by G. F. Miller
Anyway, now he does what he loves without dealing with haters every day, while I silently cheer him on. And, incidentally, he’s far and away the most popular guy in school now. Which makes him the perfect campaign manager for Vindhya’s run for queen.
* * *
At lunch the next day, I have to nudge two chess clubbers and a soccer player to give up the seats next to Sean. He’s exhaustingly popular. Without a word, I slide a paper bag onto his tray. It’s from Inland Empire Bakery—we went there together at least a hundred times sophomore year. He snags the bag like a famine survivor, crams his face into the top, and takes a dramatic deep breath.
“Ah. My savior. I almost had to eat this compost they serve to the masses.” He pushes his tray away, lifts a cream cheese croissant from the bag, and takes a decadent bite. “Mmmmm. Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. I’m really scared right now, Charity.” He glances at my innocent expression as he takes another bite. “Because I already said yes. So what can this bribery be for? She’s a troll, isn’t she?”
“No she’s not. I’m allowed to pay homage to the Great Sean Slater for no particular reason whatsoever.”
He snorts delicately.
I take a pull of orange juice. “So. Homecoming.”
Some sophomore girls stop by at that moment and pull Sean into an intense discussion about the latest post from some YouTuber they’re all following. One of them has lime-green highlights that don’t work at all with her strawberry blond hair. It’s an ill-advised imitation of my Grinchy look from mid-December. It used to make me all kinds of nuts the way people always copied me, until Memom sagely said, “Charity, imitation is the fondest form of flattery.”
She was probably quoting a Hallmark card or something. I don’t know.
Regardless, I nudge the idea into lime-green girl’s head that maybe it’s time for a change. Why not? I’ve got the time.
Sean says, “So. Homecoming.”
Aaaand we’re back. The girls have moved on.
“Okay, it’s Vindhya Chandramouli. Know her?”
He scrunches his face like he’s concentrating. “Girls Who Code? Or… maybe… Robotics Club.”
“That’s her.”
“So?” Sean is impressively blasé.
“So, I think she’ll have a solid voter base within the Accelerated Learning Program and the STEMers. So all you have to do is get her nominated and swing the other influencers her way.”
Sean ponders that for a moment. Then he says, “I’m thinking she and I need a meet-cute ASAP. I’ll take it from there.”
“I’m on it.” I jump up, suddenly alight with creative energy. Planning meet-cutes is one of my specialties. “You’re the best.”
He waves me away with a dispassionate “You owe me now.”
“Nope. Now we’re even.” I slide my phone into my back pocket and gather my trash. As I walk away, I toss over my shoulder, “If you pull it off.”
The student body president takes my seat before I’m even out of earshot, and Sean is on to the next thing.
Before I head out, I whip off a quick text to Vindhya informing her of tomorrow’s meet-cute. She texts back immediately: No! I’m not ready!
Me: Why not?
Vindhya: It’s SEAN SLATER!!? I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to wear.
Two seconds later she sends another text: I thought there’d be a makeover or something first.
Part of me cringes. But if a makeover will give her the confidence to embrace her destiny, well, she wouldn’t be the first Cindy that needed one. (True story: Memom gave Celine Dion a total makeover in 1982. At least that’s what she claims.) So I text back: No problem. Meet me at Angelic Hair and Nails at 5.
She replies: I have robotics until 6.
Me: They close at 6.
Vindhya: . . . . . . . . . Okay. Never mind. I’ll be there.
I slide the phone into my pocket with a satisfied smile and amble toward the courtyard doors, thinking, I really do love my job.
Halfway there, my butt vibrates. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and glance at it. There’s a new text notification. It’s from a blocked number.
The message reads: I know who you are.
3 It’s Nothing the Fairy Godmother Can’t Handle
I almost drop the phone. That has got to be the creepiest text ever. Right?
I swipe the message off the screen, glancing around for stalker types. The courtyard—an enclosed brick box with no ceiling and about forty circular tables with attached benches—is a beehive of activity. Almost everyone is on their phone, at least tacitly. My eye is drawn to a knot of cheerleaders huddled around one phone, whispering what I can only imagine to be jealous rumors about yours truly. Then I notice Carmen’s homecoming suitor sitting with a couple of AV Club guys. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says LIVE LONG AND PROSPER, and he repeatedly opens and closes what could be—I’m not kidding you—a flip phone. Not too far from him there’s a highly suspicious Goth girl with black lipstick who looks away too quickly. Then my gaze lands on a fishy group of probable hackers who look like they haven’t showered in weeks. They’re snickering secretively.
It might be any of them. Or none of these people. I consider nudging them one at a time with a strong urge to fess up. I do some quick mental math and decide I would look like I was having a stroke if I tried to do that many nudges. So that’s not going to work. I decide I have no choice but to keep walking and blow this off.
Five steps, and the phone vibrates again. I look down almost against my will.
It says: Bibbidi bobbidi boo.
My first instinct is to make a run for it. My skin is crawling, and my leg muscles itch to engage evasive maneuvers. But that’s pointless. I can’t run away from my own phone. The creeper could be here, or a thousand miles away, or waiting on the other side of the door. I shiver.
But, you know, if I did panic-run out of the courtyard, I’d probably become a meme in ninety seconds flat. Plus I’d be faced with the JLHS version of the Spanish Inquisition. Who can afford that kind of bad PR?
So I do what I have to. I pocket the phone and walk—nay, strut—from the courtyard, as if all’s right with the world. I travel through the double doors, down the hall, past my next class, out another set of doors, and across the parking lot… all with perfectly measured strides and swaying hips to project carefree confidence.
When I get to my car, I lock the doors and cave in on myself, panting. My armpits are sticky with nervous sweat. I close my eyes and give in to the freak-out for a minute. Then I dig my phone out of my pocket. The message is still there on the home screen: Bibbidi bobbidi boo.
I swipe it away, wishing I could make the whole situation disappear that easily, and dial Memom.
“EH?” Memom yells into the phone. There is loud music playing on her end.
I yell, “Memom, it’s Charity.”
“Charity? You sound strange, honey. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been made.”
“You made it?”
“No! Jeez, Memom. I mean my cover’s blown. Somebody knows about me.”
There’s a pause. I wonder if she didn’t hear me and I’m going to have to say all that again. Suddenly the music clicks off, and she says quite seriously, “Oh. Mercy.”
There’s a long pause. I hear her talking to someone else in the room. After about four seconds, I huff, “Uh. Hello? Could use some sage advice right about now.”
“Charity, sweetie.” Memom has never sounded this serious. Ever. Her voice is low and secretive. “In 1998, a nosy little gossip found out about my side job. I was working at a diner in the cutest little town outside Chattanooga.”
Uh-oh, she’s detouring into Irrelevant Land. I steer her back on track. “What did you do?”
“The whole town turned on me and my clients. They called me a con artist in the town newspaper. Can you believe that? It got so bad, one of my Cindies lost his job. Another one’s wife left him, and he never saw his kids again.” There is panic
in Memom’s voice now.
My throat is closing up. “So what did you DO?”
“I pulled your mom out of school midyear and hightailed it out of town. What else could I do?” She goes a little Granny Delta Force. “You’ve got to seal the leak. Now. Before it blows up.”
“How?”
She doesn’t respond. She’s talking to someone else again.
I yell, “Memom! You need to concentrate. I’m in crisis!”
“All right, all right. I’m here.” There’s a little pause. Then she offers, “Dig up some dirt on her—mutually assured destruction. Real old-school Cold War stuff.”
“Seriously?” I bite my lip. I can hear someone talking in the background again. “Memom? What the heck is going on over there?”
“Oh, Lonnie Stevens next door flashed me this morning—shows me her wedding to John Tramond in 14C.” There’s a dramatic pause, then Memom says, “She’s eighty-six, Charity. And I have to get her hitched before she croaks. That’s my crisis.”
I groan in self-pity. Selfish Lonnie Stevens. “But, Memom! I need you!”
“I have complete faith in you. I know you’ll handle it. Like I said, get ahold of her dirt. Or do her a favor so she owes you. Or move to Toledo and change your name.”
“Very funny.”
“You’re right. Move to Portland. Take me with you.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Okay. I’m giving Lonnie a dance lesson. I gotta go, sweetie. Call me with an update tomorrow.” Just before she ends the call, I hear the opening riff to Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine.”
A momentary smile sneaks past my agitation. Even though Memom was less than helpful, the mental picture of eighty-six-year-olds finding their OTP is exactly what I needed to calm my hysterical reaction to the skeezy texts.
Anyway. Problem number one with following Memom’s advice is that I don’t know who I need to dig dirt on. Problem number two is that I seriously don’t have time for this right now. I have trig this afternoon, Poms practice after school, Vindhya’s salon appointment, and a meet-cute to plan. I heave a sigh.
First things first. I stare at my phone for a long time, composing the text. I really—like so bad—want to say, I will have you arrested, you creepy POS. But no, I’ve got to play it cool. Reel them in. Finally I tap in: You know who I am, but who are you?
I send it, then drum on the steering wheel impatiently, waiting for the reply. When it hasn’t arrived twelve seconds later, I pull up a list of the top-ten high schools in Portland. I’m scrolling through the photo tour of Oceanview Academy when the incoming text pops up: I’m Captain America. I don’t like bullies.
What in the Marvel Universe is that supposed to mean? Stalker is delusional. I send back: What do you want?
The answer comes more quickly this time: No more wand waving. Further instructions to come.
I chuck the phone onto the passenger seat and crank up some electro house on my stereo until the car windows rattle. I close my eyes and try to lose myself in the beat. It doesn’t work. There are too many questions swirling around my brain. How much does this piece of human flotsam know about me? Where are they getting their intel? Why do they have it out for me anyway? I grab the phone again and type: And if I don’t feel like playing your game?
Three and a half agonizing minutes later, I read: This goes public: Carmen Castillo, Holly Butterman, Sean Slater, Teresa Saint Clair, Olivia Chang, Sara O’Rourke.
It’s everybody. Every single Cindy since freshman year. This deluded cyberstalker would out six people—submarine six lives… seven, if you count mine. At the very least I’d get major side-eye. But it’s the Cindies who would really suffer. They’d be rejected as fakes and poseurs. I tell myself I’m overreacting. I run through the list with best-case scenarios. Carmen has no chance, obviously. Her transformation is too fresh and fragile. Holly is dating JLHS’s star cornerback. He’ll for sure drop her like she’s hot. Sean might be popular enough to withstand the backlash, but what if he’s not? I cannot watch him be tormented and bullied all over again. Teresa, Olivia, Sara… They’ll lose everything.
How could anyone be so horrible? Why attack innocent Cindies? I can’t, I cannot, let this psycho destroy their Happily Ever Afters. Blinking back tears, I write: Why are you doing this?
My finger hovers over send. But as I stare at the words I’ve written, indignation rises inside me and ferments into resolve. Fairy godmothers don’t whine. We don’t beg for mercy like little wusses. Fairy godmothers take charge. We take the steaming crap other people don’t know what to do with and turn it into freaking flower gardens. And above all, we take care of our Cindies.
I delete the wuss-out message and send: I think we should meet.
The incoming buzz is instant: Soon.
* * *
Despite Stalker’s injunction against “wand waving,” I keep my appointment with Vindhya at Angelic Hair and Nails. The show must go on. Besides, they didn’t mention Vindhya in the list, so they must not know about her. Finally, this salon is two towns over from ours. Chances of being spotted are negligible. Nevertheless, paranoia that someone might be following me has me checking the rearview mirror every few seconds as I drive.
There’s a prickly feeling on my forehead as I navigate into a parking spot, completely unrelated to my stalker anxiety. It’s just an annoying sensation, like too much static electricity in the air. “Argh,” I complain to the empty car. “Not again.”
Some Cindies give me a headache. It’s so random. I had a headache client last year—Holly. Every time we worked on her wish, it was like Drumline Live on my forehead. But it’s been a while, and I was hoping I grew out of it or something.
I get out of the car and walk toward the salon, telling myself maybe it’s allergies. Just gotta push through.
Angelic Hair and Nails is where so much magic happens. It’s a tiny storefront with two massage-chair pedicure stations, a manicure table, and one hairstyling station. A brother and sister, Tuan and Phong (whom I genuinely believe to be wizards) run the shop. Phong seems to do everything from answering phones to mopping floors to creating intricate nail art. Tuan does hair. The real mystery is that they’re rarely busy. They seem to prefer to not have customers, actually.
Vindhya pounces on me the moment I walk in the door. “Where do we start? What should I get done? Is there some way to fix my face?”
I kind of want to nudge her some self-love. But it wouldn’t last anyway. Besides, I guess it’s good to have such an eager Cindy. So I gesture toward Tuan’s station. “How about a little hair therapy?”
Vindhya shrugs and takes a slouching step in that direction.
“Wait!” I say. She freezes, turning her head slowly like she may have stepped on a land mine. I put my hands on both her shoulders. “You need to walk like a queen. Head back, chin up, pretend you’re squeezing a pencil between your shoulder blades.”
She pulls her shoulder blades together with a grimace. “This is not comfortable.”
“Yeah. From now on, if you’re comfortable, you’re probably doing something wrong.” I give her a little prod to start walking.
Pulling her shoulders back even harder, she moves forward, each step meticulous, her face set in determination. Eventually she’s going to need to learn to look relaxed while she holds this pose, but we’ve got a little time.
Tuan, who has watched the whole scene dispassionately, welcomes me to his station with a double handclasp and a “Hey, girl, hey.”
“Tuan, this is Vindhya. She’s here for a shape and trim.”
Tuan waves her into the chair and begins finger combing her long, messy curls. “What are we thinking today?”
Vindhya says matter-of-factly, “Can you just basically make me completely different?”
Behind her back, Tuan and I exchange a silent: Seriously? But he’s a killer stylist and I’m a fairy godmother, so, I mean, yeah. We can.
He signals Phong over, and they have a conversation with Vindhy
a that feels uncomfortably like she’s buying a phone or something—Do you want to spring for extra storage? Better camera? Rose-gold shell? Hair extensions? Highlights? French tips? In the end she decides to have them cut her hair, wax her eyebrows, manicure her nails, and do a deep pore cleanse.
While Phong and Tuan get to work, I cook up the meet-cute.
* * *
“Vindhya. Focus. You with me?”
She’s watching Tuan’s scissors while Phong files away at the nails on her right hand.
I wave my hand between her and the mirror to get her attention. “You’ve got to be early for physics tomorrow. Sean has that teacher the hour before you do, so you can run into him on his way out.”
“What do I say to him?”
“Nothing. You literally crash into him. Knock his ass over if you can. He’ll take it from there. But the whole thing hinges on you getting there right when the bell rings.”
“That’s impossible. I have to go all the way from the foreign language hall—”
“Leave early. Tell her you started your period.”
“Him. And I’m not saying that.” She grimaces. Tuan gets out the hair dryer and the round brush.
“WHATEVER IT TAKES!” I yell over the roar of the hair dryer. Normally I would be more cautious, but there’s no one else in the shop and, seriously, who are Phong and Tuan going to tell? “JUST GET THERE.”
Vindhya nods, newly sculpted eyebrows still pinched together. It’s too much trouble to keep yelling, so we lapse into silence until Tuan finishes the blowout and pronounces, “Now you are a woman.”
Vindhya’s black waves cascade past her shoulders, framing her face. Her skin is so detoxed it looks polished. Every remaining eyebrow hair is perfectly tamed. But her eyes are the main event—large and dark, made dramatic by her naturally thick lashes, and open extra wide as she takes herself in. I move to prep the Transformation Tears Protocol (to-go pack of tissues, a piece of dark chocolate, and a speech about inner beauty). But then her lips part into a smile, revealing straight white teeth.