The Popularity Spell

by Toni Gallagher

  “Did you find a card yet?” Dad asks, which makes me stop thinking about Focus! and instructions and my future factory. I look around in the crumpled newspaper and find a piece of scrap paper with a couple of sloppy drawings of smiley faces and the words “Happy 11th Birthday, Cleo! Love & magic, from your good ol’ Uncle Arnie.”

  So that’s how Dad knew who it was from! Uncle Arnie is his brother—and he’s definitely the kind of person who would send a birthday gift seven months late. Dad says they’re complete opposites, but not in a good way like me and Sam are.

  If I could have a brother or sister, I’d want a sister, and I’d want her to be exactly like Sam. And when we grew up, we’d live in the same house or nearby, or at least talk to each other every single day. Dad only talks with Uncle Arnie on the computer every month or two. They like each other okay, but they’re not super close like brothers or sisters should be.

  I guess that’s why I usually just wave to Uncle Arnie from the background when he’s on a video call with Dad. Dad has made him sound like kind of a weirdo, and the stories he writes in his emails and old-fashioned letters are sometimes bizarre. He lives in the state he pronounces “Looooosiana,” in an area called the bayou. It’s full of creepy dark alleys and mysterious strangers who know all about things like voodoo—and probably juju, hoodoo, and gris-gris too. They cast spells and do bad things to people without even touching them.

  Uncle Arnie said someone had done that to him years ago, and that’s why he has a big icky burn across the inside of his right hand. He said that even though no one was around, an “unseen force” pushed his hand onto the burner of his stove. Dad laughed when he heard that, and told me there were lots of other ways Uncle Arnie could have burned his hand. Maybe he tripped or something…but maybe it was a voodoo spell. Who can say?

  Dad walks toward his dining room office, rolling his eyes and pulling at his black-and-gray hair. “Your uncle,” he says. “What a goofball. He would think that was a smart gift for an eleven-year-old.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

  “Oh, nothing, it’s only a toy. But a slightly inappropriate one.”

  “Why is it inappropriate?”

  “Well, Cleo,” Dad says kind of seriously, “your uncle Arnie is…an unusual person and he gets mixed up in things that get him into trouble.”

  “Like his hand!” I say, excited to have an example.

  “Kind of. Let’s just say he’s a free spirit who doesn’t pay a lot of attention to the real world around him. And he believes in dopey things like voodoo.”

  “So you don’t believe in it?”

  “Cleo,” Dad says, making a face like I should know better. “There’s nothing real about voodoo. It’s a bunch of weird, ghoulish stories that some people tell—people who don’t have anything better to do with their lives. I don’t want you wasting too much time with it.”

  “What about juju and hoodoo and mojo?”

  “I’m sure it’s all the same thing, Cleo. Pure silliness.”

  I don’t tell Dad about the instructions, how this doll isn’t bad and scary, and how it can be used for good things. He still won’t like it. So I nod like I’m listening carefully and seriously. But inside I’m glad I got an “inappropriate” present seven months after my birthday. And I think Sam is going to like it too!

  In the morning, I rush around to get ready like I do every day. Dad tells me to pick out my clothes the night before, but how can I decide on Thursday night what color I want to wear on Friday? Today I still don’t know, so I put on a shirt with all different kinds of colorful stripes. And though I swear I always leave my sneakers on the floor right where I take them off, they’re never in the same place in the morning. Sometimes I blame it on Toby, but today I find one sneaker on my dresser in front of my new voodoo doll. That’s pretty strange. I’m not saying I think the voodoo doll moved it. But what if he did?

  No, that’s crazy. I’m sure I did and forgot.

  “Hurry up, Cleo! Time to go!” Dad shouts, so I run down the hall past him and out the front door. I’m halfway to his car when he asks, “Forget anything?”

  I turn around and he’s holding up my recyclable lunch bag.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, walking back and taking it from him. “I hope you didn’t forget the snack this time.”

  “Well, remember, if I make a mistake, you can always pack your lunches.”

  That’s the last thing I want, so I just say, “I love you, Dad,” and run to the car.

  —

  I make it through snack break without any incidents because Dad packed me trail mix. He even included chocolate chips. He was probably sorry he forgot yesterday’s snack, so I lucked out with something that is both nutritious and delicious!

  The day goes okay until it’s time for Focus! class. Of course Scabby Larry jumps out of his chair like he’s excited to go. “Have fun with your boyfriend Scabby,” Madison whispers to me as I get up.

  I can’t tell what’s wrong with Scabby Larry—he looks okay on the outside—but Sam told me that in second grade he got caught picking off one of his scabs and eating it. She said no one talks to him much unless they have to, so I probably shouldn’t either. So I don’t. It’s bad enough to be the new kid who Madison Paddington hates; I don’t need anyone to think I like Scabby Larry too.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, wishing I could come up with something better.

  “He’s not Cleo’s boyfriend because he’s your husband!” Samantha says as she walks past Madison’s desk.

  Now that was a good one! I have to be more like her!

  Samantha’s in Focus! class too, which is weird because she has so much focus, it’s almost scary. When she gets obsessed with things (like video games, or guitar playing, or baking banana bread), she won’t do anything else—including taking a shower or going to sleep or even eating. If it’s a class for slow people and dummies, like the “popular” kids claim, Sam definitely does not belong. But she makes the best of it.

  As we walk across the courtyard lawn to Focus! class, I tell her that I got a super-cool package in the mail yesterday and she’ll have to come over this weekend to see what it is. She begs and begs for me to tell her, but I give her a smirk and say she has to wait.

  We get to the Focus! room, where our teacher, Roberta, is putting up one of her famous handmade posters against the blackboard. They say things like BELIEVE IN YOURSELF and REACH FOR YOUR DREAMS. Today’s is YOU CAN DO IT!

  “You can do what?” Samantha whispers to me. “Pick your nose?”

  “Hey, I can do that!” I laugh, and pretend to dig in my nostril. “I can also cross my eyes.” We both do that until Roberta tells everyone to quiet down. We spend the next forty-five minutes doing exercises, like pointing out the differences between two pictures Roberta shows us and playing a game where you turn a card over and try to remember where its match is. I’m sure it’s a lot more fun than whatever Madison and Kylie Mae and Lisa Lee are doing. It’s actually not a bad way to end the week…until I’m waiting for Dad to pick me up in the parking lot after school. Sam is already gone, but Madison is not.

  She stands next to me, closer than she needs to be. It’s a big sidewalk.

  “Did you and Scabby Larry plan your wedding in Focus! class?” she asks.

  “We don’t plan weddings in Focus! class,” I say, immediately realizing that was not the right response.

  “Oh, so you’re planning your wedding this weekend then.”

  “No! You are!”

  “Are you going to wear that adorable striped shirt on your honeymoon?” she asks. “It looks like something a clown would wear.”

  What is there to say to that? I shuffle my feet for a second, sticking out my neck to see if Dad’s car is pulling in.

  It’s not.

  “Are you named after a clown? Cleo sounds like a clown’s name. Cleo the clown.”

  Oh no. I hope this doesn’t become a nickname like “Scabby Larry” did. I just
stand there, quiet and shuffling, wishing I could think of smart things to say back like Samantha does.

  A second later I see Dad’s car. I run toward it before he can get too close. I don’t need Madison commenting on how it’s not new or fancy or how it could use a wash. I jump in the passenger seat and slam the door. “Let’s go,” I say.

  “Lovely to see you too, Cleo.” Dad then tells me that it’s dangerous to run in parking lots. He doesn’t know how dangerous it is standing on the curb with Madison Paddington!

  I promise him I won’t do it again. As we drive away, I look back and see Madison standing alone now, looking back and forth. I hope she has to wait all weekend.

  —

  When I wake up the next day, the first thing I do is smile because Samantha is coming over! And also because it’s Saturday, my favorite day of the week.

  Sundays are nice too, but you know you’re going to have school the next day, and that makes you a little sad and gloomy inside, even when it’s sunny and bright, like it is almost every day in California.

  Outside my window I can see it’s one of those shiny LA days, the kind of day where Dad has already shouted three times for me to take Toby for a walk around the lake across the street.

  When Dad said we were moving to Los Angeles, I thought we’d live near the beach or movie stars or at least some ridiculously rich people. We don’t. We live in a normal neighborhood with hills and trees and sidewalks. The only semi-special thing is our lake. Dad always tells me that Mom said lakes were magical places because she met Dad when they worked at a camp on a beautiful lake in a forest. She’d say that there’s magic everywhere in life if you know how to look for it. But I lived in Ohio for eleven years and four months and it wasn’t so great. I never saw anything special. And I haven’t seen anything magical in California either. Unless getting a voodoo doll counts.

  I know I’m not supposed to pay too much attention to my new doll because of what Dad said about voodoo, but it’s hard not to. His button eyes seem to be staring at me as I sit at my computer. I almost type in something about voodoo, but I force myself to look up millipedes instead. Right as I’m reading that ring-tailed lemurs rub millipedes on themselves as bug repellent, I hear the doorbell ring. Sam is here! I run down the hall, then stop fast so I can slide in my socks on our hardwood floor.

  “It’s Samanthaaaaaa!” I shout, opening the front door. She’s next to her mom, who’s dressed up all fancy with her makeup done and her straight black hair pulled back into the kind of ponytails actresses have at awards shows. I notice that she’s taller than Dad because he’s in sneakers and she’s wearing high heels. The shoes look totally uncomfortable, but she definitely looks pretty in them!

  “You look nice today, Paige,” Dad says. “Got big plans this afternoon?”

  “Oh, not really, Bradley. Just some errands. And shopping.” She puts her hand on my dad’s arm. Her fingernails are perfect and red. “I hope you don’t mind watching the two crazy girls for a few hours.”

  “Of course not. You two go play,” Dad says to me and Sam.

  “Dad, we’re eleven. We don’t play. This isn’t a playdate.” I tell him this all the time. It was okay to “play” when I was a kid, but when I said “playdate” once here, Sam told me it was not a cool term for sixth graders at all.

  I hear Dad saying “Sorry,” but I’ve already grabbed Sam by the arm and I’m pulling her down the hallway. “So, are you finally gonna show me this birthday present you’ve been talking about?” she asks.

  I stop in front of my closed bedroom door like I’m guarding it. “I don’t know. It’s pretty amazing.”

  Samantha grabs for the doorknob, but I throw my body in front of it. “Nope! Not yet,” I say. “You’re going to have to do something to prove yourself worthy.”

  “Like what?”

  “Hmmm,” I think out loud. “How about you…kiss Scabby Larry?”

  “No way!” she shouts, trying to push me out of the doorway. But I stand strong.

  “Okay. You have to put your arm around Madison Paddington and say, ‘Mmmm, you smell like tulips.’ ”

  “Not gonna happen!” Samantha says, and this time I let her push me away from the door.

  “Okay, where is it?” she asks, her eyes zooming from the floor to the ceiling and to every corner in between.

  “Close your eyes and I’ll show you.”

  She looks suspicious but closes her eyes anyway. I tiptoe to my dresser and pick up the doll, feeling his scratchy material against my fingers. I hold him in front of her face and tell her to open her eyes, which immediately get big. “Coooool!” she says.

  “Yeah, it’s my new voodoo doll,” I say real casual, like I have lots of things like voodoo dolls lying around the house.

  “Can I touch it?” she asks. I hand her the doll and she studies him carefully. She holds him by his arms and wiggles him like he’s dancing in his pink tutu. She lays him in one of her hands like she’s weighing him. She squeezes him around the middle. She touches each piece of thick brown yarn on his head. I have a strong feeling she’s found something new to focus(!) on.

  Sam grunts and makes funny “ooga booga” noises, waving the doll in front of my face. I laugh. “This thing is awesome,” she says. “Do you think it works?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Dad said it’s not real. That it’s just a toy and I shouldn’t get involved with it.”

  “Well, if it’s just a toy, why can’t you get involved with it?”

  Hmmm. I never thought of it that way.

  “How is it supposed to work?” Sam asks.

  Now that’s a question I can answer! I run into the living room and grab the instructions off the floor where I left them the day the doll arrived. Then I run back to my room. Samantha has plopped herself on my floor, surrounded by my dirty clothes that should be in the hamper and a half-finished drawing of Pandaroo with a new villain I’m creating, Skunkifer. She’s a female skunk with long blond hair like Madison’s—and she shoots putrid gases out of her butt, not rainbows.

  I hand Sam the voodoo instructions. She reads them super fast and says, “So. What are we going to do?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, we’ve got to try it!”

  “I know it sounds fun,” I say. “But my dad says I shouldn’t.”

  “But he also said it wasn’t real. And if it isn’t real, why shouldn’t we? Just for fun. I mean, if nothing’s going to happen, what’s the difference?”

  As usual, Samantha has a smart point and I don’t know how to argue with it.

  And why should I?

  “Who…should we hex?” I get a little nervous even asking the question. The instructions say the voodoo doll is meant for good things, but I bet I’d still get in trouble if Dad found out.

  “One of us!” Sam answers. “Our hair is right here. On top of our heads. Easy.”

  She’s right. It could be that easy. “But what would the spell be for?” I wonder.

  Sam thinks for a second. “Something good that could happen to me at school on Monday. Nothing too wild so we can test it out.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Something special for you. Like, maybe you don’t get called on all day.”

  “Or I get some kind of treat—something I don’t get every day.”

  “Not getting called on is a treat,” I say.

  “That’s true,” Sam says. “But it should be something that I can see or touch or taste or smell. Some kind of fun, awesome surprise.”

  “Sounds good to me!” I say.

  “So are we gonna do it?”

  I nod.

  “Okay,” Sam says, “we’ll wish that I get a treat.” She leans over and puts her black curls in my face. “Grab a hair!”

  I bury my nose in her hair. “Mmmm, it smells like tulips,” I joke.

  Samantha snorts a laugh without looking up. “Come on, pull it!”

  I pick through her hair with both hands like an explorer in the jungl
e. “Let me find ze perfect hair,” I say in an accent like a foreign action hero’s. “No, zis one is too long. Zis one is too curly….”

  Samantha lifts her head up and pulls a hair out herself, squealing a loud “Ow!”

  I can’t help but laugh. “You should’ve waited. I would’ve been gentle!”

  “Sometimes when you want to get something done, you have to do it yourself,” she says. “So. Are you ready?”

  My stomach tightens up in a ball of scared excitement. But I want to show Sam I’m as adventurous as she is, so I say, “Okay, so we concentrate on something special happening to you. A treat that you can see or touch or taste or smell. For five minutes.”

  “Let’s do it,” she says.

  We cross our legs and sit facing each other. Sam puts the voodoo doll between us and uses one hand to take the pin out of his shoulder. She puts her other hand lightly on the doll’s head, so I put my fingers on his legs.

  “Where should we put the pin?” I ask.

  “Somewhere in the middle,” Sam says. “So it can happen anywhere on my body.”

  This seems fine to me, so Sam holds the pin above her head. We look at each other with big grins.

  This is it. We’re really doing a voodoo charm.

  Samantha brings down her hand and puts the pin in the doll’s stomach. I look at his button eyes, imagining Monday at school and Sam thrilled and happy because something great happened to her.

  I look up and see Sam’s big head of hair across from me. I smile to myself, thinking about when she pulled her own hair out. Why did she shout when she knew it was about to happen? Sam is so funny….

  Uh-oh. I realize I’m not focusing and try to get back to the important subject. Sam…school…something good we can see or touch or smell…

  This is never going to work, is it? It can’t. How could two girls sitting in a bedroom cause something great and wonderful to happen for one of them? Oh well, at least it will be something to laugh about. We can always say we tried and—who knows?—maybe Sam can write a story about it and I can draw pictures of my characters casting voodoo charms…