke, so I know I’m in trouble. We must have been found out. Outed from the broom closet. She must have been tidying Miri’s room and come across Miri’s lists of spells.
“I-I-I think b-before you say anything, you should know—”
“Rachel, I was expecting you hours ago. You have to let me know where you are.” Her cigarette ashes fall onto the floor. Very classy. “I pictured you lying on some subway platform, hurt. I even called Tammy, looking for you.”
Yes! We have not been outed. Shows how psychic I am. “Sorry, Mom. I’ll try to remember to call.” Tammy must have been surprised. We’ve barely spoken since I had to cancel our after-school get-together. We’re not ignoring each other—we say hello and good-bye—but we’ve been sitting with other people in class.
Mom crouches down to wipe up the spilled ash, then wags her finger at me. “No, you will call, or you won’t be in the show.”
I swallow hard. Too much is riding on the show to not be allowed to be in it now. “If you bought me a cell phone, then you’d be able to call me.”
“There is no reason for a fourteen-year-old to have a cell phone. But if you want one so badly, save up.”
“There is a reason, if you don’t know where I am,” I say, and slip off my coat. “I bet Dad would buy me one.”
She turns around and marches into the kitchen. “So ask him. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Maybe I will,” I say, following her.
She gives the bubbling pot on the stove a stir. “Miri mentioned that you’re taking her to the peace rally this Saturday. That’s nice of you. Can you pass me the olive oil?”
Peace rally? Oh, right. I lift myself onto the white counter so I can reach into the cupboard. I hand my mom the bottle. Then I stay seated where I am and swing my feet. I forgot about my sister’s bargain.
And to think Miri was giving me grief about ditching her today, when I already generously agreed to take her to this peace rally. Outside. In the cold. That’s a pretty sisterly thing to do. Unless I happen to have fashion show practice at that time. Uh-oh. “What time am I going to this peace rally with Miri?” I ask, slightly panicked.
My mom shrugs. “Sometime in the afternoon. I’m going to the office while you’re there. We’re swamped with summer honeymoon planning. I’m sorry I’ve been at work so late, but the good news is, we’ve done some great business. Did I tell you I was nominated as one of New York Magazine ’s best travel agents?”
“That’s cool, Mom,” I say, a little distracted. Saturday morning is rehearsal for the freshman dance, the one Melissa is choreographing. And Saturday evening is the all-girl rehearsal. Which means no problem for the peace rally, but no possible time for a date with Raf. I’m hoping he’ll be at Mick’s on Friday. Apparently Mick’s parents are going out of town. Again. And I should see plenty of Raf in the next three weeks, since we have dance rehearsals scheduled every day after school and every lunch period. As well as Saturdays and Sundays. There’s no way I’ll be able to go to Long Island in two weeks. Miri’s going to freak.
Next week we have our designer fittings! I am so excited for my Izzy Simpson dress! And to get my hair and makeup done at Bella Salon in Soho. I guess they’re hoping all JFK’s wannabe girls will book them for prom. The JFK administration lets us take a half day to prepare for the show. I’ve never had my makeup done. Maybe I won’t wash my face before Spring Fling. Speaking of which, what am I wearing to Spring Fling? And how am I going to pay for it? I can’t ask my mother to buy me something when she doesn’t know I’m going. Maybe I can borrow the Izzy Simpson dress. I can’t wait to wear it onstage in front of the entire school!
“Hello? Rachel?” my mother asks while stirring the pasta. “I seemed to have lost you over there. Everything okay?”
“What?”
She reaches for the strainer and then carries the pot to the sink. “Excited for the big day?”
Am I ever. My fifteen minutes of fame. “I think it’ll be a lot of fun. You’re coming, right?” I forgot to ask her if she wants any extra tickets. Everyone in the show gets six reserved seats right up front. I promised three to my dad (although I’m hoping STB and Prissy will be history by then), and there will be one for my mom, one for Miri, and I guess one for Tammy if we ever make up.
My mom drops the strainer, and the pasta spills all over the sink. “Am I coming? To your father’s wedding? No, honey, I think I’ll sit that one out.” She picks up the noodles. Her fingers are shaking.
My cheeks feel hot, and it’s not from the stove. “I thought you meant the fashion show.”
She presses her fists against her stomach and laughs. Her eyes squint into slivers. “Oh, of course I’m coming to your show. How much are tickets?”
“Ten bucks apiece,” I say, staring at my hands. They’re my dad’s hands. Long fingers, barely-there cuticles, fat thumbs. “All money goes to the senior prom. But you’re guaranteed good seats.”
Weird how she won’t be at the wedding. If there is a wedding, I mean. How do you live with a man for fifteen years, have his children, and then not be invited to the most important day in his life? The second most important day, if you count the day he married you.
“We’ll be there,” my mom says, shoulders relaxed now that we’re no longer talking about the wedding. I’m not dying to discuss it with her either, but if my ex-husband were getting married, I would want to know all the gory details.
Unless the gory details hurt.
I remember when my dad broke the news. It was a Friday night in August. Jewel and I had spent the afternoon in Central Park, working on our tans for the fast-approaching first day of high school (the same tan that I later accidentally exfoliated off with the Dead Sea mud mask). Miri and I took the six o’clock train to Port Washington, and when they picked us up, we went straight to Al Dente, a fancy Italian restaurant.
I didn’t notice the rock until halfway through my Caesar salad. STB (we christened her later that night) was wearing a glittering diamond
the size of an apple. I nearly choked on an anchovy. I’m not a fan of them on a good day.
I stared in horror. “Is that . . . ?”
My dad squeezed STB’s bare shoulder (she was wearing a white silk strapless top with her black pants) and announced, “Jennifer and I have decided to get married.”
I almost barfed the croutons across the linen tablecloth.
Miri’s eyes filled with tears. My father assumed they were tears of happiness and said, “Look how excited the girls are!” And then his glass of red wine spilled all over STB’s top, which thankfully killed the Hallmark moment for them.
Hmm. In retrospect, the wine mishap must have been Miri’s subconscious at work, since no one touched his glass. My dad blamed the table’s uneven legs. Way to go, Miri!
When we arrived home on Sunday, we found my mother washing her weekend dishes. As Miri opened her mouth, I tried telepathically to tell her, “Don’t say anything! Don’t tell!” but it didn’t work. She said, “Daddy’s getting married,” and the happy-to-see-us expression vanished from Mom’s face. Her cheeks puffed up as if she were blowing a bubble, and she put down the plate she was holding and slowly crumpled onto the kitchen floor. The water in the sink continued running.
“I’m sorry,” Miri whispered, shocked at the effect of her words. Then my sister started to cry. I didn’t know if it was because of the pain she felt or the pain she had just caused. And then I started to cry. I sat down next to my mom and buried my head in her lap.
I felt her fingers running through my hair. I didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to know if she was crying too. I couldn’t bear it. How could he do that? How could he leave us and marry someone else? How could she let that happen?
Then my sister sat down on the floor and told me that everything would be okay. And the two of them braided my hair until I felt calm.
Except for mentioning a few mandatory details (“Sorry, Mom, I won’t be spending that weekend with you. It’s the you-know-what”), I wasn’t planning on ever talking about the wedding.
Bras & Broomsticks Page 17