3

"What the heck are you doing?” demanded Jordan. He examined me with a look of carefully balanced amusement and suspicion. “And what is that disgusting smell?”

I froze. I was caught red-handed — or white-lumpy-handed, anyway. I could tell by the evil glint in Jordan’s eye this wasn’t going to end well. I had to think fast.

“I, er … I, um … midnight snack,” I announced firmly.

Jordan’s eyes narrowed. They volleyed from my face to the enormous bowl and back again. He wasn’t buying it. I’d have to be more convincing. I raised my chin and one eyebrow (luckily I had eyebrows again), and without taking my eyes off him, I scooped up a handful of lumpy paste and pressed it into my mouth. “Mmm,” I said, forcing myself to swallow. “Want some?” I held out the bowl to him.

Jordan blinked twice and shoved it away. “You’re so weird, Claire.” He reached down and gave Cyrus a scratch behind the ear. “Next time, try using a spoon, you slob.” He turned and left the kitchen.

As soon as I heard the stairs groan under his weight, I snatched a dishtowel and wiped my hands. I tore open the fridge, grabbed a carton of orange juice, and gulped down its entire contents to try and get rid of the nasty taste. My stomach bubbled. Clearly, the orange juice was not making friends with the yogurt and cheese. I took a few long drawn breaths to let my insides settle. My tongue was burning from the garlic. I tried scrubbing it with the dish sponge, but that only made it worse.

Cyrus was staring at me the whole time. He had this irritating way of making me feel like a total idiot.

“What?” I demanded.

You belong in a yard sale, his amber eyes seemed to say.

I turned my back on him. What did he know about my problems? He was just a dumb old dog. It wasn’t like he had to worry about other animals whispering about him behind his back if he got fleas or kennel-cough. I, on the other hand, had Little Miss Perfect and her gang of gossiping gargoyles to deal with. I was tired of all of them picking on me. Especially Hollis.

And as if her bullying wasn’t bad enough, Hollis had this little giggle and this way of pursing her lips and tilting her head that everyone, including the teachers, found irresistible. She got away with tons of junk.

Just last week she’d managed to wriggle her way out of schoolyard cleanup by claiming she had a slight migraine. So while the rest of us seventh-grade suckers trudged through the mucky yard gathering disgusting old wrappers, slimy banana peels, pop cans, and other unidentifiable trash, she was probably lying in the office with an ice pack on her forehead, humming to herself, and thinking up new ways to destroy my life. Just the thought of it made my blood sizzle.

I gathered up my bowl, switched off the light, and side-stepped Cyrus, the judgmental beagle. I headed upstairs to the solitude of the bathroom to continue my magical remedy. By Monday morning, my pimple would be ancient history and Hollis and the rest of the girls would have to find some other target for their poisonous arrows.

“Don’t bother following,” I called over my shoulder.

Cyrus ignored me as usual, trotting up the stairs and right into the bathroom alongside me. I sighed and repeated my best I-know-you-can’t-see-me-but-I’m-frowning-at-you-anyway scowl before poking my head out the door to make sure Jordan wasn’t lurking nearby. Satisfied the coast was clear, I shut the door.

I switched on the lights and stood staring at myself in the mirror for the longest time. A thought began to swell in my mind. I pounced on it and tried to squelch it, but it slipped free and ran rampant through my brain: Why can’t I look more like Hollis Van Horn? Those sea-foam eyes. That long hair with alternating honey and gold highlights. Those perfect teeth. That perfect smile. That perfect nose.

I sighed and opened a drawer. I took out a hair band and forced the mud-coloured frizz off my blotchy face. Digging into my pajama pocket, I withdrew the little white book and laid it open on the counter next to the sink. I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. “Here goes nothing,” I said, scooping up a handful of the reeking remedy. I began smearing the paste all over my face, all the while chanting:

I feel the magic deep within me,

By the power and energy of three times three.

Blisters, boils, bubbles be gone,

Cleanse my pores, cleanse ’til dawn!

I began tentatively, pronouncing each syllable with great care until I’d completed the entire verse once. The second time, the words began to flow, picking up speed, filling the contours of my mouth before spilling from my lips. By the third time, the rhyme spewed out of me with absolute confidence, gushing forth from somewhere deep within, as if I were somehow born to speak it. As far as my face was concerned, I began to feel something. Was it magic? Was it power? Or was it just the weight of the cheese? I didn’t care. Something told me this was going to work. I could feel it in my bones. I could smell the garlicky stench of victory in the air around me.

I looked down at Cyrus. He looked up at me. I blinked. He blinked. I waited for him to snorfle, or sneeze, or growl, but he didn’t. I took it to be a good sign.

I grabbed a towel from the rack to cover my pillow — sleeping with this gloop on my face was going to be the real challenge. But I was up for it. I felt like I could march out of the bathroom and conquer the universe, even if I did look like a giant blancmange.