Bras & Broomsticks (25 page)

Hers is the left one. Definitely. I hand her the left one. Uh-oh. I think I made a mistake.

She immediately takes a sip. “They seem to have added mint.”

Score! I gave her the right one! When we pull into the dressmaker’s parking lot, I mouth to Miri, “How long does it take to work?”

She shrugs.

I continue mouthing. “And how do we turn it off?”

She shrugs again. Then she smiles. “I brought everything we could possibly need to make the antidote in case of a problem,” she whispers.

Problem? Us having problems? You don’t say.

“Thanks for seeing us on such short notice,” STB says to Judy. “Rachel apologizes. Miri, you go first. You’re always the most difficult.”

I hate her. To keep my mouth too busy to tell her off, I take another sip of my yummy drink.

Miri sulks as she goes into the changing room. Maybe I should accidentally spill the coffee on our butt-ugly dresses so we won’t have to wear them.

Prissy is on her knees, playing with slivers of past dresses on the floor with one hand and picking her nose with the other.

STB is staring weirdly at the ceiling. Soon Miri, clad in her now completed pink doily, stomps back into the main room. “Wow, Miri,” STB says. “You look gorgeous. Like a princess.”

I almost drop my coffee. Miri looks up in shock.

“When I was your age,” STB says, blinking rapidly, “I always wanted a dress like this. You guys are going to look terrific in the pictures.” She sighs. “Rachel, I don’t know how you could have forgotten about the fitting. Weren’t you looking forward to it? I was. I enjoy the time we get to spend just us girls.”

What is she talking about?

Judy looks up. “Are you all right, Ms. Abramson?”

STB nods slowly. “I’m just happy. I’m lucky, you know? To have found love a second time.”

“You’re lucky, Mommy,” Prissy sings. “And I’m going to be a princess!”

We must have given her the wrong spell. The sappy cheeseball spell.

Miri and I nervously eye each other in the mirror, waiting for her to speak again. She doesn’t open her mouth until five minutes later, when I have my dress on.

“You look so beautiful too,” she says, and sighs.

She’s lost it. I do not look beautiful. But I do look a bit like Glinda the Good Witch. I squeeze my eyes tight and silently chant, “Let STB spill her coffee on this dress, let STB spill her coffee on this dress. . . .”

Maybe looking like a witch will help me kick-start my powers. Maybe I’ll trick the fates into thinking I should be a witch because I’m dressed like one!

STB tosses her now-empty cup into the garbage pail.

Guess that didn’t work.

While STB helps Prissy change into her dress, I whisper to Miri, “I think you screwed up and made her hallucinate.”

Miri looks terrified. “I know. Something’s weird. What do we do?”

As they emerge from the dressing room, STB is playing with Prissy’s hair. “I love you so much, honey. Do you know how much? More than the stars in the sky. More than a trillion billion stars!”

Baby talk? There’s definitely been a screwup somewhere. “Maybe we gave her a nice potion?” I mouth to Miri.

Yes, must have been a nice potion. At least that’s what I believe until STB calls my dad from her cell when we’re finished and back in the car. “We’re on our way home from the dressmaker. . . . You’re where? At the office? . . . No, I’m not happy with you being at the office. Your children are visiting you and they want to see you. Rachel has to go back early on Sunday, which is another reason why you should be home today. You can go to the office on Monday. And it would be great if you could start preparing brunch.” And then she hangs up.

What was that? Miri kicks the back of my seat. I can’t believe STB just told my father off. I have never heard her tell my father off. Ever. I turn around and Miri and I share a look. Is it possible the spell just kicked in? My father is finally going to see what a horrible woman she is?

We arrive home to find my father in the kitchen, leaning over a frying pan on the stove. He’s never made a meal in his life. I didn’t even think he knew what a frying pan looked like, never mind where it was.

“How are my favorite girls?” he asks.

“Fine,” we all say simultaneously.

Prissy dances around the kitchen floor in her socks. “I look like a princess in my dress, don’t I, Mommy? For the wedding I’m going to wear lipstick and green eye shadow and—”

“What are you making?” I interrupt, putting my arm around my dad’s waist.

He flips an egg. “Eggs with smoked salmon.”

STB kisses him on the cheek. “And for Miri?”

And for Miri? What? Miri and I both freeze in our tracks beside the kitchen table.

“She can eat this,” my father says. “It’s not meat.”

STB sighs. “Honey, can you please be considerate of other people’s needs? You know she doesn’t eat fish. Sometimes you can be so selfish. You tend to focus only on what you want, not on what makes others happy. Like yesterday, when I asked you to get me chopsticks and you didn’t even bother to remember. We would all be a lot happier if you considered other people’s feelings. And dietary preferences.”

Um . . . have I been transported to an alternative universe? Has STB’s body been poached by an alien soul?

I’m in shock. My dad, Miri, and even Prissy are in shock. If our jaws had dropped any lower, they would have crashed against the perfectly polished floor. I don’t think anyone has ever called my father selfish before. In the entire time he was married to my mother, I don’t recall her ever telling him off.

His face contorts into a configuration I have never seen. His mouth gets all squiggly and crooked. He’s going to blow a fuse. He’s going to freak. There’s going to be a screaming match louder than the most deafening rock concert of all time.

He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. He opens his mouth again. Time has stopped, like in those sci-fi movies with the cool special effects.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize I was being selfish. I’ll try harder to be more considerate.” He divvies up the eggs and slides them onto plates. “Miri, what can I make you? How about some pancakes?”

Omigod.

Miri looks at me and then at my dad. “Thanks,” she responds slowly.

Our spell must be kicking in. STB is saying what she really feels. Any second now, she’s going to start ripping into us.

Except for my dad, who’s still cooking, we’re all sitting at the kitchen table.

This would be a good time, Monster Dearest. Go ahead, do your stuff. Start berating us.

She smiles at me.

Time to take this into our own hands. Literally. I kick Miri under the table, and I motion for her to bite her nails.

She nods. Then she picks off the Band-Aids one by one from her fingers and goes to town, as if she hasn’t eaten in weeks. She’s nibbling, she’s chomping, she’s picking, she’s ripping. It’s a virtual nail feast.

STB pats her on the head. “Miri, I can see I’m fighting a losing battle with your fingers, so I’m going to stop bugging you. But I want you to know I’m only trying to get you to stop because I know how tough a habit it is to break. I used to bite too, and I seriously damaged my teeth and nail beds. I also got sick all the time, because the germs on my fingers ended up in my system. The Band-Aids trick worked for me, and I was hoping it would for you. But I guess not.”

Miri stops picking and looks at me for help.

But I’m as confused as she is. Why isn’t STB being mean? Why isn’t she hurling insults across the salt and pepper like a volleyball over a net? We need to try something else. What else would she be mean about?

I peruse the room and settle on my dad’s striped yellow shirt as he cooks the pancakes. He hasn’t changed since returning from the office, and he’s wearing one of his most hideous items of clothing.

“Great shirt, Dad,” I say. “Don’t you like it, Miri?”

“Oh, I love it,” she says.

Here it comes. I point to the yellow atrocity. “Jennifer, what do you think?”

“I don’t love it,” she admits.

Yes!

My dad looks down at his shirt in surprise.

She shrugs. “It makes you look like a banana.”

Prissy giggles. “A banana! You look like a banana!”

I try to wipe away a smile with the back of my hand. Too much. What’s he going to say to that? He’s not just going to stand there and be insulted, is he?

The room is so silent I can hear the sizzling of the pancakes. “Really?” he says finally. “But you’ve never said anything before. Speaking of bananas, Miri, do you want some in your pancakes?”

“Um . . . sure,” she says.

Prissy jiggles in her seat. “Can I have bananas in my eggs?”

“No, honey, bananas don’t go with eggs,” STB says, and then turns back to my dad. “I know, and I should have. Sometimes you don’t have the best taste in clothes.”

He’s going to blow up. He’s going to put down the banana he’s cutting for Miri and explode. He shakes his head and . . . laughs. “I thought you liked it. That’s why I keep wearing it.”

Why is he laughing? She just insulted his wardrobe! He should be freaking out.

She adds some salt to her eggs. “Well, I don’t. Sorry.”

He turns off the stove. “Are there other articles of clothing of mine you don’t like?”

“Definitely.” She chews slowly, seemingly taking a mental inventory of his wardrobe. “Your green fluorescent sweater? I wouldn’t wear that in public if I were you.”

“I wish you would tell me these things. I rely on you to be my mirror for the outside world.”

“We’ll go through your closet after brunch. Put together all the clothes I don’t think suit you and give them to a shelter.”

“Thanks, Jen. I appreciate it.” And then he leans over the table and kisses her. Yes, kisses her. This is
not
the plan.

When he finally pulls away, STB says, “Why don’t we have a fashion show with your stuff, just like Rachel’s fashion show? Rachel, you can show your dad how to do the walk!”

Abort plan! Abort plan! Why are they planning horrendously embarrassing family activities instead of yelling and screaming?

“When is the show, Rachel?” my dad asks. “I’m sorry. I forgot the date.”

“The Friday night before Spring—before your wedding.” Oops. Caught myself just in time there.

“Honey,” STB says. “You knew that. That’s why we scheduled the rehearsal dinner for Thursday night. I’m very excited to see you in the show, Rachel,” she continues. Her eyes are blinking furiously and she fingers her earlobe, as if even she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “And I’m really proud of you.”

Miri drops a forkful of banana pancake.

“And I’m proud of you, too, Miri. Really. The fact that you’ve dedicated yourself to Tae Kwon Do training shows excellent focus and drive. You’re a wonderful role model for Priscilla. You both are. Except for Rachel’s slobbiness. I know you girls think I’m tough on you two,” she continues, “but it’s only because I care about you and want you to learn to be the best people you can.”

My father’s eyes start to tear, he’s so happy.

I’m about to spit out my eggs. “Er . . . thanks. Um, Miri, can I talk to you for a sec?”

She jumps from her chair. “Yeah. I’m done anyway.”

I drag her up the stairs by her elbow and close our door. “What did you do? This isn’t an honesty spell; it’s a nauseating spell!”

“I swear I followed the instructions properly,” she says, shaking her head in dismay. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“It must be the wrong spell. This isn’t her being honest. She doesn’t think we’re role models. She hates us.” I narrow my eyes. “And we hate her. It’s making Dad like her even more! You have to make an antidote! You have to reverse the spell!”

“I can’t reverse it if I don’t know what kind of spell it is.” Her face clouds over. “There’s only one way to find out. One of us has to take it,” she says slowly.

“Don’t look at me. I’m not taking another potion. What if it counteracts the dancing spell? I have to be in a social situation tomorrow. You take it.”