Frogs & French Kisses

by Sarah Mlynowski

  “What does Africa smell like?” Tammy asks.

  I exhale. “Um . . . dry? Listen, Tammy, can I call you back? My sister is having some mental issues.”

  “Sure. Talk to you later.”

  Miri climbs onto the bed beside me. “Whoops.”

  “Try not to tell the entire world you’re a witch, okay? And excuse me . . . ,” I add as I recognize the seat of my favorite jeans hanging loosely over my sister’s scrawny behind. “Did I give you permission to borrow my clothes?”

  “What’s the difference?” she mumbles, face pressed against my pillow. “You weren’t wearing them.”

  And that’s when the cold water of realization is dumped over my head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Will isn’t really in love with me. “This is a disaster.”

  Miri turns her head sideways to look at me. “You’re not really mad, are you?”

  “Raf’s glove,” I spit out, “wasn’t Raf’s. He must have borrowed the gloves from Will.”

  “Huh?” She sinks her face back into the pillow. “Oh, no.”

  I start laughing. I can’t help it. I recount to Miri the events of the day and finish with a flourishing “Doesn’t that suck?”

  She nods. “What should we do? Do you want to use the heart-reversal spray? We have one already made and ready to go. Or I can try making a spell reversal, but it’s a tough one, a five-broomer. Maybe we should just use the heart reversal.”

  “I guess.” I sigh. It’s Raf I want to like me. It’s Raf I like. Although Will is a good kisser. But I’m sure Raf is too. “I’ll use it on the date tomorrow. He wants to take me out for dinner.”

  “You’re going to reverse the spell at a restaurant? What if he freaks out?”

  Good point. New plan needed. What if he deserts me at the table? “Best to get it over with as soon as he rings the doorbell. Like ripping off a Band-Aid,” I say. Sigh.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It felt good to have a guy like Will say he loves me. Even if it seemed weird and over-the-top. Especially since lately everyone else has been treating me like a major loser.”

  “I can do another spell on Raf if you want.”

  “Let’s focus on one love spell at a time,” I say.

  She shuffles next to me and leans her legs on the wall. “Did it feel good?” She turns bright red. “The kissing part.”

  “Yeah. It was cool.”

  “Gross?”

  “No, not gross. Fun.” But not Raf.

  “Hi, guys!” my mom says, popping into the room. I didn’t know she was home. “What are you doing?”

  “Discussing a magic disaster,” I admit. Why not? Maybe she’ll have some advice. “We put a love spell on the wrong guy.”

  She perches on the corner of the bed. “Girls, I warned you to be careful.”

  We hang our heads.

  She sighs. “Why don’t you tell me all about it while I make you some pasta for dinner before my date.” She retreats into the kitchen.

  I’m concerned that an alien has taken over my mother’s body.

  “Another date?” Miri calls.

  “Yes,” Mom calls across the apartment. “It’s a busy weekend. Dave invited me for a drink tonight. And tomorrow Adam is taking me to a play.”

  “Two dates in one weekend?” I shriek. Despite my new fake boyfriend, my mom is getting more action than I am. Pathetic.

  “Three, actually,” she says, and we hear the water turn on. “I’m meeting Jean-Paul for wine and cheese on Sunday.”

  Triply pathetic.

  “Jean-Paul?” At this point I jump off the bed, go into the kitchen, and heave myself onto the counter.

  “Who is Jean-Paul?” Miri asks, annoyed, arms crossed, in the doorway.

  “Just someone I met this week. He’s French.”

  Bet he really knows how to kiss. “Where did you meet a Frenchman?” Where can I meet a Frenchman? I’ve always wanted to be fed cheese fondue while being whispered to in the language of love.

  She opens the cupboard and pulls out the noodles. “It was the craziest thing. I was walking down the street and he bumped right into me. He knocked my purse off my shoulder. At first I thought he was some sort of hustler, like he was going to take off with my money, but he helped me pick up my things, told me I was magnifique, and asked me out! Incredible, huh?”

  “Incroyable.” Surely the eau de sardines didn’t hurt.

  She pulls a wooden spoon from the drawer and points to herself. “Any suggestions on what I should wear?”

  “Why don’t you whip yourself up some new clothes?” Miri suggests. Somewhat sarcastically, I might add.

  Mom hesitates. “I’m trying to use magic sparingly.”

  Miri snorts. “Right. Well, I’ll be in my room.”

  Mom looks like a wounded bird. “Homework?”

  “No. Saving-the-world work. I’d tell you more about it, but you’re far too busy.” And with that, she stomps off.

  “I’m only trying to be a happier person,” my mom says sadly. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

  “No, no, no, I’ll talk to her,” I promise. Mom’s off to such a promising start; she can’t quit now. I adjust her hair so it looks like she has bangs. “Oh, that looks great.”

  “You think? Time for a new do?”

  “Yes. Definitely.” I’ve only been saying that for two years.

  “Longer? Or shorter?” She folds strands in half and hides them under her chin. “What do you think?”

  I feel warm and girly. “Longer, definitely. You should grow it out. And do your roots!”

  When dinner’s ready, Miri and I eat while my mom showers.

  As I’m doing the dishes, my mom sashays back into the kitchen. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

  “Have fun,” I say distractedly. And then I look up.

  Oh. My. God. “Um, Mom?”

  “What do you think?” she asks eagerly.

  “Don’t you think”—how do I put this?—“Dave might notice that your hair grew two feet overnight?”

  And it did. Not overnight but in the last sixty minutes. Seems Mom took a trip to the beauty parlor of magic. It’s long, and blond, and gorgeous. Roots? What roots? She looks like Barbie. Like Cinderella. Rapunzel.

  She nibbles on her thumb. “Did I go overboard?”

  “Well . . .” I probably shouldn’t burst her bubble. She needs the confidence boost. “You look hot. Smoking.”

  She gives me one of her big freakish winks, with her open eye not moving at all. “He is a fireman.”

  Groan.

  “Get on my back,” Miri says the next morning, barging into my room, holding her knapsack close to her chest.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on. I want you to come with me to Tanzania so we can help the orphans.”

  There are so many parts to that statement I don’t understand. I climb out of bed and stretch my arms above my head. “Explain slowly, pretty please?”

  She rolls her eyes. “There are children in Tanzania—”

  “Where?”

  “Tanzania—it’s in Africa, dummy—who don’t have enough food, clothes, or books.”

  “And . . .”

  “And we’re going to make some for them!”

  “How are we going to get there exactly? We are so not taking the broom. That’ll take forever. Don’t forget I have a date I need to dispose of tonight.”

  Miri stomps her foot. “Don’t you listen? I found a transport spell. I can zap us anywhere we want to go. All I have to do is think of the place, hold two lithium batteries together, positive and negative charges facing each other, say the spell, and off we go.”

  Fun. “That is so cool. And Mom’s letting us go to Africa?”

  Miri is suddenly very interested in the zipper on her bag. “Kind of.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Is it my fault she’s still half-asleep? I asked her if I could help the orphans, and she said, ‘Bring your sister.’ Good enough for m
e.”

  Sounds fair. I slip on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. “All right, let’s go. What do I have to do?”

  “I have to carry you on my back, because only me and what I’m holding will get transported.”

  “Can I pee first?”

  She sighs. “Fine, but hurry up.”

  I use the bathroom quickly and then return to my room.

  Miri crouches. “Let’s piggyback!”

  Giggling, I hop on and wrap my arms around her neck. “I’m going to give you a hernia.”

  Miri groans and stands up. “This is the only way to do it. Grab my knapsack. Everything we need is in there.”

  “Malaria pills?”

  “Ha-ha. We’re only going for five minutes. Just try not to get bitten by a mosquito.” She tilts her head to the left. “And I wouldn’t drink the water either. Now be quiet while I say the spell.”

  This is a bad plan, I know it. “Miri—”

  “Shush, I have to concentrate.” She makes a tight fist around each of the batteries, twines her thumbs together, and clears her throat.

  “Transport to the place inside my mind,

  The power of my fists shall ye bind!”

  My arms slip, and I’m about to tell her that I’m going to fall off when a jolt of electricity runs through my body. Ouch! I bet that’s what getting struck by lightning feels like. Suddenly, my skin feels hot and dry. Instead of my bedroom, all I see are dots and swirls of blue, red, and yellow, as though I’m looking into a kaleidoscope. Even though I’m holding on to my sister, my body feels weightless, like we’re swimming underwater. The next thing I know, the blur of colors in front of me is solidifying into a wood and stucco house. The hair-dryer wind turns off, and I can feel gravity again.

  “We’re here!” Miri cheers.

  Dizzy, I slide off her back, and my feet touch the earthy ground. I look around but can’t see much besides the one-level building because it’s so dark. “Is it already night? The transport only felt like a second.”

  Miri shakes her head. “It’s seven hours later here,” she whispers. “Let’s try not to attract any unwanted attention. There could be lions, you know.”

  My arms are covered with goose bumps from the idea of potential killer animals as well as from the cold. “Are you sure we’re in Africa? Isn’t it supposed to be hot?”

  Miri reaches for her knapsack. “Don’t you take geography? The seasons are reversed in the southern hemisphere.”

  This is too much. My head is pounding, although it could be from the supersonic travel and not from the info. I hate how I look when I get a headache. My eyes remain half open like some kind of demented puppet. Miri, however, looks fine. Another benefit to being a full-fledged witch is that they apparently don’t need aspirin. “Can we get going?” I ask. “What’s your plan, anyway?”

  “Follow me,” she says, and pulls out a flashlight. She approaches a building and finds the door handle, and it opens easily. The people around here must not be too worried about breaking and entering by a criminal lion.

  I follow her inside to a small classroom, the floorboards creaking under our every step. The few chairs and tables all look worn out. On the wall is a small rectangular blackboard with numbers and letters scrawled across it. Miri unzips her knapsack and pulls out an orange, her math textbook, and—is that my green shirt?

  She lays each item on the dusty floor next to the teacher’s desk. “These students are all orphans, and they need food, clothes, and books. So we’re going to use the multiplying spell.” Next she pulls out a plastic container of an already mixed concoction of mint, chocolate, and grape skin. “Ready?” she asks.

  Even in the darkness, I can see that her eyes are shining. I feel a rush of pride. My sister is truly a superhero.

  She takes a deep breath and begins:

  “Here is one

  Placed on the floor,

  I nod three times

  And now there are more!”

  By the time we transport back to the U.S., I’m emotionally overwhelmed . . . and sleepy. Miri just about filled the school with oranges, books, and tops. In preparation for spritzing Will with the heart-reversal concoction, I shower, diffuse my hair, dress up, and apply lip gloss. The reason I’ve dolled myself up (including putting on my fave jeans and a sexy new red shirt) is that I cling to the hope that, after the reversal spell freezes his heart, Will might still think I’m cute and convince his brother to like me again. I’m well aware of the power of sibling suggestion.

  My mom is equally entrenched in her primping process, and we’re having a ball. The radio is blasting, the two of us are singing over the blow-dryer, we’re sharing mascara.

  Miri wanders into the bathroom as we’re in midprimp. “Why don’t you let me put some makeup on you?” I ask her. “It’ll be fun!”

  She rolls her eyes. “I have more important things to do with my time than paint myself. Like number three on my list: ridding the world of land mines.”

  Mom looks up from lining her eyes. “Have you already done your homework?”

  Miri shakes her head. “I’ll do it tonight.”

  “Good. And I made you tofu-and-broccoli potpie for dinner. All you have to do is heat it up in the toaster oven. You know how to do that, right?”

  “Yes, Mom. Unlike your other daughter, I know how to use the kitchen appliances.”

  One little kitchen fire and I’m never going to hear the end of it. How was I supposed to know that marshmallows were flammable?

  I don’t get offended, because I know she’s upset about my mom’s new dating dossier and not at me. While waiting for the shirts and books and fruit to multiply, I tried to talk to her about her feelings, but she refused to discuss them. I told her that Mom needs to see other people. And that Miri has to learn to share. She threw an orange at my head.

  The buzzer rings.

  Yay! What can I say? Even though I know I won’t be leaving the apartment, since he’ll sprint to safety as soon as the spell hits him, I can’t stop chills from running down my spine. I buzz him up. “Miri? You ready? Do you have the heart reversal?”

  She joins me in the foyer and hands me the bottle.

  “Okay. Ready?” I say. “You open; I’ll squirt.” I get into position. Knock, knock. I mouth to Miri, “Ready?”

  She nods. Here goes everything.

  My finger is on the trigger, and I’m about to spray when all I see is red.

  Will has roses. Three dozen roses. Long stemmed. I can barely see his face because it’s blocked by the forest of flowers. I have never gotten flowers from a boy before. (That’s a lie. When I was five, on Valentine’s Day, my dad brought home a teddy bear for Miri and two wrapped boxes, one for me and one for my mom. One was in silver paper and one was in Barbie wrapping. He told me to pick. I chose the silver, since it was shinier. He laughed and told me to pick the other one, but I refused. A deal was a deal. He agreed. My box had a dozen red roses in it. My mom got a Barbie convertible. We traded.)

  “Hi, Rachel,” Will says. “These are for you.”

  Gasp! Adorable! Pretty! Sweet! I drop the spray bottle on the carpet and hug the flowers. “Thank you! Let me put them in water.” I retreat toward the kitchen. So sad. The first nonrelated boy/man to buy me roses and I can’t even go out with him. If only I could, just for tonight . . . no. That would be a waste of time. I’m not going on a date with him just so I can spray him afterward. Ridiculous. Masochistic. For both of us. And he’d only be left wondering if he’d lost his mind. Taking a freshman to dinner. Insane! There are social norms that need to be upheld or high school society will crumble into ruins!

  “How beautiful!” my mom says, intercepting. “Let me take care of those. You go ahead on your date, honey.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Weinstein.” Will offers his hand. “I’m Will.” He’s so adorably grown-up.

  My mom takes it. “Nice to meet you, too, Will. But I haven’t been Weinstein for a while. It’s Carol Graff, but p
lease call me Carol.” Is it weird that she’s not freaking out that I’m going out with someone so tall? I’m a little freaked out myself. He looks like a man. Instead, she’s batting her eyelashes. Is my mother flirting with my date? How embarrassing. “So where are you off to tonight?” she asks. Bat, bat.

  “Well, my friend . . . ,” he begins as I search for the bottle. I must put a stop to this snowball of a disaster immediately. I must spray. “London”—London?—“is having a party tonight. And I promised I’d stop by before dinner. If that’s all right with you, Rachel.”

  Talk about sweet revenge!

  Miri picks up the bottle from the floor and aims. She looks at me for approval.

  “No!” I practically shout. “Hold on a sec.” Heart pounding, I grab the spray bottle from her hands, stuff it into my purse, say, “Be back by twelve,” and pull Will out the door.

  “What,” London says, narrowing her eyes, “are you doing here?” Her cheeks are as rosy as her plunging red shirt, red jeans, red boots, red nail polish, and red cast. I have no idea how that last one is possible.

  I have just exited the bathroom on the first floor. (Yes, London lives in an insane triplex. I take a minute to enjoy the image of her struggling up and down the stairs in her cast.) The evil one is waiting for me, fuming with anger.

  All eyes in the room are on us. “Can you please get out of my apartment, Rochelle?” She stabs her finger at me like it’s a sword. Why is she always pointing at me?

  Snickers ripple through the room and I want to die. Or at least cry. It seems the party has worked and London has regained her perch at the top of the JFK social ladder. And I’m once again lower than a worm. I’m about to slither back out the front door when Will comes to my rescue. “She’s with me. Why? Is there a problem?” How teen-movie sweet is that?

  London’s mouth opens, but at first no sound comes out. Finally, she growls, “Why would you hang around her? She’s a freak!”

  “Rachel’s my new girlfriend,” he replies.