Parties & Potions

by Sarah Mlynowski

  Gray? White? Why is she so obsessed with color? “What does that even mean?”

  “I use my magic for good. Or try to, anyway.”

  “Look, you can do what you want. It’s your life.” Or funeral. “But don’t tell anyone the truth about me. No one here knows, and I like it that way.” I glance back at my table and notice that they’re all watching us, trying to figure out what’s going on. “And I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell my friends you’re a witch either. Because if—and it’s a big if—they believe you, then they might get suspicious about me. Got it?”

  “Whatever you say. You’re the expert. But I have to tell you, it’s a little weird.”

  It’s a little weird?

  Talk about the pot calling the cauldron black.

  After an exhausting first day, all I want to do is fall onto my bed. Unfortunately, Miri is lying on said bed, my bed, her legs against the wall in a perpendicular position. This is how she thinks.

  I approach her, hands on hips. “What?”

  “What what?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Can’t I just want to hang out with you?”

  “Speak truthfully or leave. I’m tired.”

  “Well…” She hesitates. “I want to do the Samsorta. I want us both to do it!”

  I groan. “Really? Why?”

  “It’ll be fun! We’ll get dressed up and get our hair and makeup done! We’ll be debutantes! We’ll be the center of attention! You love being the center of attention!”

  I do love being the center of attention. But what has this stranger done with my sister? “But you don’t. So why do you want to do it?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You hate looking like a princess. You hate being über-girly You take Tae Kwon Do. Explain.”

  “Having a Samsorta puts you on the map.”

  I climb under my covers and wedge Miri closer to the wall. “What map? No map that I’ve ever heard of.”

  “The witch map. And I want to be on that map. I want the people in the witchcraft world to know who I am.”

  “Your map sounds a lot like my A-list.”

  “It’s not about being popular, Rachel. It’s about mattering. I want to belong to this witch world. And for the first time in my life—”

  “All thirteen years of it.”

  “For the first time ever, I think I could really fit in.”

  I want that for my sister. Of course I do. “So do it. You don’t need me.”

  She pales. “Of course I do! I’m not doing it by myself! Are you crazy?”

  “Why not? It’ll be good for you.”

  She shakes her head. “I want us to do it together. Right now it’s like we’re members of a club, but no one in the club even knows we’re members.”

  “And no one outside the club knows the club exists.” “Exactly!” She smiles at me. “You get it! So will you do it?” Cemetery … new language … more time with weird Wendaline … getting all prettied up with no one but witches to show off to … “I don’t know, Mir. It sounds like a lot of work.” A lot of work for nothing. “Can’t you just meet people on Mywitchbook?”

  “I’m trying to! But it’s hard! Please? Pretty please?” What if the witches talk to dead people? And zombies come out of the graves? And they all have headless torsos with blood pumping out of their necks? What if there really are vampires? “But it sounds so creepy—”

  “It won’t be! It’ll be beautiful! We’ll be beautiful!” I close my eyes. “But what’s the point in me being all beautiful if Raf won’t even get to see?”

  “Why won’t Raf see you? He can be your date!” If only. How hot would he look in a suit? So hot. And of course he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off me. But unfortunately, that just can’t happen. “Miri, I can’t invite Raf to my coming-out witch party.” “Why not?”

  Hello? “Because then he’ll know I’m a witch!” “So then he’ll know. Big deal.”

  I flip over my pillow. “I see you’ve been talking to Wendaline.”

  “She has a point,” Miri says. “Witchcraft isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed,” I say. “I just don’t want Raf to know. I don’t want him thinking I’m a weirdo. Or being afraid of me. Or worrying that I zapped him with a love potion.”

  “You mean the love spell we put on Will by accident?”

  Right. “I especially don’t want him knowing about that.”

  “I bet he’d think it was cool,” she says.

  “Or he’d dump me and tell everyone I’m a freak.”

  Miri’s quiet and I wonder if she’s given up. But then she says, “You’ll have to tell him eventually.”

  My stomach gets twisty. “No, I won’t.”

  “Even if you get married?”

  “Mom never told Dad.”

  “And look how well that turned out.” She looks at me. “She told Lex. Doesn’t that count? And shouldn’t relation-ships be based on honesty?”

  She does have a point. But who knows if Lex and Mom will last? They haven’t even been together six months. What happens if their relationship cools off like an unused cauldron? What then? “Maybe, maybe I’d tell him if we got married. Or possibly engaged. But I’m not telling him now.” No way. We haven’t even said “I love you” yet. Saying those words would have to come before telling him I’m a witch. “No, there’s no way I’m bringing him to my Samsorta.”

  She gives me a wide-eyed hopeful look. “Does that mean you’ll do it? But just not invite Raf?”

  “But what’s the point, then?”

  “Me!” she says. “I’m the point! Everything isn’t always about Raf. I want us to do it together!”

  Oy. She is obsessed.

  Wait a sec. There’s no way Mom’s going to go for it. She said it was a huge waste of time and magic. And she wouldn’t even let us see any of the Halloween movies. She’s not going to let us run around with dead bodies.

  “Well,” I say, “if you really want to do it, I’ll do it.” “You’re in?” she says gleefully. “A hundred percent in?” I nod. Good thing I’m two hundred percent sure Mom will say no.

  Operation: Samsorta

  We approach her in the kitchen.

  “Mom,” Miri begins. “We’ve been thinking.”

  “Yes, honey?” She’s peeling an avocado for a salad.

  Miri nudges me to continue.

  “We want to participate in the Samsorta,” I say, sliding into a kitchen chair.

  Mom drops the avocado slicer. “Since when?”

  “Since we heard about it,” Miri says.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my voice flat and void of emotion. Hello, robo-Rachel. “It. Will. Be. Fun.”

  “Rachel, come on,” Mom says, resuming the salad prep. “This is one of those things you say you want because it sounds like fun, and then you’re sick of it within a week.”

  Just as I thought. No way.

  “Remember the electronic piano?” she continues. “You claimed you wanted to take lessons, we bought you the piano, and you only played it once.”

  I lean against the table. “I could never remember all those notes.”

  Mom rips open a bag of lettuce and dumps it into a large white bowl. A bowl that sometimes doubles as our cauldron. “And what about Tae Kwon Do? You wanted to take it, we bought you the outfit, and then you decided you wanted to be a ballerina instead. And we all remember what happened to you in ballet class.”

  I accidentally peed in my tutu during a plié. What can I say? Dancing just isn’t my thing. Nice of her to bring it up, though. “What are you trying to say exactly? Are you calling me a flake?”

  “If the ballet slipper fits …,” she says. “Remember Monopoly? It was all you could talk about. Monopoly this, Monopoly that, Jewel has Monopoly, I want Monopoly. And then we bought it for you and you’ve never even finished a game.”

  “But that’s because only the first twenty minutes are fun and then you
just go around and around and around!” Wait a sec. Why am I defending myself here? I don’t even want to do the Samsorta! I’m just asking to be nice!

  “All I’m saying is that I don’t think the Samsorta is such a good idea. It’s a big commitment.”

  I cheer. Silently, of course.

  Miri’s face falls. “But I didn’t quit Tae Kwon Do! I still do it!”

  Mom rummages in the fridge and pulls out a tomato and a green pepper. “I know, honey, but still. It’s a lot of work. And for what? Just to get the newsletter?”

  Miri perks up. “What newsletter?”

  “Oh, you know, what’s happening in the witch world. You can’t even unsubscribe. They find you anywhere. It’s so irritating.”

  “Where are these newsletters?” I ask.

  Mom shrugs. “In the cleaning closet.”

  I should really check out this closet. Who knows what else is in there? Diamonds? A new car? No skeletons, I hope.

  “It’s not just about the newsletter,” Miri says. “Although I would like to see those. It’s about being part of a community.”

  Mom turns on the faucet to rinse her vegetables and then shouts over the rushing water, “Exactly. That’s the problem. It’s so public. After your Samsorta, every witch knows who you are. You’re out. Wouldn’t you rather fly under the radar, so to speak?” She turns off the water, de-posits her veggies on the cutting board, and starts chopping. “Miri, I’d think you of all people would be against it. It wastes a lot of magic. Didn’t you just tell me last night you wanted to be a gray witch?”

  “Yeah,” she mumbles. “I guess.”

  “Well then, let’s forget it.” She dumps the veggies into the bowl. “Who’s setting the table today?”

  Way to go, Mom. I’d prefer to keep our skeletons securely in the closet.

  And my salads veggie free.

  “That sucked,” Miri said, kicking my closet door.

  “You can still meet people on Mywitchbook. More fun and less waste.”

  “It’s not the same,” she moans.

  “I guess not. Sorry.” I sit at my desk and open my chemistry textbook.

  “Are you? You don’t sound sorry.” She gives me a dirty look. “You didn’t try that hard to convince her.”

  “ ’Cause I’m not dying to do it.” Now, where was I? Right. Page one. The periodic table. “I’m a sophomore now. I have a lot of responsibilities. If I don’t pay attention to this graph, I could blow up the school by accident.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” She lies facedown on my bed.

  I watch her out the corner of my eye. “What? No joke about how you’re surprised I haven’t blown up the school already?”

  “Whatever.”

  I roll all the way over to her in my computer chair, which is not easy to do on carpet. “Miri! I can’t stand you being so down! Smile!”

  She flips her head over to face me. Her lower lip quivers.

  Oh, no. “Miri, don’t be upset.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Obviously it isn’t.”

  “It’s just that we’ve missed out on so much magic stuff already, I can’t stand to miss out on this, too.”

  She does have a point, I guess. I lift my feet off the floor and balance my heels on the edge of my bed. “Miri, if you really want to do it, you can convince her.”

  She looks up at me. “Yeah?”

  “I’ll help you get her to agree, but I don’t want to do it. You’ll have to do it on your own. ’Kay?”

  “You’ll help me? Really?” she asks hopefully.

  “Yes.” What are big sisters for? “Let me tell you what you have to do.”

  It’s Tuesday (aka two days to my birthday!) before school. We’re lurking outside Mom’s bedroom, about to embark on Operation Convince Mom to Let Miri Have a Samsorta.

  I love operations. (Not real ones, obviously. No one likes being cut up. Except maybe the people on those Make Me Look Like a Celebrity plastic surgery shows.)

  “Ready?” I mouth. “Set?” Pause for effect. “Go!” I open Mom’s door and push Miri and her tray of goodies inside. It’s breakfast-in-bed time, and we have the works: toast, jam, blueberry muffins, coffee, fresh OJ. Then I hit the floor so Mom can’t see me. As I explained to Miri, a good puppet master never shows her strings.

  I inhale a clump of dust. When was the last time Mom vacuumed in here?

  “Good morning,” Miri sings, placing the tray at the foot of the bed. “I made you breakfast! You’re my favorite mother in the entire world!”

  As I told Miri last night, there are five techniques by which to best manipulate your parents: sucking up, presenting an intellectual argument, staging an emotional ambush, promising to spend more time with them, and annoying them. The best attacks combine at least three of the above.

  So far she’s not bad at the sucking-up part. I sneak my head up to watch the action unfold.

  Mom opens one eye. “I’m your only mother in the entire world.”

  “Not true. I have a stepmother. She counts. But you’re the best.”

  “She kind of counts. What’s all this?” Mom props herself up against her headboard and bites into a muffin.

  “A token of my appreciation.”

  “Appreciation for what?”

  “For being so wonderful. And for taking the time to consider what I’m about to say.”

  Mom cocks an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “I want you to reconsider your Samsorta decision. I’ve spent all night thinking about it, and it’s something I really want to do. Last night you somehow got the impression that this is all Rachel’s idea, but it isn’t. Rachel doesn’t even want to do it. I’m the one who wants a Samsorta.”

  “Oh,” Mom says between chews. “I didn’t realize.”

  Miri oh-so-casually looks at me for her next move.

  I mouth, “Intellectual argument!”

  She nonchalantly turns back. “I know you don’t want to be involved in the witchcraft community, and I respect that. But as a maturing witch, I need to make that decision for my-self. And before I make a decision, I need to be educated.” Go, intellectual Miri, go! “You’ve always taught us to gather the facts first, and that’s what I’m trying to do. Learn. The Samsorta experience would be an excellent opportunity for learning.”

  Mom puts down the muffin. “I see.”

  Miri leans in, extra-eager. “So can I do it?”

  “Let me think about it. I’m not saying no. But I’m not saying yes.”

  Miri nods solemnly. “I understand. Have a good day. I love you.”

  She steps on me on her way out.

  I yelp. Silently.

  Mom sips her coffee. “And tell your sister to get off the floor.”

  Operation Convince Mom to Let Miri Have a Samsorta, take two!

  I borrow Tammy’s cell and head to the school stairwell. Luckily, the end of my lunch coincides with the beginning of Miri’s. I make sure I am alone on the stairs before I call my sister’s phone. “Are you ready?” I ask. “Are you pumped?”

  “I can’t believe what I’m about to do.”

  “Do you want to have a Samsorta or not?”

  “I do, I do,” she says.

  “Then go ahead. Use conference.”

  “ ’Kay, hold on.”

  She dials and then we hear Mom’s cheerful “HoneySun, Carol speaking!” greeting.

  “Mom?”

  “Miri? Is everything okay? Where are you?” We never call her at work during the day and she sounds appropriately panicked.

  “Everything is fine. I was just wondering if you’ve given the Samsorta any more thought. I really want to do it. I’d love to meet other witches my age—”

  “Miri, no cell phones during school! It’ll be confiscated!”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m in my special spot.”

  “What special spot? You haven’t left school grounds, have you?”

  “Of course not! I’m in the second-floor bathroom. In the back s
tall? I have lunch here sometimes. You know, when no one wants to sit with me?”

  Kabang! Emotional ambush! Just like we planned. Bring on the waterworks.

  My mom gasps. “Oh, Miri.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t mind. Sure, the toilet isn’t the best table—my milk carton sometimes falls inside—but it’s only a few times a week. Four max.” We didn’t even practice this stuff! She is ad-libbing! “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work,” Miri concludes. “Love you!” We hang up, and she calls me right back. “How’d I do?”

  “You’re a natural.”

  “I know, huh? Think she’ll let me do it?”

  “Definitely. After school, tell her again how important it is to you. How isolated you feel, and how you think this would be really good for you.”

  Something flashes at the bottom of the stairs. Wendaline. “I have to go,” I mutter. “Your witch friend is zapping herself all over town. Tell Mom I’m going to Tammy’s after school but I’ll be home for dinner.”

  “Will do. Love you.”

  “You too. Wait—Mir?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Um, you don’t really eat on the toilet bowl, do you?”

  She laughs. “No. Don’t be disgusting.”

  I end the call and stick the phone in my back pocket. “Wendaline, you have to stop doing that in public!”

  She slams her palm against her forehead. “Whoops. Sorry! I keep forgetting. I’ve been flying around the school, trying to find you. I checked the cafeteria first, but you weren’t there.”

  Great. What if somebody saw her? “I was until about five minutes ago.”

  “It’s all good. I had to pop home for my gym clothes. I forgot to bring them.”

  By pop, I’m assuming she means zap.

  “So, how’s my outfit today?” she asks, twirling. She’s wearing a black mesh skirt with a velvet turtleneck, fishnets, and black boots. “Better?”

  “Better,” I say. Not by much. “Very Goth.”

  “I know! Fun, huh?”

  “Where do you get your clothes, anyway? Some witch catalog?”

  “No, silly, on Eighth Street. At my cousin Ursula’s. Didn’t she mention it? She has a store that sells clothes and jewelry. She went to FET and everything. It’s all good.”