Bras & Broomsticks (3 page)

My mother bites her chapped lip. “Remember what happened yesterday? With the dead lobster?”

Okay, let me backtrack for a moment.

Last night my father forced Miri and me to have dinner at the home of his future in-laws, the Abramsons of Ridgefield, Connecticut. Yes, in-laws. On April 3, he’s marrying STBSM (Soon To Be Step-Monster), referred to as STB for short.

We call her Jennifer in person.

There is also an STBSMM (Soon To Be Step-Mini-Monster). In other words, STB has a five-year-old daughter, Priscilla, which is a ridiculous name. Miri and I call her Prissy for short.

Abramson family dinners go on
forever
. The adults don’t care; they don’t have biology homework. Plus, they go through a minimum of three bottles of wine, so they’re all smashed, and unlike my mom, they don’t let us have any. And since Prissy is seated next to Miri and me, we are forced to cut her food and listen to her nonsensical five-year-old questions and ramblings about anything that pops into her head. (“Today at school Ms. Kimmel gave us Popsicle sticks, did your teachers ever give you Popsicle sticks? Mine was broken and it was sunny . . .”)

Anyway, when Mr. and Mrs. Abramson’s housekeeper, Miss (yes, they call their forty-year-old married Filipina housekeeper Miss—don’t even get me started), put a full lobster on my sister’s plate, eyes and all, I thought Miri was going to hurl.

On the one hand, I was upset. Dad
knows
that Miri is a vegetarian. Why didn’t he tell the Abramsons? Actually, STB knows too, and they’re her parents, so she’s even more to blame. The whole situation exposed the total disrespect STB has for my mother and the way she raised Miri and me.

On the other hand,
yes, lobster!
I’d had lobster only once, and it had been the most delicious few moments of my life. Since I hardly ever get to have it, my mouth automatically salivated when I spotted the heated butter and shell crackers.

Miri turned an odd shade of lime green. Her gaze washed over the creature that had been prepared for her culinary pleasure. And that was when things got weird.

Her dead lobster moved. Yes. Moved. As in, it came back to life. Can you say
Pet Sematary
? The antennae started quivering, the eyes flickering, the claws snapping. Mr. One-Pound Special began migrating toward her water glass.

I was in the happy process of squirting my own lobster with lemon when I noticed the resurrection on the plate beside mine.

“Ahhhh!” I screamed, shivering.

“Ahhhh!” STB screamed.

“Oh my!” Mrs. Abramson (occasionally referred to as STBSG—Soon To Be Step-Grandmonster) screamed.

“It’s alive!” Prissy screamed.

We were in the audience of a horror movie.

The lobster knocked over Miri’s glass, flushing our side of the table with water. My father jumped out of his chair, grabbed the sea creature, ran to the front door, and threw it into the yard.

Some neighborhood Fido was going to get his nose clamped off.

Total chaos ensued. Miri started crying, Prissy started crying, I started crying, and Mr. Abramson spit what he was chewing into his napkin.

“Miss! Miss!” Mrs. Abramson yelled.

Miss, looking startled, poked her head into the dining room. “Yes, Mrs. Abramson?”

“Why weren’t the lobsters cooked properly?”

Miss fiddled with her apron in confusion. “They were, Mrs. Abramson.”

“No, they weren’t! One just walked off the table!”

Luckily all the lobsters except Miri’s remained dead, and after a few minutes everyone resumed their normal drunk/boring/rambling dispositions.

Except Miri. She spent the rest of the night staring wide-eyed at her empty plate. Miss hurriedly brought her a tomato salad, but she refused to eat.

Later at home, Miri pushed the bathroom door open while I was peeing. She still had that freaked-out look on her face.

“Do you mind?” I hate when she does that. Why does she have to follow me everywhere? “What’s wrong with you?” I asked, wrapping the toilet paper around my hand, bandage-style.

She leaned against the towel rack and nibbled the skin around her thumbnail. “I made the lobster come back to life.”

I laughed. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not kidding.” Her eyes filled with tears. Uh-oh. I felt my own eyes liquid up. I can’t help crying whenever someone else cries. Like how some people retch at the sight of puke. I’m like that with tears, especially my baby sister’s. Cute at three, highly embarrassing at fourteen. I blinked back the waterworks and tried to focus on how ridiculous she was acting.

“I felt so bad for him,” she whispered, “lying on my plate like that. I told him in my mind to come back to us. And he did.”

I laughed again. “You can’t
will
things to come back to life.”

“But I did. And it’s not the first time. What about Goldie?” Goldie lives in a small glass bowl on top of the refrigerator because that is the only spot in the apartment Tigger, our cat, can’t reach. “Do you know any other goldfish that has lived for ten years?”

“No, but we take good care of it,” I explained. Then came the tricky part: attempting to pull up my undies without Miri getting a peek at my downtown hair. I’m very self-conscious about my body in front of my sister. Mostly because hers is far more developed than mine. Case in point: even though she’s two years younger than me, she wears a B, one entire cup size larger than I do. When she rubbed her teary eyes, I made a grab for my panties. Success!

“No,” she insisted, still rubbing. “He keeps dying and I keep resurrecting him.”

“You’ve been studying too hard,” I said soothingly. Ever since Robyn, Miri’s best friend, moved to Vancouver, Miri hasn’t made much of an effort to find new friends. All she does is study, go to Tae Kwon Do, and hang out with my mom. Oh—and make lists.

I felt bad for her, but explaining to my sister that she wasn’t the Messiah was
not
my responsibility. “Mom!” I screamed through the bathroom door. “Can you please clarify the workings of the universe to Miri?”

I thought that would be the death of the resurrection rigmarole.

Obviously not.

My mother takes another deep breath, this time with the cigarette still between her lips. “I was hoping I’d never have to have this discussion with you.” She turns her head and exhales toward the window. “Witchcraft is hereditary, and it blooms during puberty.”

Obviously, my mother is crazy. I debate calling 911, but decide that my best bet is to humor her. “And who did she inherit this witch stuff from? Dad? Is he Harry Potter in disguise?” I say in my best patronizing voice.

She shakes her head, unamused. “From me. I’m a witch too.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d worry that she’s been smoking something besides tobacco. I pat her hair. “You should take a nap.”

“Rachel, I know this is difficult for you to understand. The powers Miri and I have are very special. They’ve been passed down through the bloodline, from mother to daughter.”

“Mom, you know you’re Jewish, right? I don’t think there’s such a thing as a Jewish witch.”

“Being Jewish has nothing to do with being a witch, Rachel.” She gives me yet another weight-of-the-world sigh. “I know this is going to be difficult for you, honey. That’s my fault for shielding you from the truth for so long. But I wanted you to have normal childhoods. I was hoping that if I didn’t nurture the powers, they’d remain dormant.”

Normal? I won’t even go there.

Her eyes fill with tears. Like me, she cries at the drop of a (pointy) hat. Must be hereditary. Just like this so-called witchcraft.

“These powers aren’t always gifts, Rachel,” she says in a tremulous voice. “I hoped you both might be lucky enough to escape them. You didn’t seem to gain any of my higher consciousness at puberty—”

“Gee, thanks, Mom.”

“—which thrilled me. Because all I ever wanted for you was a regular life. But now Miri . . .” She trails off into sobs.

“It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t worry about me,” my sister says, stroking my mother’s hand with suck-up circles. “I’m happy about it. I finally understand why I’ve always been different. Everything makes sense.”

Apparently, both my mother and sister are delusional. I scoot closer to the phone on the nightstand, in case I have to call an ambulance to take them to the cuckoo’s nest.

My mom wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand and manages to give Miri a smile. “But now your powers have awakened. It’s my responsibility to explain the changes in your spirit. We’ll start training this weekend.”

“We’re going to Dad’s tomorrow,” Miri reminds her, her shoulders sagging with disappointment.

Mom pats her knee. “Then we’ll start on Monday.”

Wait a second. This is an early April Fools’ joke. Or maybe I’m an unknowing contestant on a new reality show—
Win
a Million Dollars If You Can Make a Fool of
Your Eldest Daughter
. Don’t they know I hate reality TV? I scan the ceiling for protruding cameras.

My sister pops another handful of sunflower seeds into her mouth. “See?” she says to me. “I
knew
I brought the lobster back to life.”

“It’s amazing you were able to do that without a spell,” my mom says, shaking her head. And then, taking the prank to a whole new stratosphere of ridiculousness, she leans over to the nightstand and heaves a heavy book onto the comforter. From its earthy green cover, the book appears normal size, but then I notice that it’s at least two feet deep. My nose wrinkles. The book looks and smells as if it’s been left underwater for a few hundred decades.

My mom thumbs carefully through its thin yellowed pages. “According to the spell section in
The Authorized
and Absolute Reference Handbook to Astonishing Spells,
Astounding Potions, and History of Witchcraft Since
the Beginning of Time,
resurrection is very advanced. The version here calls for rose petals, frankincense resin, and—”

“Tell me you didn’t bring props.” How long have they had this practical joke planned? Does she think I’m that naive? Couldn’t she come up with a less preposterous name?

“It’s Miri’s spell book,” my mom says, giving my sister a protective-looking smile.

Miri’s eyes widen to the size of DVDs. “Really?”

“Every witch has one. My mother gave me mine when I first came into my powers.”

Grandma just rolled over in her crypt. I can’t
believe
she’s bringing her deceased mother into this absurd prank! “What about Aunt Sasha? Let me guess—she was a witch too?” My mom and her sister got into a huge fight years ago, and we haven’t seen her since.

My mother ignores me. “What’s amazing is that Miri didn’t even need the book. I never had that much raw will when I was her age.”

“Raw will? Is that like the Force?” I laugh. Ha-heeha. See that, camera? You’re not ruining my sense of humor! Oops. That was another
Star Wars
allusion, and even worse, it was caught on film. I slouch down, hopefully out of prime camera view.

To my surprise, my mom keeps the ruse alive. “Yes. It is.” She turns back to Miri. “Honey, as impressed as I am with your ability, you mustn’t do magic in front of non-witches. Exposing yourself to the masses leads to nothing but trouble.”

I’ve been reduced to the masses? That’s so much lower than the B-list.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again,” Miri says, licking her palm. “Trust me, I didn’t even know I had it in me. I’ll have to learn my limits.”

“Exactly. Which the book will teach you.” My mom flips through the pages and squints at the headings. “It’s been a long time. . . . I’m a bit out of practice. But I estimate your training will take at least a year. From what I remember, section one traces the history of witchcraft. Section two covers the ethics—”

That’s it! I’ve had enough. I’m not going to sit here while my mom pretends to train her apprentice. “This is great fun and all, being the butt of your practical joke, but I’m going to meet my friends now.” I hop off the bed and stomp toward the door. Then I realize I forgot my sneakers. And that’s when things get creepy.

My shoes float off the floor.

One foot, two feet. Three feet high.

No one is wearing them, touching them, or commandeering them in any way.

My brand-new green suede sneakers fly through the room until they are six feet above the bed, eclipsing the white porcelain ceiling lamp. My shoelaces, which were previously hanging limply, contort themselves into a triangle. And then a square.

And a pentagon!

A hexagon!

A heptagon!

“OOOOHHHMMMIIGAAAAAAAAAAAWD!” I scream, heaving my back against the door. I peek in terror at my mom. Her eyes are closed tightly, her lips are pursed, and she’s reciting something under her breath.
What is she
doing?
Why is she making her putting-on-lipstick face while my shoelaces morph into haunted polygons? Why is it so cold in here?
What is going on?

Suddenly, my sneakers crash back to the floor with a thud.

Oh. Oh my. Omigod.