Bewitching (37 page)

In the dim backseat, I peered into the mirror.

“What’s that?” Mother said.

“Oh, I brought a hand mirror, to check out my lipstick and hair before we go in.”

Mother’s face must have hurt from all that smiling. “Don’t change anything. I paid big bucks for you to look perfect.”

“Yes, Mother. I was just admiring. Why don’t you turn on the radio?”

Mercifully, she did, which drowned it out a little when I whispered, “Show me Lisette.”

The image immediately switched to our house, Lisette’s room. When we’d left, she’d been crying. Now she was stomping around, furious.

“So unfair!” she was saying. “So unfair!” Her face was blotchy, her eyes black with smudged mascara. Her hair was the worst I’ve ever seen it, which was still beautiful.

“Hello?”

At the voice, Lisette jumped, then turned.

Kendra’s costume was her wildest ever, maybe a little too good. She’d channeled Glinda in
The Wizard of Oz
, if Glinda had taken a healthy dose of absinthe—seafoam green tulle antebellum-style gown and a big emerald crown that stood a foot higher than her head. Her hair was green too, that day, with ringlets floating all around her. She floated too, down from the ceiling. I wondered how she’d gotten up there without Lisette seeing.

After her greeting, she began to sing:

Wish for diamonds, wish for pearls

Wishes for deserving girls!

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” Lisette shrieked. She picked up a shoe and aimed at Kendra.

“Hey, watch it. I’m your fairy godmother.” She started to trill in a high soprano voice.

“Right.” Lisette drew back her arm, then stopped. “Know what? You can take anything you want, actually. Just stay out of my room. There’s nothing but crap here anyway. She’s got silver in the dining room.”

“Do I look like a cat burglar?”

“You look crazy. Actually, you look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I’m your fairy godmother.” Kendra began her cadenzas again.

“Right. How’d you get here?”

“I flew.” She levitated off the ground a little.

Lisette let fly a few swear words.

“You don’t believe in me?”

“Would you?”

Kendra stared across the room a second, then another. Suddenly something white started falling from the ceiling above Lisette.

Lisette swiped at it. “What is that?”

“Snow.”

“Why is it—?” She turned to Kendra. “You made it snow?”

“I told you, I’m your fairy godmother.” The snow started falling harder, then turned pink.

Lisette waved her arms around to keep it off her. “Can you make it stop?”

“You’re kidding.” Kendra wiggled her fingers and the pink snow started swirling, like a blizzard. “You’re in your room, crying over a party you can’t attend—a
party
—and someone dressed like this shows up, says she’s your fairy godmother, and makes it stinking
snow
, and all you can say is ‘make it stop’? Maybe you don’t deserve a fairy godmother.”

I could barely see through the storm. There were already drifts on the dresser.

“I’m sorry.” Lisette was shivering. “It’s just, I didn’t believe you at first, and my stepmother will get mad if there’s a mess. She’s super-mean.”

Kendra nodded. “So I’ve heard.” With a wave of her hand, the snow disappeared.

“Better?”

“Yeah. So you were saying you can get me to the party?” Kendra nodded. “We need to get started. It begins at seven, and you’re not looking your best at the moment.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve been crying.”

Kendra nodded. “Self-pity is ugly. I’ll clean you up.”

With a flick of Kendra’s hand, Lisette’s blotchy skin cleared up. Her hair fixed itself (I noticed her dark roots disappear too), and her makeup was done with professional precision.

Lisette gaped in the mirror.

“Now, your clothes. What do you think?” Kendra flicked her hand again, and Lisette’s jeans and T-shirt changed to couture originals in the same green Kendra was wearing.

“Um…” Lisette said. “That color doesn’t work on everyone.”

“How about this?” The ensemble changed to one in pink, then blue, and finally, a lacy number in white.

“Wow! You should be on
Project Runway
.”

“It’s nothing. Now you need shoes.”

“Great.”

“I need an old pair to convert.”

Lisette nodded then walked to the closet. “These okay?” She showed Kendra a pair. I did a double take. They were the same blue sandals Daddy had bought her the day we’d met. Had she saved them for sentimental reasons? Mine had worn out years ago.

“Perfect. Put them on.”

Lisette did, and the next moment, she was wearing impossibly high-heeled, jeweled, clear plastic sandals. They looked like glass slippers.

From the front seat of the car, Mother said, “Aren’t you excited?”

“What?” I started. “Oh, I’m sorry. All the hairspray is giving me a headache, but I don’t want to open the windows, so I’m being quiet.” I looked back at the mirror.

Now, Kendra flitted around Lisette, adding details, earrings, necklace, glittery spray in her hair until Lisette looked like an otherworldly goddess.

“I’m so excited!” She danced around. “They’re going to let me in?”

“You’re on the guest list now.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, fairy godmother. I’m sorry about the shoe thing. Those people are so cruel to me.”

“I know, I know. I think you’re ready.”

“How will I get there? Is there a limo?”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“Oh, no!” Lisette stomped her foot, practically impaling Kendra on her heel. “That’s Warner. I have to get rid of him.”

“I wouldn’t do that, dear,” Kendra said.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s your ride.”

“My ride? That geek? Can’t you make a Porsche out of a pumpkin or something?”

Kendra smirked. “You see any pumpkins here?”

“Emma has a mouse in her room.”

Kendra shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Warner will drive you, and he’ll be your escort.”

In the car, I chuckled. This was, of course, my requirement. I wanted Warner at the party, and I knew Lisette wouldn’t like it.

She didn’t. “My escort? But I’m going there to meet Travis! What kind of stupid fairy godmother are you?”

“Wishes always have rules. Cinderella herself had a time limit. Now, get the door because if he leaves, you’ll have no way to get there.”

“Oh, he’ll wait forever.” Nonetheless, Lisette shoved past Kendra and ran for the door.

Warner, sweet, stupid Warner stood there, smiling.

“Wow, you look more awesome than usual.”

Okay, maybe he was more stupid than sweet. Could he honestly not see her sneer at him?

“Um, yeah,” Lisette said. “Change of plans. We’re going to a party on Star Island.”

“Star Island? I’m not dressed for—”

“We’re going!” Lisette gestured impatiently as the invitation appeared in her hand. “Here.” She shoved him toward the door and they left.

“Emma?” Mother was talking to me again.

“What? Huh?” I unglued my eyes from Lisette and Warner.

“We’re almost there. Maybe freshen your lipstick.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t you see, Emma?” she said. “This is a chance for someone, for everyone, to realize how special you are.”

I stared at her. Did she really believe that, that I was special?
Was
I special? I didn’t ask. There was no time. We were pulling into the valet parking.

I reached for the lipstick and glanced at the clock. It had taken us forty-five minutes to drive to the party. That meant, in another forty-five minutes, Lisette would arrive. And Warner.

8

Travis Beecher’s house looked just like you’d expect some spoiled, rich TV star kid’s house to look. Two huge doors led to the marble-tiled entrance from which we could see a grand staircase like the one in the
Titanic
movie. We walked through about eight more rooms with jewel-toned walls until we reached a patio overlooking a sparkling bay. My feet already ached.

Once, when I was a kid, my aunt visited from Chicago, and we’d taken her on a boat tour of Miami Beach. The highlights had been the stars’ homes, and this house—though it hadn’t belonged to Travis Beecher at the time—had been one of them. I remembered it as big and white with dazzling columns, but I also remembered it as empty and hidden from the world.

It wasn’t empty today. Hundreds of people, mostly girls my age, filled the patio, talking and giggling, fixing their hair and looking as self-conscious as I felt. Every one of them was pretty, but none was as beautiful as Lisette. They stood in clumps, some with their mothers, some with friends. I wondered if this was what it was like in
Cinderella
, before she arrived, everyone standing there, not knowing what to do.

“Do you see him?” Mother said.

“I don’t. No way we’re all going to meet him.”

“You will. Maybe just take a stroll around the room. We could get some decorating ideas from a place like this.”

Yeah, if we were moving into a mansion
. I took a step, and my sandal straps dug into my feet. “We could eat something.” There was a table spread with a sumptuous, and almost untouched, buffet, ceviche in little cups, a chef slicing into filet mignon. Also, nearby, there were little tables where you could actually sit down. No one was, though.

“Do you want your mouth to be full when he shows up?” Mother demanded.

I didn’t care. I was here for Warner. And besides, I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten all day, and Mother had been giving me lettuce and water most of the week. Did I mention that?

But I knew none of that would be the right thing to say, so I said, “I guess not.”

So we walked and walked until I couldn’t lift my foot again, couldn’t move another inch in the tourniquet jeans. But when I suggested we at least sit, Mother said, “I heard someone say they saw him. He’s out there somewhere.”

I understood then how the girls in the story of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” had danced themselves to illness. I felt sick just walking. I kept my eye out for Lisette, but she wasn’t there.

Finally, though, I saw Travis Beecher’s blond hair above the crowd.

“Maybe you should find the ladies’ room,” I said to Mother.

“What? Why?”

“Because he’s here. You don’t want me to be the one walking around with my mother when he gets here, do you? Like a baby?”

She smiled. “Good thinking, Emma. I’m glad you’re finally showing some spirit for once in your life.”

Show some spirit? I did have spirit, just not about this. I had spirit about important things like literature and like love. But I didn’t say it to her, just watched as, with a wave of her hand, she walked away.

And then, I did what any girl (at least, any smart girl) who didn’t want to be at this party in the first place would do if her mother stopped watching. I found a spot in the corner, behind a wicker trunk of some sort, and I took out my book.

Yup, I’d brought a book. It was the smallest one I could find to stuff in my purse,
Candide
by Voltaire. It was a satire about an optimistic young man who braves war, storms at sea, and the slaughter of his beloved’s family—all in the first ten chapters.

I was trying to keep an eye out for Lisette and also for Mother, who would literally kill me right there on the patio with actual blood if she knew I was reading. But it was hard because I was enjoying the book so much. It was funny, despite how tragic it was, because Voltaire wrote about war, death, and cannibalism (an old lady’s buttock is fed to a starving man) as if it were nothing much. I needed to develop that attitude.

I was just at the part where Candide flees Buenos Aires, where he’s been pursued for murder, when I heard a voice above me.

“Good book?” It was a boy.

Pushing back my annoyance at being discovered, not to mention the irritation I always felt when people asked me what I was reading (did they really care, or were they just pointing out that they thought it was weird to read in public?), I tried to reply politely. “Pretty good.”

And then I looked up.

Omigod. It was Travis. Travis. Beecher. Himself. I looked down, then back up again. Yes, that was definitely him. He had on a black guayabera, a sort of fancy Cuban shirt, and white pants. He was about my age, not as tall as I’d guessed, but way better looking, with dark blond hair and brown eyes you could drown in.

He also had a zit on his chin. I could only see it because I was below him, but that one zit made it possible for me to answer him without actually hyperventilating. “Um, yeah, it’s pretty good. Really good, actually.” I showed him the cover.

“Oh, wow.
Candide
. I’ve been meaning to read that.”

Before I could stop myself, I laughed. “I’ll bet.”

“It’s true,” he said. “I love satire, not just parody like on TV, but real satire. My favorite novel of all time is
Vanity Fair
.”

My mouth went dry.

I must have looked weirded out because he leaned down, all concerned, and said, “Are you okay?” I couldn’t see the zit anymore, but I saw his beautiful eyes even more clearly, which made it worse. “Can I get you a glass of water?”