Bras & Broomsticks (2 page)

Raf buttons up his coat and slaps one of his friends on the back.

Sigh.

I am such a liar.
Of course
that’s why I like them. I don’t even
know
them, so why else would I like them? They’re hot and cool—as in sexy and popular—and if either of them were interested in me, I would actually have a real kiss to brag about. (I claim my first was with a Texan named Stu who I met on a cruise. This is a total lie. Although there was a boy named Stu from Texas, he was seven.) Plus, I would instantly be promoted from the B-list (B+ on an excellent hair day) to the A-list.

I really want to be A-list. Yes, I know I’m being colossally pathetic, and I’ve seen enough movies to know that popular people always get their comeuppance. And being A-list in high school doesn’t guarantee you’ll be cool in college. But . . . like blondes, the A-list always seems to have more fun.

I ask you: Is it so wrong to want to be happy? Is it so wrong to want to be liked? Is it wrong to want my life to be like a soda ad, with lots of laughing, jumping, and high-fiving?

Aaron, otherwise known as Tammy’s connection to the A-list, waves to her from across the hallway.

Tammy doesn’t believe it, but Aaron has a thing for her. Aaron isn’t quite A-list, but he went to junior high with Mick and is friends with Mick’s best friend, Jeffrey, so sometimes he gets invited through a few degrees of separation. Tammy says that if Aaron liked her, he would have asked her out by now. Instead they’ve become “friends.” They IM every night. Tammy claims she doesn’t like Aaron, but I don’t buy it. She giggles around him
and
her hand signals go into overdrive.

“Ready?” he asks, bundling his scarf like a helmet around his neck and over his ears. He looks like one of the evil sandmen in
Star Wars
who try to kill Luke.

Yikes. Only a freak would allude to
Star Wars
. How am I ever going to achieve cool status when I’m such a loser?

I need to start laughing and jumping. Maybe if I raise my hand, Tammy will give me a high five?

Not.

Instead, Tammy gives Aaron the scuba OK, which conveniently happens to be the universal okay sign, an O with the thumb and index finger. This has always mystified me. Where’s the K? What if you just want to say
Oh
, as in
Oh, Raf, why don’t you notice me?
Or,
Oh, at least
I have cool new shoes
.

“See you tomorrow,” she tells me.

Oh why oh why do I have to go home?

I turn the corner onto Tenth Street and run the last bit to my apartment building—I hate to do this to my virgin new shoe soles, but I have no choice. My earlobes have frozen into blocks of ice, and now the doctor will probably have to amputate. Seriously. That’s what they do with frostbite. Just call me Van Gogh.

I press the Up button to call the elevator. To pass the time—what’s taking it so long?—I make a mental list.

Possible Extremely Important Topics Mom Insists on Discussing Today of All Days

This is turning out to be a really chaotic list. No wonder I never make lists. I’m so bad at them. They’re too restrictive, like tights. Miri loves them. (I’m talking about lists, not tights—we both hate the latter, especially itchy wool ones.) I’m the disorganized, last-week’ssocks-still-under-my-bed kind of girl, but Miri types and pins her
Things to Do Today! Packing List for Dad’s! ReasonsWhy I’m Anal!
(just kidding on that last one) memos to the massive bulletin board above her desk. The rest of her room is covered in Tae Kwon Do certificates. She’s a brown belt, which is two levels away from black. How nuts is that? She’s only four and a half feet tall and she can beat up my dad. Okay, fine, she probably can’t beat up my dad. Definitely me, though. I went to a class once, but all the kicking, bowing, and focusing required was exhausting. Never mind the impossible no-talking rule—

I notice the sign on the building elevator: OUT OF ORDER.

Groan. I guess the stairs will be my exercise for the day. For the week, actually. All right, the month. I fly up the first flight. I stride up the second. By the fourth I almost black out.

Maybe I should have stayed in Tae Kwon Do. Then I wouldn’t be so out of shape. I’m not one of those girls who obsess about the size of their thighs, but it’s kind of sad that I’m so young and out of breath.

Maybe there’s a sports team I could join.

Nah.
Puff, puff
. Exercise.
Puff, puff
. Is.
Puff, puff
. Too.
Puff, puff
. Hard.

By the time I insert the key in the lock of the front door, I’m gasping.

I hang up my coat in the front closet. “Hello?”

“We’re in here,” my mother calls from her room.

I wipe the bottoms of my funky new sneakers, turn on the kitchen lights, and pour myself a glass of water. Then I pass my room, my sister’s room, and the bathroom and then enter the warden’s. She and Miri are sitting side by side on the bed, their legs hidden under a faded purple comforter, their backs against the headboard. Both are in their usual sleepwear: oversized concert T-shirts.

“Why does it reek of smoke in here?” An ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts is stationed between the humps I assume are my mother’s feet. What’s going on? She hasn’t smoked in more than a year.

“Minor relapse,” my mom says with a hangdog expression. “Won’t happen again. Sit down. We have to talk to you.”

Uh-oh. I try to forget about the revolting butts and focus on the issue at hand. This must be really bad. If we’d won the lottery, she’d have greeted me with a smile and champagne. Fine, probably not champagne, since that stuff’s pretty pricey. But maybe chardonnay. Occasionally she lets me have a small glass of wine with dinner. Says she’d rather I try it with her than at an unsupervised party.

Not that I’ve ever been to an unsupervised party. (But if anyone
does
invite me, I’m game. You can call me on my home [not cell] phone or e-mail me at—)

“Oh, Rachel,” my mom says. “Where to begin?”

Miri’s eating from a bag of sunflower seeds. Watching her is disgusting. She sucks one seed at a time, licks her fingers, then sticks her grubby, nail-bitten hand (a habit she picked up from my mother) back into the bag. One wet seed is clinging to a frizzy strand of her shoulder-length brown hair. Very appealing.

“Want some?” she offers.

Ew!

“Are you wearing shoes in the apartment?” my mother asks, peering over the edge of her bed.

“No.” I’m about to thank her for them again, but curiosity about what they need to tell me takes precedence over manners. So I untie them and place them neatly on the floor. Then I slide, baseball-style (see how made for each other we are, sweet Mick?), stomach first onto her bed. “This had better be important.”

Instead of responding, my mother lights up.

“Hello? Enough with the smoking,” I say, but she has the nerve to ignore me, so I turn to Miri. “Why are you still in your pajamas? Didn’t you go to school? Don’t you have Tae Kwon Do?” She gets to skip class when she’s not even dying?

“I stayed home all day,” she says, exposing mashed-up seeds. “Mom and I had stuff to discuss.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I say. Being the big sister, I try to give Miri constructive criticism. Often.

She closes her lips, swallows, then says, “Don’t give me orders when I’m eating.”

My mother rubs her fingers against her temples, almost setting fire to her bottle blond hair with the tip of her cigarette. “Girls, please. I can’t handle fighting now.”

I get nervous again. “Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

A smile spreads across Miri’s face. “Everything’s fantastic.” She peeks over the edge of the bed, eyes my new shoes, and giggles. “Amazing!”

My mom shoots Miri a warning look. “Looks can be deceiving, Miri. I meant what I said before.”

My family is more confusing to interpret than Tammy’s underwater mime techniques. “What are you talking about? And if things are so great, why am I here?”

“Rachel.” My mother takes a deep breath. “Your sister is a witch.”

2

MY SISTER TAKES ANIMAL RIGHTS A TINY BIT TOO FAR

“Excuse me?” I ask, shocked.

My mother repeats herself. “Your sister is a witch.”

“She’s not
that
bad, Mom,” I say, in a hushed voice, coming to Miri’s defense.

“No, you don’t understand. A witch-witch.”

Miri nods. “Think Sabrina. Hermione.” She squinches her forehead, thinking. “Or like that sixties TV show,
Bewitched
?”

My mom frowns. “That really isn’t the best example.”

Tell me, what is a teenage girl supposed to do after her mother says something so crazy? “I think you should consider returning to therapy” is what slips out of my mouth. I mean,
come on
.