by G. F. Miller
Noah doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, that’s dogs. This cat gravitates toward sewer rats and Nazi sympathizers.”
I stand, fists clenched. Dr. McCoy looks slighted and sidles out the door. With great effort I keep my voice calm. “Costume?”
His lips curl into a disturbingly mischievous smile. “Right. I’ve got just the thing.” He disappears into the closet for a moment, emerges with a green vinyl monstrosity, and holds it out to me. “Okay, here we go.”
I clamp my hands behind my back and grit out, “That’s a Godzilla costume.”
“Wrong. It’s Gorn. I wore this to Comic-Con last year. It was a huge hit.”
“What else do you have?”
“This is it. Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. At all.
Wrong answer. I wink a nudge his way—a mental SOS.
“Do you have something in your eye?”
It’s not working—I’m too overwrought. I haven’t really slept in days. I’ve come to my mortal enemy for mercy. I cannot send Vindhya to school in a Godzilla costume. And the countdown to total social self-destruct is at T-minus ten hours. Frustration and mortification press hard at the backs of my eyes. I will myself not to cry, but my next words sound a little too much like pleading. “I’m sorry for being snarky before. Okay? But please. You must have something else.”
Noah thrusts the Godzilla costume toward me. “Come on. You hate it now, but wait till you try it on.”
I squeeze my eyes closed and slowly shake my head. In a second I’ll start moaning and rocking. He can defeat me now with one cutting remark, one well-aimed accusation.
But then there’s a hand on my shoulder. “Hey.” Noah’s voice pierces my run-up to a nervous breakdown, softer than I’ve ever heard it. When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me thoughtfully. “Look who turned out to be human.”
From behind his glasses, he studies me like a puzzle. Then he says, “I don’t get it. Why do you care so much? It’s just a spirit day.”
I press my lips together and shrug, still channeling all my energy into maintaining composure. If I speak, I’ll crack.
Because for me it’s not just a spirit day. My whole life is crumbling around me. All I have left is my Cindy. I need her. I mean, I need to do this for her. She needs me. And I’ve got nothing left.
His hand is still on my shoulder, and that touch is unexpectedly helpful in holding me together.
“Okay. Come on.” He turns away, dropping his hand, and takes a few steps. I don’t move. He stops at the door and gestures for me to follow him. “Let’s go, Tinker Bell.”
I follow stiffly—a cardboard cutout of myself. Noah pauses in front of a hall closet and opens the bifold doors. He shoots me a smile that’s more good humor than malice and says, “Maybe one of these will work.”
I close the gap between us and look into the closet. There are at least two dozen Star Trek costumes hanging inside. I gasp and clap both hands to my chest. Joy and triumph revive me in an instant. I round on Noah and punch him in the arm at 75 percent of full force. “You jerk!”
He rubs his arm. “Sorry I messed with you. I really wanted to see you in the Gorn costume, though.”
I laugh—pure relief. “Never in a million years.”
“And you know I’m only helping you to grease the gears on the Holly thing, right?”
“Fair enough.”
“Truce?” He holds out his hand, and I shake it gratefully. The touch is warm and firm and feels like the beginning of better things.
“Behold, the lord of all Catan!” Noah’s mom loudly announces herself with a grand sweep up the stairs. Noah and I drop our handshake, probably more hastily than the situation calls for.
“Gloaters aren’t real winners!” Nat’s voice calls up after her.
His mom—Lisa—laughs maniacally, mwah, ha, ha. Then she switches it off and turns her attention to us. “What are we doing in the cosplay closet?”
It’s ridiculous that “cosplay closet” is a thing here. But I love it just a little.
Noah says, “Can Charity borrow one of your costumes for Sci-Fi Day at school tomorrow?”
Lisa gives him a look like, Is that girl our friend now? Noah grins reassuringly, and her look changes to surprised acceptance. “Okay. Let me in here.”
She elbows her way between us and starts forcing apart tightly packed hangers.
My internal family-entanglements alarm goes off. The thing is on a hair trigger. I mean, with relationships as short-lived as mine are, involving family makes endings way too messy. So many questions and hurt feelings. No thanks.
As Lisa clucks over costumes and how big around I probably am, I tell myself to chill. I’m just here for a costume. It’s strictly business. No bonds are forming.
One by one, she drapes minidresses in mustard, blue, and red over her arm. “Let’s see,” she says, holding the blue one up to me. “I think these will fit you. But what color?” She calls down the stairs, “NAT! PAUL! What color uniform should Charity wear?”
Without missing a beat, two voices from downstairs call back, “RED!”
Lisa glances at Noah as if this is a controversial answer. But Noah says with a little smirk, “Definitely red.”
“If you say so.” Lisa hands me the dress.
I like the red. So why do I feel like I’m missing the joke? I decide voicing the question could create a Pandora’s box situation, so I just shut up and take the dress. I remind myself it’s for Vindhya and my problems don’t matter.
But Noah and company still think they’re outfitting me.
“You’ll need black boots and tights to go with that.” Lisa sizes me up. “What size shoe do you wear?” Without waiting for my answer, she gets down on her knees in the closet and crawls halfway in.
“I have boots, actually,” I say to Lisa’s backside. “Thank you so much for the dress, though. This is gr—”
“MOM!” Nat comes thundering up the stairs in pajamas, headgear, and glasses. “What about Deanna Troi?”
Lisa’s head emerges from the uniforms. “You think?”
“Yeah. Charity would look amazeballs in that.”
Lisa stands up and takes down a peacock-blue dress. It’s long-sleeved, full-length, daringly low cut, has a thigh-high slit, and comes complete with matching leggings. “What do you think?”
I think it’s majestic. Perfect for a future homecoming queen. I smile broadly as I take it from her and drape it over me. Vindhya will look amazing in this. I look down and go, “Wow!”
“Wow,” Noah echoes softly.
Nat rolls her eyes. “Need a drool bib, Noah?”
“Shut it, Bratalie.”
“You two, stop it,” Lisa commands. She sizes me up and concedes, “Yeah. You should wear it. But be really careful with it, okay? I had this custom made. This dress is my baby.”
“I thought I was your baby.” Natalie pouts.
Lisa squeezes her face and coos, “You are my baby. But you don’t have to be dry-cleaned for fifty bucks a pop. Speaking of which…” She sniffs Natalie’s hair. “When’s the last time you took a shower?”
I feel sick to my stomach, and I try not to look into anyone’s eyes—90 percent because the family stuff is so awkward. But 10 percent because I feel guilty for taking this dress under false pretenses. Okay, FINE! It’s mostly the guilt thing. But I have no choice. My Cindy is in need. I’m only doing what has to be done.
Mercifully, Lisa shoos Natalie off to bed (or shower or whatever), tells me to take home both dresses to try on, and disappears down the hall. Noah walks me to the front door and says, “So, good night. See you tomorrow, I guess.”
I accidentally make eye contact, and, you know, it’s not that bad. Noah’s looking at me like maybe we don’t have to be archenemies.
I should tell him I’m borrowing the dress for Vindhya. I should seize the moment and come clean. But he’s such an anti-wish-granting zealot. I can’t risk it. Besides, why complicate the cease-fire?
So I s
ay brightly, “Okay. Thanks again. Good night.”
Then I get in my car and drive straight to Vindhya’s.
11 I’m Not Crying. Who’s Crying?
The house smells like coffee when I wake up for school the next morning, and I’m so tired that I decide to drink some. There’s a note on the kitchen counter: Left early for work. Have a great day. Love you. —Mom
Leaving the note untouched, I pour a cup of coffee and take one tiny, bitter sip. Bluch. It’s not worth it. I dump the rest out and resign myself to feeling like crap.
After a long shower and primping routine—complete with stripping the red out of my hair and recoloring it bubble-gum pink—I do feel a smidge better. I don the red Star Trek minidress, put my pink hair in a French twist, and slip on black knee-high boots. Mirror-me reflects back a tired but satisfied smile. Objectively speaking, I’m crushing the Star Trek thing.
There are several messages from Noah waiting when I retrieve my phone.
7:03: Not to be creepy, but how does the dress look?
7:04: My mom wants to know.
7:06: Forget it. Nat said that was totally creepy.
7:07: I mean, I realize what’s creepy. My sister doesn’t have to tell me.
It’s ridiculous how much these texts mess me up. Guilt about taking the Deanna Troi dress under false pretenses floods me all over again, accompanied by the bleak certainty that Noah’s and my fragile truce can’t survive the day. At some point in the next few hours he’ll realize how I used him, and I can’t expect him to forgive me for it. He might even publish the Cindy list when he realizes I’m still granting wishes.
Unless he loves Holly enough to keep our bargain anyway. Strangely, this thought doesn’t make me feel much better. It mostly makes me realize that she’s the one who’s supposed to be getting his random dorky texts in the morning. Not me.
At the same time, I’m imagining what must have been happening at Noah’s house while these texts were written—everyone eating breakfast while his mom and sister offer less-than-useful advice. It’s hilarious and adorable. And so completely the opposite of my silent, empty house. I stare at my phone, feeling nervous and happy and guilty and lonely and… damn it, I’m crying.
The perfectly flippant reply is obviously: Don’t worry about it. You’ve been way creepier.
A tear drips onto the phone screen as I hit send—almost 100 percent because I didn’t get enough sleep. Anyway, I end up having to totally redo my makeup before school.
* * *
By third period, social media blows up with Vindhya as Deanna Troi. The chances of Noah not noticing what became of his mother’s dress get slimmer with every new repost. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. The fairy godmother has to put her Cindy above everyone and everything else.
At lunch a jock named Pablo asks me to the dance, complete with flowers and a candy poster. It goes like this:
Me: This is so sweet. But you’re just not my type.
Pablo: Come on, Charity. You’re the Ice Princess. Who is your type?
Me: Well, ballet dancers, of course. Also Italian soccer players and, um, John Cho.
Pablo: Who’s John Cho?
Me: He was in… never mind.
Star Trek. He was in Star Trek. And I’m dressed like a freaking starship Enterprise go-go dancer. How did I get here?
I manage to shake it off and proceed with my day. I actually catch myself scanning the halls and the lunchroom for Noah. At first I want to punch myself in the head, but then I realize that if I can talk to him before he flips out about the Deanna Troi thing, I can make sure he doesn’t out my Cindies by reminding him that he still needs my help to get back with Holly. So that is the one and only reason I look for him everywhere all day.
I wonder if he’s wearing one of the other costumes from the cosplay closet. Maybe he’s in science-officer blue. Or (God forbid) the Gorn costume. Anyway, I don’t see him.
Not that I care.
Then, at 1:58, I get a text from Noah. It’s a photo of Vindhya as Deanna Troi. The message says: You are in breach of contract.
Busted.
Another text swoops in a second later: I can’t believe I helped you.
My cheeks burn, and my stomach twists. What is this feeling?
Remorse
Regret
Shame
All of the above
You know what? I don’t even have time for a pop quiz on human psychology right now. I silence my phone and go to class.
12 Revenge Is Revoltingly Sweet
Somehow, I get through the rest of Wednesday and a whole night of anxiety-induced insomnia, cover it all with makeup, and present myself at school on Thursday morning wearing a mask of total confidence. The internet hasn’t blown up with a JLHS Cinderella Tell-All, so I’m still waiting to see what Noah’s next play is.
Sean and Vindhya show up at my locker about five seconds after I get there looking like they stepped right out of the Great Depression. Sean’s wearing a three-piece suit and a fedora. Vindhya has on a red dress and a beret, her dark hair wound into a tight twist. She looks less enthusiastic than I would like but manages to wave and smile when Scarlett and Gwen pass by dressed as a very girlie Batman and Robin.
I wave too, and then turn back to Sean and Vindhya. “You’re Bonnie and Clyde.” They are perfection.
Sean takes a bow and then surveys me. I’ve cut apart white and black tank tops and sewn them back together in the yin-yang. Yes, I am a duo unto myself. The fairy godmother stands alone. Sean gives the ensemble an approving nod.
Meanwhile, Vindhya is gesturing behind his back: you—me—bathroom—now. I respond with an eyebrow quirk. She tacks on a little prayer-hands please and a pleading look.
Sean says, “Okay, Bonnie, we have two more hallways to hit before the bell.”
“Okay. I just need to use the bathroom first.” Vindhya shoots me one more meaningful look. I excuse myself and join her.
Two girls dressed as Salt-N-Pepa are touching up their makeup. I wash my hands slowly and wait for them to leave. Vindhya paces in front of the stall doors.
After the girls finish their lipstick and adjust their funky eighties hats, they walk out. I dry my hands. As the door closes behind them, Vindhya thrusts her phone at me. “Did you see this?”
I scroll through the comments on the photos of Vindhya’s various looks from the past three days. It’s mostly good, but the standard negativity has crept in. Some people are calling her a poseur, pointing out every little flaw… that sort of thing.
I hand the phone back. “It’s just trolls. Ignore them.”
“No! This isn’t what it’s supposed to be like.”
“What is ‘it’?”
“Everyone is supposed to love me.”
I bite my lip, unsure how to handle this. Should I tell her that there’s no way to make everyone love anybody or anything? That there are always going to be people who get off on criticizing and cutting down anyone who stands out in any way—whether it’s because of her brains or her beauty?
I’m too tired and my head is buzzing. I put a Band-Aid on it with a quick nudge of positivity and hustle her back out to Sean. He can talk her down when the nudge wears off. She just needs to keep it together for one more day. Tomorrow night she gets the crown and starts her Happily Ever After.
* * *
I go out for lunch to make sure I don’t run into Noah in the cafeteria. Then I hide in the locker room before Poms practice until I hear the warm-up music start. I’m not scared to face him. I just want to make it happen on my terms. My plan is to avoid him until after the game tomorrow night. Then, once I can honestly say I’m done working with Vindhya, I’ll return the Star Trek costumes, complete with a huge apology and a whole bag of cream cheese croissants from Inland Empire Bakery.
I barely have time to recover from Poms practice before the powder-puff game. I’m not half-bad, although I couldn’t tell you what position I’m supposedly playing. I actually catch the
ball a couple of times. Even though it’s technically flag football, we end up hitting each other and the ground kind of a lot. The Poms beat the cheerleaders 17–13, and the crowd goes wild.
Afterward, both teams go out for ice cream to celebrate together. Thirty-five dirty, sweaty girls in JLHS T-shirts pile into the Arctic Marble Creamery, ready to stuff ourselves with hot-fudge sundaes and concrete mixers. Which is how I find out where Noah works.
He works here. Right now.
He’s wearing a pink-and-spring-green button-up shirt, an ice-cream-smeared apron, and latex gloves. He’s wielding an ice cream spade, and he has a pink-and-green ball cap crammed over his hair with unruly curls fanning out along the bottom. He’s currently asking Jameela what she wants mixed in with her ice cream. After she orders, he chops up a candy bar on the frozen slab of marble behind the glass, like a ninja chef. He throws a scoop of ice cream on top and proceeds to cut and scrape the concoction together. Then he shovels it into a plastic cup and adds a pink spoon with an überdorky flourish that makes her giggle.
He catches sight of me as he hands Jameela her order, and his eyes hold none of the friendliness of Tuesday night. In fact, I would put the look somewhere in the realm of prepare to die. Then he turns his attention to the next customer.
As the line moves forward, I become increasingly uncomfortable. I don’t know how Noah plans to punish me for not telling him about Vindhya. But I do know that he currently has an audience with the entirety of the Poms and cheer squads, if he chooses this moment to out me.
There’s a whisper in my ear. “Is everything okay with you and Noah?”
I jerk my head around. It’s Carmen. She’s looking at me like, Why are Mommy and Daddy fighting?
Instead of responding, I loudly change the subject. “Hey, you QB’d like a boss tonight, Carmen.”
She looks sheepish. “I play in the backyard with my brothers a lot.”
Gwen has been staring at her phone since the moment the game ended. She looks up long enough to say, “And Angie with the interception! What?!”