Bras & Broomsticks (33 page)

“It’s too early,” she whines.

“Don’t make me rub it on you.”

She shrieks and pulls the covers over her head.

“My face is loaded and I’m not afraid to use it,” I threaten.

“Okay, just don’t touch me. Step away from the bed.”

I take five steps back, and she pulls the covers down to her shoulders, revealing a grin. Then she glances at the clock radio and moans, “It’s only six thirty!”

“I know. But it’s a big day.”

She rubs her eyes. “Let me find my notebook. Good thing we bought lemon juice and those salts for Mom.”

It’s two thirty and I’m gorgeous. Pimpleless and gorgeous.

Maybe gorgeous is a slight exaggeration, but I look good. Really good. Better than I’ve ever looked in my entire life.

Sophie (a very tall, broad-shouldered hairdresser with bright fake-red hair and a face full of makeup, who might have been a man before he/she became a stylist) spent thirty minutes putting my hair in curlers. Then I sat under a heating lamp for another twenty minutes, giggling with Doree, who’s having her hair put into a tight bun. Melissa’s having her long red hair braided. Jewel is straightening hers. Stephy chopped her locks and now has a short bob to her chin and looks a bit like Tinker Bell.

And just when I began to worry that my earlobes were melting, Sophie let me out and used a dozen curling irons and other unnamed contraptions to turn each strand of my hair into a perfect curled tendril. I am no longer an ocean head. I am more of a . . . mermaid enchantress.

Then Natalie (who looks as if she could be Sophie’s twin sister/brother) tweezed my eyebrows, then spent forty minutes applying my makeup. I have cheekbones (who knew?)! My skin is flawlessly smooth, my brown eyes look huge and Bambi-esque (he/she used so much mascara that my lashes are almost touching my nose), and my lips look luscious, red and kissable. Like a delicious plum. Raf may not be able to wait for Spring Fling—he may spring and fling himself on my mouth during the Moulin Rouge formal for a taste.

I can’t stop staring at myself in the many mirrors. Of course, when I stand too close to my reflection, I can see the four inches of foundation, which is a bit clownish. But from far? Gorgeous.

“You girls look so hot,” London says, parading through the room in a white cotton bathrobe and white cardboard flip-flops. She and Mercedes are getting full-body treatments, including manicures, pedicures, and massages, courtesy of the salon.

We’re done by six, two hours before the fashion show doors open, and the five of us hail a cab. The driver doesn’t want to squeeze us all in, but we beg and plead and try to look our cutest, and he tells us to hurry. Jewel climbs in first, then me, then Doree, and Stephy squishes onto our laps. Pouting, and bearing a striking resemblance to Pippi Longstocking, Melissa mopes as she gets into the front seat. “JFK High School,” she orders. “And drive carefully because we just had our hair done.”

“It’s going to be awesome,” Doree says. “
We’re
going to be awesome.”

“I can’t believe the show is today!” Stephy squeals. I expect her to start tossing pixie dust around.

I can’t believe I’m here. In the cab with these four A-list girls, looking the best I have ever looked.

“I’m so nervous,” Jewel shrieks. “I think I’m going to vomit.” The cabbie slams on his brakes to avoid hitting a pedestrian, and Jewel groans. “And this drive isn’t helping.”

“Come on, everyone,” Doree screams. “Get excited. It’s going to be the best night of the year. Rachel, you gotta smile. They sold one thousand tickets. One thousand people are going to be watching us!”

I give her a half smile. I should be feeling euphoric. This is everything I ever wanted. Isn’t it?

The cabbie slams on his brakes and my knees slam into the divider. This time it’s not to avoid an accident. My stomach cartwheels into my throat. The moment has arrived.

“We’re here! This is it!” Doree shouts, and we pile out. We enter the school through the auditorium door and find the rest of the cast lounging around the caf.

Raf is sitting with Sean Washington and Will, eating pizza. He whistles when he sees me. That should cheer me up. He should cheer me up. He’s cool and smart and sexy and sweet, and he likes me. Maybe.

I feel a nagging in the pit of my stomach. What’s wrong with me? This is supposed to be one of the best days of my life. Why am I being so gloomy and cynical?

“Hey, Raf,” Will says, tousling his brother’s hair as I approach them. “Your Spring Fling date is smoking hot.”

“Get your greasy pepperoni hands out of my hair,” Raf says, swatting him away. “Or I’m going to get Mom to throw tomatoes at you while you’re MC-ing. She’s in the front row, thanks to you.”

Who’ll be in my reserved seats? My guess is that STB isn’t coming tonight. Or Prissy. After the rehearsal from hell, my dad might not make it either. I don’t even know where he is. Or where he spent last night. Maybe he moved back into Putter’s Place. I’m assuming Tammy isn’t going to use the seat I gave her either. Super. I’ll have four empty seats in my section. At least Mom and Miri will be here to cheer me on.

I follow the other girls into the locker room to change. I can already hear the rustling of people in the auditorium, parents arriving early, chatty friends excited to see their classmates. One of London’s friends is standing guard at the auditorium’s back door, making sure that no one sneaks out into the hallway and to the locker rooms to see us before the show.

Despite the designer clothes and freshly washed and sprayed hair, the locker room still smells like feet.

“This is it,” Jewel says, stepping into her metallic pink strapless dress. I’m wearing an identical dress, but in metallic red. I zip up the back of her dress and tell her how awesome she looks. The dresses make us look more like we’re at a rave than singing at a 1920s jazz club, but whatever. The fact that the five of us are opening the entire show is cool.

I pull up my skin-colored tights, then step into matching red metallic shoes and ask Jewel to zip me up. “Thanks,” I say, and spin around. “How do I look?”

She starts at my feet and slowly looks up. “Amazing.” But then her gaze rests on my face, and she grimaces. “Uh-oh,” she says.

“Uh-oh? What’s uh-oh?”

“I think you need some more concealer. Or you might be having an allergic reaction to the makeup.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I have some concealer,” Doree offers, already in her metallic yellow outfit.

I run into the connected bathroom to look in the mirror at what they’re all yammering about.

Oh, no. It’s baaaaaaack.

How is it possible that Santa’s Gift is making a come-back when I just used the clear spell on it this morning?

“Excuse me,” I hear from outside. “You can’t go in there. You’re not one of the dancers.”

“I have to talk to my sister,” pleads a voice. Miri? What is she doing back here? She’s not supposed to come backstage.

The next thing I know, she’s inside the bathroom, gaping beside me in the mirror. Her face is pale, her lower lip trembling. “I have to talk to you,” she says. “I have to talk to you
now
.”

“Apparently so.” I point at the hideousness on my nose. “What’s going on?”

She looks around furtively, and despite us being alone by the sink, she gestures for me to follow her into a stall.

I lock the door behind us. “What’s going on?” I ask over the toilet bowl. She’s starting to freak me out. “Did you hear from Dad?”

She gnaws on her thumb. “Don’t get mad at me. It’s not my fault.”

The roof of my mouth gets desert dry and I feel dizzy, but I have no desire to sit on the toilet seat while wearing my metallic red gown. “What are you talking about?”

She chomps her thumb. After spitting a crumb of nail into the toilet bowl, she pours out the whole story. “Dad showed up when we were getting ready to come to the show. He said he wanted to go as a
family
. And then he started begging Mom to get back together with him. Claiming that he was so in love with her that he couldn’t see straight. Saying that he called off the wedding and that he wants to move back in. I was in my room getting changed and I heard the whole thing. And then Mom said she needed to think and she had a headache, and she went into the bathroom to get an aspirin. And here’s the thing. I think I kind of made a mess under the bathroom cupboard this morning with the sea salts, and I think she must have figured out that something was up.” Miri winces. “Um, I don’t think it helped that I left my spell observation notebook on the floor.”

“Miri!” I scream. “I’m going to kill you!”

“I know, I know, but I was tired and in a rush.” Tears spill down her cheeks. “First she saw the clear-skin spell. And then she must have seen the love spell, because she barged into my room. She motioned to the kitchen and demanded, ‘Did you do this?’ I had to tell her the truth, don’t you see? And not because of any truth spell, because I just had to! She ripped a piece of paper out of the notebook, licked it, and ripped it into a million shreds, then opened the window and tossed them outside, reciting some spell. Afterward she turned to me and said, ‘I’ve overruled every spell you have ever done.’ And then she yelled at me and told me I was irresponsible and asked me if you had been in on this too. I had to tell her. Then we went back to the kitchen. Dad was all pale and confused-looking and was pacing back and forth. And now we’re all here. In our seats. And Mom is all pissed off and Dad looks miserable and it’s really uncomfortable out there.”

I feel sick. “So does this mean what I think it means?”

She points to my nose. “None of the spells I cast work anymore. Not the clear-skin spell, not the Dad-in-love-with-Mom spell, not the high roundhouse kick spell, and not the—”

“What high roundhouse kick?”

“Oh, never mind that. But I’m really sorry. What are you going to do?”

Wait one sec. Did she say
none of the spells
? “What about the dancing spell?” I yell.

“Gone,” she says sadly.

Omigod. I can’t breathe. Did this stall just shrink? I think I’m hyperventilating. I look at my watch. Ten of eight. “I have to find London,” I mumble. I unlock the door and run back to the locker room. “Has anyone seen London?” I squeak.

No one pays any attention to me. They’re all too busy squealing and practicing last-minute moves. I can’t go on. London will have to understand. I hurry into the hallway.

She’s standing at the door to the auditorium, reviewing her clipboard. “Ready?” she asks when she sees me.

“I’m sorry, London, but I can’t do it. I’m sick. So very sorry. You’ll have to work around me.”

Her eyes narrow, and she shakes her fist at me. “I don’t care if you’re
dying,
Rachel. Dying! You’re going up there.” She looks at her watch. “Now.”

No way. “I can’t.”

“You have to.” She digs her nails into my arm and drags me back to the locker room. “All freshman girls, on the stage, let’s go, the curtain opens with you.”

“But, but—”

“Shut up, Rachel. You are not going to screw this up for me, do you understand? You have stage fright. I had it my first year too. You’ll get over it as soon as the lights go on. You’ll be fine. You know the moves.”

I take a deep breath. It’s true. I
do
know the moves. I’ve learned how to dance. I can remember how to do it. I look down at my red shoes. Maybe it’s like
The Wizard
of Oz
. Maybe the magic has been in me all along. I just had to realize it for myself. Yes! I can do this! The magic is in me!

Heart hammering, I follow London and the other girls backstage. The five of us get into our positions on the pitch-black
Chicago
set. I hear the roar of the crowd, a thousand people in their seats.

I can do this.

“Good luck, guys!” Doree whispers.

And then the medley starts. The crowd screams again, the curtain pulls up, the spotlight shines.

Showtime.

21

I’M SO GOING TO NEED TO BE HOME-SCHOOLED