Bras & Broomsticks (9 page)

I don’t have to wait long.

Later, when we’re called downstairs for what we assume is dinner, STB and Prissy are sitting, arms perfectly crossed, on the white suede couch. My dad is sitting in a chair, wearing a hideous red and brown striped shirt. He has the worst taste in clothes. He always asks us how he looks, and we all say fine, because none of us wants to be the first to tell him he has bad taste.

“What’s going on?” I ask. They’re acting creepy. I swear, if they tell us they’re witches too, I am seriously going to lose it.

“Miri,” my dad begins, rubbing the shiny bald spot on the back of his head, “please take a seat.”

My eyes meet Miri’s and we sit down. Uh-oh. Did they hear me scheming? Did Miri inadvertently put a hex on STB? Is she no longer able to speak, but capable only of high-pitched ribbits now?

“We are very worried,” my father says, his forehead crinkling in actual concern, “about the health of your fingers.”

Miri flushes bright red. I laugh. It’s a nail-biting intervention.

“Chewing your fingers,” my father continues, “can lead to damaged cuticles and infections. Not to mention all the germs you allow into your mouth because they were on your hands.”

I bet STB looked that up on the Internet and scared my dad. The woman will stop at nothing to get what she wants.

Miri’s eyes are quickly filling to the rims with water, like clogged toilets.

“I want to help you, honey.” At this point he pats my sister on the head. “We’ve considered treatments, and Jennifer has come up with an excellent plan.” He points his chin toward the coffee table, where a box of Band-Aids lies.

STB runs her perfectly manicured nails through her coiffed blond hair, then says, “We’re going to wrap each of your fingers so you don’t bite.”

That is
so
embarrassing. Perfect! God, I really hope Miri can’t secretly read my mind.

Miri opens her mouth, then closes it. I think she’s too upset to speak. She’s looking like Drew Barrymore in
Firestarter,
and I’m getting nervous that she might set the house aflame telepathically.

Prissy rocks back and forth in her spot. “Miri, biting your nails is yucky.” She fans out her little French-manicured fingers. “Don’t you want pretty nails like me?”

It’s too much. Too awful. I have to help. “Dad, I hardly think these drastic measures are necessary.”

“Don’t start, Rachel,” he says, shushing me. “They are. Now, Miri, give Jennifer your hands so she can wrap your fingers.”

STB smiles a toothy victory smile. “And I don’t want to see you picking them off.”

“Dad,” Miri whines, “I don’t think—”

“But I do,” he says. “And I want you to start taking the B-complex vitamin biotin, which strengthens nails.” Did I mention that my father thinks vitamins are the cure for everything? “And I’m your father. I
can
tell you what to do.”

Oh, burn. STB totally told on Miri.

STB opens the Band-Aid box and grabs Miri’s hand.

“Could be worse,” I whisper, rubbing Miri’s back. “At least they’re plain. She could have listened to Prissy and bought the Disney Princess ones.”

After dinner, Miri and I are lounging in front of the TV when I flip the channel and realize that
Star Wars,
Episode IV,
the first one ever made, is just about to start. “Dad!” I shout. “
Star
Wars
is on television! Come watch! Dad!
Star Wars!
”

“This is awesome,” Miri says.

My dad runs down the stairs, full of energy. “It is? Make room for me, girls.” He squeezes in between us on the couch. I unfold a multicolored blanket and toss it over our legs. He puts an arm around each of us and we lean into him.

When the electric blue words come on-screen, we all recite, “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . .”

Then we hold our breath. Wait for it. . . . Wait for it. . . .

We belt out the music as loudly as we can, like we always do.

STB, followed by Prissy, marches down the stairs. “What are you doing? Why are you making so much noise? Daniel, I thought we were going to review the wedding place cards tonight.”

“We can’t,” my dad says, not taking his eyes off the screen. “
Star
Wars
is on.”

“But we have the DVD. Can’t we do the place cards first and then you’ll watch it later?”

“Watching it on DVD isn’t the same as watching it on TV,” I explain.

“She’s right,” my dad says. “We can do the place cards tomorrow. Come watch with us.” He pats the space next to me.

STB shakes her head. “I was never into this movie,” she says, and then disappears up the stairs.

How can he possibly marry her?

My dad waves Prissy over and she sits on his lap. “What movie is this?” she asks, bouncing. “Who is that? Why is she wearing cinnamon buns on her head? Why—”

“Shhh,” my dad says. “No talking except during the commercials.”

Prissy tries watching for a few minutes, but then starts to squirm and heads back upstairs.

And it’s just the three of us. The way it should be.

The second our father deposits us onto the train back to the city, Miri rips off the Band-Aids.

“She”—thumb off—“is the”—index finger off— “most miserable”—middle finger off—“woman”—fourth finger off, no idea what that one’s called—“in the”— pinky off—“entire world!”

“She is quite evil,” I happily agree. “Too bad it’s about to become official. If only there were something we could do.” La, la, la.

Miri stares steely-eyed ahead. Then she nods. “Okay. You’re right. We need to get rid of her. I can’t have Band-Aids applied to my fingers for the rest of my life.”

Yes!
Part One in motion!

I give her a nice big sisterly squeeze. She’s so tiny. Not that I’m so huge. Maybe after we’re done rescuing our dad, I’ll get her to make me taller, like five foot two. A giant!

I pull A
²
from her bag, and she promptly starts biting her thumbnail. What, does she think I’m going to drop it or something?

Plop. Oops. I pick it up off the grimy train floor. “Sorry.” Tee-hee. “Here you go. Start looking for an anti-love spell.” I put the book into her freshly bitten hands before either of us can do more damage.

She flips through the pages. “I don’t know if there are anti-love spells. I haven’t finished the first section yet.”

“Isn’t there an index?” There must at least be a glossary.

“No.”

Sigh. “What you really need is the spell book on CD-ROM.”

Miri taps me on the head. “Can we focus here? We need to get that witch out of our lives.”

Witch, huh? I can’t stop the grin. “You’ll have to learn to watch your word choice. You can no longer use the word
witch
as a negative description.”

She slaps her hand over her mouth.

“How can I help?” I ask. I won’t even bug my sister for the popularity spell today. I’ll let her concentrate.

“Just let me read.”

I should start my poetry homework. But first I’ll read about Robert Crowne’s new tour. Then poetry. “I’ll leave you alone so that you can work your . . .” What’s the word I’m looking for here? Oh. Right. “Magic.” Tee-hee. I really crack myself up.

She taps me on the shoulder. “What we’re about to do is a big deal, huh?”

We lock eyes. “Huge.”

“Giant,” she says.

Maybe she
can
read my mind.

6

PROJECT POPULARITY + GREEDY SISTER = MORE CHORES

As soon as I find a seat in homeroom, I frantically begin my poetry assignment.
Autumn is over the long leaves
that love us
. I have no clue what that means.

“Morning.” Tammy slides into the empty chair next to me.

“Hey. How was your weekend?”

“All right. Hung out with the moms.”

“Nothing from
Aaron
?” I mouth his name in case anyone is eavesdropping.

“No.” The edges of her lips droop, but she quickly pulls them up. “No card. Or date. I called to see what he was up to, but his mom said he was at Mick’s party—”

There’s a roaring in my ears. Mick had another party that I wasn’t invited to. And it was probably the most incredible party ever because it was Valentine’s Day weekend. Lights dimmed, romantic music, candles, chocolates . . . the entire A-list.

That’s it. I have to get Miri working on the popularity plan pronto. I wonder if I can page her at school. No, she’d hate that.

I’ll probably miss another party tonight. I’ll probably miss one at lunch.

I’ll worry about it later. If I finish this poetry assignment before math, I can have the period free to chat with Jewel. I don’t want to waste lunch on it, and it’s too obvious to do in bio or gym. I hate gym. I have to wear my uniform puke green sweatpants and too-long puke green T-shirt. This month our phys ed instructors are teaching us meditation and yoga. They think it’ll teach us to concentrate.

Now, what was I doing? Oh, right. Poetry!

I find Miri lying on her stomach across the kitchen table. Pages of printer paper covered in scribbles are piled next to her. Our mother is still at work. Ever since two years ago, when she and her friend Bonnie started HoneySun, she doesn’t get home until six thirty at the earliest. At least she likes her job now. She especially likes being her own boss. I can relate. I wish I didn’t have anyone telling me what to do.