It was no use trying to get out of the game by pretending to be sick. I was always sick.
“Doomed,” I said.
Cliff and I were sitting on my front step. He was happily polishing his trumpet. He’d improved so much Miss T. said he could be in the band for the big game. My computer sat, powered down and ignored, in the basement below. I didn’t even have the energy or motivation to practise. Or to keep my superpowers sharp. Not that we’d heard a peep from Algernon in days.
“I think he squeaks, not peeps,” Cliff said.
“Whatever. Nothing can stop the A-puck-alypse. The end of my G of G career. Killed by hockey.”
And then Cliff came up with the solution: “Booger-Girl!”
“That’s my nickname, don’t wear it out,” I mumbled.
“No. I mean make a Booger-Girl.”
“Why?”
“Conjure a Jess who can play for you while you’re at the hockey game.”
I sat up and slapped him on the back. “Cliff, you’re a genius!”
“I know. Think about it. You can have a great time with your dad, wave to me during the intermission, buy me a Dimly Dogg, and watch the biggest game in the world. You might even get on TV around the world!”
“Genius credentials revoked,” I said with a frown.
“Why? It’s a perfect plan.”
“I’m not going to any stupid hockey game.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “But, I won’t have to!”
“Why not?”
“Duh. I’ll conjure up a Jelly Jess to go with my dad, and I’ll stay here.”
“Won’t your dad start to suspect something’s up?”
“We’ll slap my clothes on Jess 2.0. Dad will be so preoccupied with the game he won’t even notice.” Cliff looked skeptical. “I’ll get her to keep a tissue in front of her nose the whole time. Nothing suspicious there.” I blew my nose and threw the tissue on the ground.
Cliff stared at the tissue. “I like that one,” he said. “Looks like a white truffle.” He snapped a photo, then pulled a bag out of his backpack and stuck the tissue inside. “Exhibit 375b. Truffle.”
I wasn’t really paying attention. I was working out the details of my super-excellent plan.
The morning of the big game arrived. Dad was doing his best to act cheerful, but he was moping around the house. Even his Winterpeg Gents face paint seemed a sadder shade of blue. I tried the “I have a cold” gambit but, as expected, Dr. Mom didn’t bite. “You just need a few hours of sunlight and fresh air,” she said.
That was okay. The sickness ploy was stage one of my Excellent Plan. I bundled myself up in a thick scarf, big winter coat and heavy tuque. Then, just an hour before it was time to leave, stage two. Cliff showed up. I’d convinced him to ride to the game with “us,” and he’d agreed to keep talking to Dad in the car, further distracting Dad from Fake Jess.
“Okay, Jess,” Dad said. “Let’s go.”
“Yay!” I said. “Oh, wait. I just left something downstairs. We’ll be right back.” I grabbed Cliff’s hand.
“Still incredibly skeptical,” Cliff said.
Stage three: I blew my nose and threw the tissue onto the pile I’d been prepping all week. “I wish I had a Jess to go to the hockey game with my dad,” I said.
YES! The pile instantly began to swirl. Within seconds a goobery green version of me stood in my basement. I took off my coat, scarf and tuque and wrapped up Fake Jess as tightly as I could. Then I handed her a box of tissues. “Blow your nose as much as possible,” I said.
Fake Jess nodded and held a tissue up to her nose. I stepped back and took a good look. “Perfect,” I said. “You can barely see any green at all.” I looked at Cliff. “If Dad suspects anything, just tell him you and I were doing a surprise face painting down here, and it didn’t go great.”
“C’mon, Jess!” Dad called down the stairs.
“Coming,” I said. Then I ducked down behind the couch.
Cliff took Jess’s hand and turned to head upstairs. “I didn’t think it was possible to be MORE skeptical. I was wrong.”
“Don’t worry so much. This plan is excellent,” I whispered at him.
And within minutes my Excellent Plan began to unravel, thanks to Stupid Reality.