1

This whole mess began when my fifteen-year-old brother, Jordan (who happens to be the biggest moron on the face of the earth), started bugging me about my first-ever zit. It didn’t help that the thing was huge — okay, ginormous — and dead-centre on the tip of my nose. Even with a ton of concealer caked on my face, I felt like I should have been hauling a sleigh full of presents on a foggy winter’s night instead of pushing a shopping cart through the Thanksgiving-weekend crowds at the Supersave.

“Head for cover! She’s going to blow!” Jordan’s voice echoed up the vegetable aisle, attracting scads of attention toward me and the glowing bump festering on my face. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he then pretended to dive under the broccoli table, like my nose warranted some sort of code-red, lock-down measures. Honestly, after twelve-and-a-half years of teasing at the hands of my brother, a.k.a., El Doofus, you’d think I’d have grown a thicker skin.

“You’re a funny guy, Jor,” I said, forcing a smile. I narrowed my eyes and fixed them on the watermelon stand at the far end of the aisle. “You should consider a career as a comedian.” I imagined a particularly deformed melon was Jordan’s head. Then I pictured myself heaving it high in the air and sending it crashing onto the cold tile floor where it would explode into a wet pile of pinkish mush. A sliver of a grin tugged at my mouth.

“I can hear you,” said Jordan, materializing in front of the shopping cart. He scanned the air with great exaggeration. “But I can’t see you behind the mountain in front of your nose. Oh wait a minute — that is your nose! Eehah, eehah, eehah.” He laughed like a drunken mule.

Now, normally I tried my best not to let Jordan know he was getting to me, but from where I stood, the temptation was too great. My lip curled. I hunched my shoulders and dropped my chin. I tightened my grip on the shopping cart and was poised to plow him over like the insignificant dust-mite he was, when my mother emerged from behind, lugging a bag of yams. She stopped, sized up the situation, and rolled her eyes.

“Leave your sister alone, Jordan.”

“Wha’d I do?” He did his best to look innocent.

She shook her head and let the yams plunk into the cart. They rolled off the frozen turkey that could feed an entire village, and squashed the box containing pumpkin pie. “I should have known better than to think you two would be any help to me whatsoever.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Jordan protested. “It’s not my fault Claire’s growing a second head.”

I glowered at him, but that amused him all the more. My mother offered me a look oozing with pity and sighed, at which point I could seriously feel the steam rising out of my skull.

“Stop pointing out Claire’s blemish, Jordan. She’s very sensitive about it.” She smiled at me apologetically and then headed toward the checkout.

Blemish? Who uses that word anymore? Sometimes I swear my mother was born a century ago and got sucked through some sort of time warp. And sensitive? Well, I guess that’s what they call it when you want to dig a hole in the desert and live in it until your face clears. Ten to twenty years should do it.

Ah well. There’s a pearl in many an oyster, if you’re willing to dig through gelatinous gunk to find ’em — as my dad always says. (My dad says a lot of strange things.) But I get it. My pearl was the fact that it was the Saturday afternoon of a long weekend. I had a whole two and a half days for my skin to clear — if it didn’t, Jordan would be the least of my worries. His nasty comments would be like sticky-sweet compliments compared to what Hollis Van Horn would say. I shuddered at the thought.

Hollis was my sworn enemy. She was everything I wasn’t. Thick, blond hair cascading down her back. Long, lean legs that ended at her chin. Sparkling blue eyes. A voice that could charm hornets. She was the most popular girl in the seventh grade, and for some reason, she never missed a chance to humiliate me.

Like the time in fifth grade when I came to school wearing two different shoes. Totally not my fault. My old beagle, Cyrus, has this annoying little habit — he stashes things. Mostly my things. All I could find that day was one white Nike and an old black pump. I was mortified, but what could I do? I wore extra-long jeans and walked really slowly. I’m sure I would have gotten away with it, except for Hollis, who noticed my shoe malfunction and blabbed it to the whole class.

And then in sixth grade, I accidentally plucked all my eyebrows trying to create that supermodel look. It started with a single hair here and there, you know, just to tidy things up, and next thing I knew, whoosh, they were gone. My bald forehead would have stayed safely hidden behind the new bangs I’d hastily given myself, were it not for Hollis’s eagle-eyes and big, fat mouth. Even now, the thought of it makes my cheeks blister with anger — not to mention my eyebrows itch.

“Wanna tomato?” said Jordan, tossing a ripe one in my direction. “Oh, I see you already have one — stuck to your face!”

I’d released the shopping cart just in time to catch the innocent victim before it splatted at my feet. I sighed and returned the tomato to its stand.

Yes, as mind-boggling as it may seem, Jordan was nothing compared to Hollis. At least with Jordan you knew what you were up against. Hollis was subtler than a snake and meaner than a skillet full of scorpions. If I showed up Tuesday morning with the planet Mars orbiting the tip of my nose, Hollis and her friends would never let me live it down.

Jordan began humming “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” as we approached the check-out. I was about to tell him that he was attracting hounds, when I heard her.

From somewhere behind me, a high-pitched trill of a voice twittered through the Supersave. Unmistakably Hollis.

My stomach bottomed out. I couldn’t let her see my face like this. I danced on the spot like my feet were on fire, but there was nowhere to run — nowhere to hide. I wanted to shrivel up and die, or spontaneously combust. But since neither was an option, I did the only thing left for me to do.

ALIENS CURED MY ARTHRITIS announced the headline in bold black letters. I snatched the latest copy of the tabloid magazine from the rack beside the checkout and just as I managed to bury my shame between the pages — it happened.

A tiny paperback book, no larger than a thank-you card, slipped from the metal rack overhead. It fluttered to the ground, landing open at my feet. For a second, the world around me dissolved. I stared in amazement at the words at the top of the page. Slowly, I bent down, lifted the book and examined the cover. Was it possible? The answer to my prayers? Right here, in my hot little hands? For once in my life, luck was on my side.

My mother was too busy organizing the food on the conveyor belt and Jordan was too engrossed in a sports magazine to notice when I slipped the little green book between the cans of cranberry sauce. Then, just as soon as the cashier scanned my little treasure, I snatched it back and jammed it into my pocket. I promised myself I’d sneak a five-dollar bill into Mom’s wallet just as soon as we got home to make up for it.

So there I stood, grinning to myself like I’d just won the lottery. Hollis had miraculously passed by without seeing me and I was now in possession of a book that was going to fix my life. At least, that was the plan.