I took Archie on a long walk. Afterward, I made a spinach and kale salad for Dad and covered it with plastic wrap. For me, I did as the magazine had instructed and brewed a pot of peppermint tea. I also cooked a package of organic mac and cheese, dancing from sink, to stove, to refrigerator. I had magic. Endless possibilities. Middle school survival!
I still wasn’t sure how the magazine worked, but the snow from the wishing clock had been perfect, and it was something I’d specifically asked for. So maybe that was the ticket: stick with specific wishes to get what I want—easy. The hard part was figuring out what specifically to wish for next.
If I wished to fit in, would the magic be literal, making me fat, skinny, or angular so that I’d fit into the precise space in a room? Or maybe the magic would work like a radio in my ear, telling me what to say and how to act. That’d be freaky. Or what if it helped me fit in with fringe groups, like suddenly I fit in with adrenaline junkies, and the next thing you know I’m skydiving or streaking at a football game? Ahk!
I filled a bowl with noodles and forced myself to calm down and settle on a stool. Archie curled up at my feet and snored while I read several pages from Macbeth. My English teacher said she’d planned the film and the reading to go with the election since it was all politicians and power goals.
The front door creaked open and Dad walked into the kitchen.
I prepared myself to talk about homework, or Saguaro Prep’s science lab, or algebra, or whatever school question Dad would ask.
“How’s my favorite oldest daughter?” he said, giving me a goofy look.
Huh? I had washed off the makeup, but the way he stared at me made me wonder if I’d missed a spot. “Um, fine?” I scooped up a bite of noodles.
Dad’s wrinkled blue shirt had seen better days and his blond/gray hair looked as frizzy as mine. Piper had worn the same shade of blue today, and I couldn’t help but think how she was turning into the spitting image of Dad (minus the frizz), but her personality was everything I remembered of Mom—bubbles, and frosting, and music; whereas I looked like Mom (except for Dad’s frizz, thank you very much), I was Dad through and through—equations, and science, and snort-laughs.
He picked up the pen and the permission forms from the Humane Society that I’d left on the counter. “Here we go,” he said, signing. “Says here orientation for new volunteers is after school tomorrow.”
“I know.” I smiled. “Thanks.”
He poured a glass of water and took a long swig. “Piper called and told me she was having dinner with a new friend. How about your little sister? Her first day at a new school and she’s already at a friend’s house.”
“Mmmmhmmm.” Big surprise.
“So it’s just you and me, kiddo.” “Kiddo” fell from his mouth all awkward, like someone testing a foreign language. “Did you get enough to eat? I could cook something more.” He swung open the refrigerator door, staring at the mostly empty space.
“I’m good. I made your salad. It’s in the crisper drawer.”
“Food police put you up to that?”
“Yep.” I smiled. “She did.”
“Thanks. I’ll eat later.” He shut the door. “If you’ve finished your homework, we could play cards. Or even . . . Monopoly?”
I teetered. Monopoly? That was a blast from the past. Something we did with Mom. A lump lodged in my throat and I managed to say, “Okay?” I stared at the bottom of my noodle bowl and hoped he’d say more, like how funny it was when Mom cooked, because she’d leave every kitchen cabinet open, or how Mom was the only one who could get Archie to dance for treats, or how he missed the smell of Mom’s cinnamon perfume.
“Or maybe,” Dad said as he raked a hand through his hair, “instead of Monopoly you’d like to . . . talk?”
My eyebrows lifted.
“Your grandma says we should talk more.”
My spoon dropped. “You spoke to Grams today?”
“No. Not today. It’s just lately she’s been telling me she thinks you and I don’t talk about what’s important. And I’m wondering if we should talk about this move.”
This wasn’t a Mom conversation after all. I reached into my pocket and squeezed Mom’s guitar pick. Dad wouldn’t talk about her. But he was acting totally awkward, and I wondered if she was on his mind, too.
Mom had taught music at the elementary school—she could sing and play four different instruments, but she loved the acoustic guitar most, and Saturday mornings in our house had been the best place in the world—Mom singing and strumming old songs like “Banana Pancakes,” “Better Together,” or “If I Had a Million Dollars” and the rest of us humming and laughing as we went about our chores. Sometimes Piper would take out her guitar and play along, and then Dad and I’d kick back on the couch, singing off tune with Archie in my lap. Then we’d stop trying to sing and just listen to Mom and Piper play, me resting my head against Dad’s shoulder and Dad saying how lucky we were to have front-row seats.
Since the accident, Dad had packed away everything of Mom’s—her clothing, her cinnamon perfumes, and her guitar. Two weeks after the funeral, I lay on Piper’s bed and asked her to play one of Mom’s songs, and next thing we knew Archie was howling—Dad was having a heart attack. Doctors said it was an arterial blockage, but Piper and I were sure it was grief. It seemed like Dad’s grief lightened if we acted like those Saturdays had never happened, so Piper stopped playing music altogether, and we erased Mom’s name from conversations, like we could stop the sadness if we didn’t talk about her—I came to think of it as a game we played to protect each other. And Piper—who’s usually the most honest person I know—played the game with gusto. She never opened her guitar case again, and she never mentioned Mom except in the middle of the night.
Secretly, though, I kept a jar full of Mom’s guitar picks hidden in the back of my closet.
“Megan.” Dad cleared his throat, returning to his professor’s voice. “I know moving is tough, but this job at the university has been in the works for quite some time.” He settled his gaze on my shoulder.
I walked to the sink and sponged my bowl clean. “I know, Dad.”
“And your mother . . .”
I sucked a long inhale—the weight of missing her pressed into my chest. I held my breath and stared holes through the sink basin. And even though Dad was standing right here, I missed him, too.
“She and I . . . when she was alive . . .” His voice hitched.
I looked over. Dad gazed at his hands, twisting the wedding ring he still wore. A burn hovered behind my eyes, but then Dad scrubbed a hand across his chin and cleared his throat, turning himself back into the man who’d earned a doctorate in engineering. “We’d always planned to live in Arizona. I’m sure you’ll come to like it here, too. And—”
“It’s fine. Honestly.” I faced the sink and flicked on the garbage disposal before I sniffled.
“I just want you to know I realize how hard all of these transitions must be for you.” He put his glass in the dishwasher and patted Archie on the head. “I know this is awkward. Sorry, Megs.”
I turned off the garbage disposal and nodded. Awkward. How did losing Mom somehow get reduced to that?
Dad walked out of the kitchen, his shoulders sagging.
Thinking about magic was so much easier than this, so I added sugar and ice to the peppermint tea, poured myself a glass, and headed back to my room with a to-do list in mind.
Goal numero uno: find out how the magazine magic works.
Goal numero dos: figure out what to wish for next.
Archie bounced into my room as I was setting my full glass of tea on the desktop. My arm wobbled just a bit, and a tiny splash of tea jumped from my glass onto an open page of the Enchanted Teen. Just like that, the magazine slammed shut.
“Whoa!”
I stood still for a moment and then clicked the bedroom door shut. Archie whined. I petted his sweet face until he rested his head on his paws. “You think magic will help me?” I searched his eyes. “Archimedes, you know you’re named after one of the greatest mathematicians of all time.” I sighed. “He’d think I’m nuts, wouldn’t he?”
Archie yawned.
I went back to my desk and picked up Enchanted Teen, the self-proclaimed authority on clothing, hair, and life’s dos and don’ts. I’d just spent a day sporting frizzy hair, a faded T-shirt, and shorts with more pockets than the combined total of pockets in the school; maybe that’s why I got this magazine—it thinks I’m a makeover emergency.
Okay, goal numero tres: get style help.
I hopped onto my bed, talking to the magazine. “You claim you can help me. Let’s do it.”
The pages pushed themselves open, and Archie backed away, letting out a low, rumbly growl.
Enchanted Teen flipped to a spread of Milan Fashion Week. The first photo was of models on a runway decked out in see-through shirts, odd-looking drop-crotch pants, and crazy puffed-out forms that were probably meant to be dresses. More photos showed models dressed in orange bodysuits that zipped from neck to ankle; others wore leather jackets with black-lace swimsuit bottoms—I snort-laughed.
“Who wears stuff like that other than ice skaters and rock stars?”
I thumbed forward until I got to a clump of pages that had stuck together when I’d spilled the tea. They seemed cemented in place, so I skipped ahead and found the section titled “The Best Back-to-School Styles.” Ahhhh. More my speed. Shorts, skirts, jeans, and a bunch of shirts, both flowy and fitted. And there was Mac again, now wearing blue jean shorts and a jewel-green sleeveless shirt with crocheted panels across the collarbones and shoulders.
Love it. I grazed my thumb across the bottom of the photo. Right away, my vision went blurry like a smeared watercolor painting. Archie whined. Pounding and buzzing clanged inside my ears. A rush of brilliant green swiped across the room. Sparks fired to my left and right. I slammed the pages shut and felt like I might throw up, but I caught my breath and the color storm and noise settled. When my vision cleared, a new outfit lay at the end of the bed. The blue jean shorts and the jewel-green shirt.
“Whoa!” I picked up the shirt and ran a hand over the fabric’s soft texture.
Maybe it’s the touching that makes it work.
A sear of pain throbbed at my temples. I dropped the shirt and grabbed the sides of my head. Oooowww. Tea. I needed mint tea.
I grabbed my glass and gulped it down. My headache lightened. Carefully, I picked up the magazine again. Maybe I’d already had too much browsing time for one day, but I had to know if touching a picture was how the magic worked. I opened the pages, holding on by the corners and flipping forward until I came to an ad for a T-10 hair-nourishing blow-dryer and diffuser.
The T1-0 blow-dryer cultivates healthy hair. Made of ceramic tourmaline, our negative ion technology seals in moisture and nourishes hair with each use.
Yeah. I’d always wanted a T-10, but the price tag—geez—was way outside my allowance budget. Maybe now I didn’t need money.
I smacked my hand on top of the ad and the room darkened. Wind whipped my hair. Swirling sounds charged at my ears. I closed my eyes and held on to the magazine until the pushing at my eardrums was too much, then I forced it shut and dropped it to the bed. My head throbbed. When I opened my eyes, a brand-new T-10 and its specialty diffuser were sitting beside me.
“Sweet!” I squealed, ignoring the nausea in my stomach. It was the touching! And I could touch anything. I quickly scanned the list of articles; too bad there wasn’t one on winning “instant friends.”
The yellow blurb on Enchanted Teen’s cover lit up like a flashing neon sign. Now it said, “Find Your Two Best Looks.”
Two? The blurb about finding your best look had gone from five to two. Now I understood—the magazine came with five chances to use magic, and I had already used up three: one with the butterfly eyes, one with the new outfit, and now one with this blow-dryer. Only two left.
I shrugged and took a breath. “So what?” I said to Marlo Bee, the Hollywood star whose photo was on the cover. “I can go back to the clock when I need another magazine.”
Marlo Bee’s expression changed from a smile to a scowl.
Huh?
Marlo Bee wasn’t a scowler. Even when she’d tripped at the VMAs with a zillion people watching, she smiled, took off her four-inch heels, and said into the microphone, “You’ve got to admit, these are smoking-cute shoes, but next time I’m wearing flip-flops.” What a recovery! She’d know how to handle a new school and magic.
I leaned closer to the photo, trying to read her eyes. “Are you making a face at me?”
No answer came.
I shook my head. None of this was going to be easy to figure out, but one thing I knew for sure: my head hurt. I hid the magazine in my desk drawer and looked around my room. What a mess! Homework papers were scattered.
Archie’s tail poked out from under my bed. I knelt down. “Poor Archie. Did that scare you?” I tried to coax him out but he wasn’t having it.
My book and clock radio had been blown over, and the frame on the side of my bed had fallen to its side. I sat back on my ankles and picked up the photo of Grams and me posing on a beach in Hawaii. We were wearing grass skirts and flower leis—me with one and Grams with several stacked on her neck. She’d won extra leis for being the best student in our hula class.
“Don’t worry, Grams,” I said, glancing at the new blow-dryer. “I can handle this.” Then I lay on the floor near Archie, one hand hugging the picture to my chest and the other reaching under the bed to pet him. “Sorry you got scared, Arch, but between the clock and this magazine, I’m going to impress the heck out of this school.”
I just needed to learn more about the magic. The methods for scientific problem solving started ticking in my head: ask questions; do background research; construct a hypothesis; test with an experiment.
I took out my thin, orange Moleskine journal, and in no time I had a strategy written down. I was ready for another turn with that wishing clock.