by G. F. Miller
His brow knits. “How much is it?”
“Less than a vintage Star Trek action figure, I bet. Pony up.”
Instead of handing me a piece of plastic, he takes my phone, looks through the items in the cart, and deletes two things, muttering, “Like you’d even know… I’m not wearing that… ridiculous…” He checks out with PayPal, making every finger motion an act of silent protest.
As soon as he gives the phone back, I get up and head for the door. He says, “That’s it? I thought we would strategize or something.”
I pause to pick up my purse at the doorway. “There’s no ‘we.’ I strategize. You do what I tell you. Tomorrow starts phase two.”
“What’s phase two? What time tomorrow?”
“The fairy godmother isn’t taking any questions.” I take my sunglasses from my purse and slide them on. “Have fun with the litter box.”
I’m out the door before he can irritate me further. All I want is to get to my car without any more family interactions. Instead I have to step over Natalie, who is sprawled on her stomach across the hallway, flipping through a magazine. She looks up with a metallic grin. “See you later, Noah’s hot girlfriend.”
“Just girl. Not friend.” I don’t stop to register her reaction.
His mom stands sentry at the bottom of the stairs. As I approach, she nods curtly. “Charity.”
I tilt my chin. “Lisa.”
I figure I’m in the clear outside the front door. But no. A middle-aged man is pushing a mower around the front lawn. He’s tall and skinny like Noah—wearing a floppy fishing hat, Ray-Bans, plaid shorts, and a T-shirt that says MAKE IT SO. Now I know where Noah gets his fashion sense. When the man sees me, he shuts off the mower and approaches. I exhale in resignation.
“Well, hello there. I’m Paul, Noah’s father.” He takes off his hat, revealing a glistening bald head. He wipes a handkerchief across it and stuffs it in his pocket.
“Charity.”
Awkward pause. I seriously consider nudging him to just walk away and let me leave. But before I’ve made up my mind, he says, “Nice to meet a friend of Noah’s. Hey.” He does the finger gun at me, pointing with his thumb up. “Take it easy on my boy, okay?”
I’m not sure what he means—probably “don’t break his heart” or “wear a little more clothing”? At any rate, I fully intend to make Noah’s life as miserable as possible for the next four weeks.
I smile and return the finger-gun point. Then I hightail it to my car, making sure not to look like I’m in a hurry. As I pull away, I can’t help but think how full Noah’s house seems… how interconnected his family’s lives are. My heart aches inexplicably. I’m guessing it’s annoyance-induced heartburn. That’s probably a thing.
* * *
As I merge onto the freeway that leads to Memom’s retirement community, I tell my phone to call Sean.
Four rings, and Sean’s irritated voice fills my little car. “Ninety minutes later. Seriously, Charity?”
I should suck up, but the past thirty-six hours have been a real grind, and I’m crabby. I grunt, “I was busy.”
“Whatever. You practically ghost me for two years, then turn around and ask me for a favor, and now I feel like you’ve dumped the whole thing on me and checked out.”
“No, I haven’t. I’m totally in it to win it.” That possibly sounded sarcastic.
“Yeah? Because if you think I’m babysitting Vindhya for—”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m listening.”
Sean sighs, makes me wait six more seconds just because he can, then says, “I was going to offer to do Dynamic Duos Day with our girl.”
Damn it, I forgot about spirit week. I mentally string together six or seven of the worst words I know. How is it possible to forget something so all-encompassing, so vital to the entire JLHS social fabric? Noah has completely derailed me with his stalking and his blackmail and his tacky T-shirts and his pepper spray.…
“Hello?” Sean snaps when I don’t immediately respond. “Please don’t tell me you forgot about spirit week.”
“What?! Pfft. Of course not.”
“Because she needs to be fabulous.”
“I know! Okay? I’ve got it handled!” It comes out accidentally snippy. I’m simultaneously lying and taking out my frustration on Sean.
He matches my nasty vibe and ups it by 10 percent. “Fine. So I guess you don’t need my help.”
Instant 180 time.
“Nononono. No. Sean. I’m sorry. PLEASE do Dynamic Duos with Vindhya.” I can’t afford to fall out of Sean’s good graces. With everything else going on, I need his help to keep the Vindhya thing from going completely off the rails. I’ve never failed to make a glimpse come true before, and I’m not going to fail a Cindy now.
He clears his throat pointedly. I haven’t groveled enough.
I try harder. “I can’t do this without you. You’re the magic man. And I’m just… just a hack of a fairy godmother.” I pause to see if I’ve debased myself enough. There’s no response, so I add, “And I’m sorry for snapping at you. And for not calling you right away. And for being so distant since… a while.” He’s still silent. I moan, “What? Please?”
“Yes, the SMU audition went super well. Thanks for asking.”
I punch the air a dozen times, silently swearing some more. I totally forgot about his audition. This is why, traditionally, Cindies are cut loose after the destiny moment. Relationships are too messy. There are too many obligations. Too many opportunities to screw up.
I moan, “Oh my gosh. Sean! I want to hear all about it. Sometime. Really soon. I know you’re going to get in. They’d be fools not to accept you.” I pause and add a tentative, “About Vindhya?”
“Fine. You don’t deserve it. But I’ll do it because I’m a giver.”
“Thank you.” I exhale with relief.
Sean declines to tell me about his specific plans for Dynamic Duos Day but assures me he will handle everything. We end the call, and I drive another three miles toward Memom. I really need to verbally vomit this whole Noah situation on her. I need her to reassure me that we really are the good guys and that all of Noah’s wild accusations are just the rantings of a seriously unbalanced individual. I want her to tell me senile stories about how she faced some vaguely similar thing and kicked it to the curb.
But…
I have four spirit days to plan for, and I can’t even remember what they are. Sean is right—Vindhya’s participation in spirit week has to blow JLHS’s collective hair back. On top of that, I have to keep my involvement under Noah’s freakishly accurate radar or he’ll publicly roast me. And, if that’s not enough, I have a paper on serfdom and a crap ton of trig to slog through this weekend.
I take the next exit and get back on the freeway heading toward home. Seeing Memom will just have to wait.
JACK LONDON HIGH SCHOOL SPIRIT WEEK
GO WHITE WOLVES!
Monday: Literary Character Day
Dress to impress with the fictional best! Nominees for homecoming court will be announced at the spirit assembly.
Tuesday: We Are the World Day
Celebrate your cultural heritage! And don’t forget to stop by the bake sale table hosted by the band boosters.
Wednesday: Sci-Fi Day
Use the Force or join the dark side! This is the last day to buy tickets to the homecoming formal. $50 each or $90 per couple.
Thursday: Dynamic Duos Day
Flaunt your fabulous with your bestie! Be sure to vote for homecoming court, and don’t miss Cheer v. Poms powder-puff football at 5 p.m.! Tickets are $10.
Friday: JLHS Spirit Day
Bust out the purple and gray, White Wolves! Show us your school spirit! Varsity football against Corona High starts at 7 p.m. (JV at 4:30 p.m.). We’ll crown the court at halftime, so come prepared to pay homage to this year’s royalty!
Saturday
Hey, early birds, come cheer on the runners at our home cross-cou
ntry meet at 6 a.m. Girls volleyball faces off with Jurupa Valley Prep at 11 a.m. Homecoming formal is 8–11 p.m. at the Mission.
8 Spirit Week Is the Actual Worst
Monday morning, I retrieve the crumpled flyer from the bottom of my locker, tearing it almost in half as I yank it out from under the textbooks. This would have been good to have over the weekend. But it’s fine. I cobbled together outfits for today with intel gleaned from Scarlett.
My hair is cherry-Kool-Aid red, the ends dip-dyed Tang orange. I teased the waves into a wild mane of fire. I’m in black from my fingertips to my toes. Somewhere in this school, Vindhya is wearing a full-length lavender traveling cloak and a wispy crown Hope made from craft wire a few years go. I dug the ensemble out of Hope’s closet on Saturday and took them to Vindhya’s house. Not to brag, but she looks exactly like Arwen from The Lord of the Rings.
This is a BFD. I need to make sure Vindhya gets noticed this week if she’s going to be a queen by Saturday. Sean is taking care of Thursday, and she can rock cultural heritage day without any help from me. When I dropped off the Arwen costume, she showed me the rainbow of kurtas hanging in her closet. Friday is a no-brainer. So that just leaves Wednesday.
Sci-Fi Day. The Universe hates me. I smash the flyer into a ball to punish it for crossing me. But I can’t afford any more screwups, so I smooth it out again and slide it into my backpack.
“What’s your deal, Charity?” Scarlett’s voice behind me is accusatory.
Well, crap, what else did I do wrong?
I wipe the scowl off my face and turn toward her with spirit-week-worthy enthusiasm, hoping to smooth over the problem, whatever it is. She and Gwen are rocking an Amazons of Paradise Island look. My stomach sinks. I must have missed the memo that the Poms were coordinating our costumes today. That’s a huge infraction, because group identification is the heart and soul of spirit week.
Her hands go to her mini-skirt-armor-clad hips. “Why did you blow us off?”
“I, uh—”
Barely sparing me a glance before returning to her phone screen, Gwen mutters, “Who even are you? Lava Girl?”
“She’s Katniss Everdeen. The girl on fire,” Sean announces as he arrives. He’s wearing a ruffled shirt, a cape, and a delicate black eye mask. He has a small red flower pinned to his collar.
“The Scarlet Pimpernel. You sexy beast.” We trade European air-kisses, just like in the movie.
Scarlett looks ready to go to war.
Sean glances between us, registers my predicament, and—God bless him—comes to my rescue. He turns his most charming smile on Scarlett with a sweeping gesture toward both her and Gwen. “Ladies, you’re gorgeous. And fierce. Please don’t hurt me.”
Gwen’s eyes flick up and back to her phone, the corner of her mouth ticking upward. Scarlett breaks into a full-on smile, though.
Leveraging the better vibes, Sean deftly changes the subject. “Speaking of fierce, have you seen Vindhya Chandramouli yet?”
“What? No. Tell me.” Scarlett’s FOMO kicks in instantly.
“Words cannot describe it. You need to experience it.” He leans in conspiratorially. “She was last seen in the courtyard.”
“Let’s check it out.” Scarlett takes Gwen’s arm and guides her away.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I watch them leave. “That was almost bad.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Now you owe me.”
“I mean, I could take them,” I hedge, because fairy godmothers don’t need help and we definitely don’t owe anyone anything. “They aren’t actual Amazon warriors.”
“Yeah, but Scarlett could still end you—socially speaking.”
“Anyway…” I reach back into my locker, fishing around for nothing in particular.
“Anyway,” Sean parrots, blessedly dropping the “you owe me” issue. “Vindhya’s Arwen costume is killing. Did you come up with it together?”
Honestly, it never even occurred to me to ask her. I’m used to doing things for people, not with people. All I say is “Ah, no. Just me.”
I close my locker. As I twist the face of the lock to secure it, a male form lands against the locker next to mine. I register a white T-shirt and jeans and glance up to the face of Surya Agrawal. He’s one of the three-sport jocks and the captain of the swim team—top of the food chain for the male population at JLHS. His hair is slicked back. I’m guessing he’s repping The Outsiders.
He croons, “Charity?” The word weighs three hundred pounds.
I sigh.
From behind me, Sean quips, “This is turning a little too Riverdale for me. See you later, Charity.” Before he’s taken six steps, he’s surrounded by half the volleyball team—all dressed as characters from Alice in Wonderland.
“Charity,” Surya says again. “Will you go with me to the homecoming dance?”
He’s all puppy eyes and pleading eyebrows. I would feel sorry for him if I thought this were real. Instead I say remorselessly, “Aw, Surya. I can’t. Because you asked me all wrong. I mean, no flowers, no giant poster made of candy bars, no bad poetry… You didn’t even get on one knee or hold a stereo over your head outside my window.”
“But will you, though?”
“Really, no.”
He grimaces. “Man. You’re cold.”
I grin. “What’s the pool this year?”
The past three years, the jocks have egged each other on to ask me to the milestone events—homecoming, prom, spring sports banquet… that sort of thing. It started when I was a freshman because I was a new addition to the Poms squad, friendly, decently good-looking, and upheld an “always say no” policy about dating (or really any relationships). You know how it is—everyone wants what they can’t have. So now they always ask, and I always make up some random reason to turn them all down. And the colder I am, the higher the stakes have gotten for the betting pool. I could spend all my time pissed about objectification and overinflated male egos, but really, what’s the point? I choose to take it as a compliment.
Surya groans. “Come on. I’m asking for real.”
“Sure you are.” No he’s not. “And I’m saying no for real.” Because even if he was, the fairy godmother can’t date. I’m here to lend a helping hand, not to get dragged into the drama. I smile to soften the blow. “But let’s just imagine for a moment that I had said yes. What’s the take this year?”
“The football team put in ten bucks each. I would have gotten the whole pot.”
I pat his cheek. “Sorry, dude. It’s not happening. But I’m very flattered that you asked.” The one-minute warning tone sounds. I back into the flow of students heading to class and blow Surya a kiss before turning to join the current of humanity.
Every third person is wearing Hogwarts robes. There are also a good number of superheroes, so I guess comic books count as literature. Holly—Noah’s crush—walks toward me, solidly pinned against Kade Kassab’s side. Like Surya, Kade is dressed as a greaser from The Outsiders. Holly has on a circle skirt and a cute fifties neck scarf. My forehead immediately starts to thrum like it does whenever Holly’s nearby.
Kade holds out his fist, and I bump it on the way past. Holly and I exchange a noncommittal smile. I keep moving with the crowd, only to notice Noah standing off to the side with his eyes trained on Holly’s back. He’s wearing his standard Star Trek T-shirt—no effort whatsoever to show solidarity with the rest of JLHS.
There’s no way I’m going to talk to him at school. But I pull out my phone and shoot him a quick text: Stop staring. You’ll creep her out.
He glances down at his phone, looks around, and finds me. I flick my hair. He pushes up his glasses, looking embarrassed that he got caught being pathetic. One point to the fairy godmother.
* * *
At 3:06 I get a text from Noah: That was some twit skit. Brain cells withered and died every second it dragged on.
Apparently, this is his way of paying me back for calling him out earlier. Well, he picked the wrong time to egg me o
n. We just finished the spirit assembly. It was not my favorite. The low point—to which Noah is clearly referring—was a staged dance-off between the Poms and cheerleaders to get people to buy tickets for the inherently sexist powder-puff football game. Jameela took the big fake trophy home for the cheerleaders with an obligatory tumbling run. We, the Poms, responded by chanting “We want a rematch!” Then we all danced together to the school fight song. It managed to be both trite and humiliating.
On the upside, Vindhya did get nominated to the homecoming court, and her posture was 90 percent great the whole time she stood up there. Everything’s going according to plan.
Now I’m sitting on the bleachers in the mostly empty gym in the few minutes I have before Poms practice, desperately online shopping for something sci-fi fabulous. Vindhya has been no help. She’s even more sci-fi averse than me, as implausible as that seems. She claims she’s never even seen a sci-fi movie. I’ve scoured the web for Star Wars, Guardians of the Galaxy, and even Star Trek. But it’s too last-minute. Nothing can get here by tomorrow night. I’ve got zilch. Nada. Nothing.
So tonight I have to go to the only year-round costume shop in a hundred-mile radius, after I spend the next hour practicing our routine for the homecoming halftime show. Then, by some miracle, I need to wrap my brain around freaking Euclidean vectors so that I don’t fail Wednesday’s trig test.
Noah texts me again: Man, I just don’t know who to cheer for on Thursday—the bimbos or the airheads.
If pyrokinesis were my thing, my phone would be incinerated in my hand right now. I’m formulating a scathing response when the gym door opens and Noah walks in. He hunches his shoulders a little when he walks, ducking his head the way guys do when they’re fresh off a massive growth spurt—like he’s afraid he’ll scrape his head on the ceiling. The fairy godmother in me immediately starts to plan walking lessons, while I simultaneously concoct scalding remarks and physical torments worthy of my archenemy. I give pyrokinesis one more try as I watch him approach. Disappointingly, he does not burst into flames.