5

"Neon green is so you,” I said holding Paula-Jean’s index finger steady and letting the polish glide over her chipped nail.

“You think?” she said, holding her hand up and letting it catch the light. She tucked an unruly curl behind her ear with the opposite hand. “Because I don’t feel like a very neon-greeny kind of person.”

I frowned and yanked her hand back down onto my bed. “That’s your problem, Peej. I know you better than you know yourself. You are definitely neon green. Exactly like Star Morningstar.” I pointed to a picture in one of the magazines of a pop singer with long purple hair and neon-green lipstick and nails. “Trust me.”

Whether she trusted me or not was debatable, but Paula-Jean did know me pretty well. She most likely figured I’d get my way in the end, so she surrendered her hand and let me paint away.

Before Paula-Jean arrived, I’d spent an hour helping Mom clean the house, an hour meditating in my room, an hour soaking in the tub using Mom’s eucalyptus and lavender bath oil, and an hour watching the comedy channel. All the while, I mulled over Dad’s weird saying until I was pretty sure I had it figured out: anger hurts no one except the person who’s angry. With that in mind, I tried really hard to cleanse myself of all my frustrations. I was definitely no longer what you’d call infuriated or irate, but I admit I was still a bit grumpy. Then Paula-Jean came and that too changed.

Paula-Jean always had this way of making me feel like I didn’t have a care in the world. She listened to all my troubles — really listened. And she wasn’t the least bit judgmental. She told the funniest stories and always made me laugh. She was the best friend anyone could hope for. I hadn’t told her about my magical midnight adventure yet, but I was working my way up to it.

As we sat there chatting about everything and nothing, I could feel my remaining worries and frustrations melt away. I even gave Jordan a friendly wave when he passed by in the hall and Cyrus, who was lying next to my bed, a loving pat on the head — being careful, of course, not to mess up my nails. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The smell of garlic was history and for the first time in a long while I was at peace with the world.

“So, what do you think I should do about this zit?” I asked, as we lay at opposite ends of my bed, fanning our nails. “If I don’t get rid of it before Monday, Hollis and the others will terrorize me for sure.”

Paula-Jean looked right at me. She squinted. “What zit?”

I tilted my head and rolled my eyes. It wasn’t like Paula-Jean to make light of something this serious.

“Very funny, Peej,” I said pointing to the tip of my nose. “This zit. The one competing with Mount Everest.”

Paula-Jean leaned forward and wrinkled her nose. She examined me thoroughly before shaking her head. “I don’t see anything, Claire.”

My spine straightened. Something was off. Paula-Jean was nothing if not honest. My hand flew up to my face in reflex. I touched my nose with my fingertip. There was no bump. No swelling. Nothing. Nada. My stomach somersaulted. Could it possibly be?

I sprang from my bed, hurdling Cyrus, and raced to my dresser. I looked in the mirror and nearly fell backward. My pimple had disappeared! Not just shrinking. Not just beginning to fade. But gone! Completely, totally, unmistakably gone!

Thoughts flipped around my brain like they were auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. Had the remedy really worked? Had I rid myself from enough anger? Had I cleansed my character enough to allow the garlic and cheese to take full effect? At some point between meditation and aromatherapy before Paula-Jean’s arrival, my pimple had vanished. There was no other reasonable conclusion. It was magic, plain and simple.

I dug out the little green book from the pocket of my jeans and held it gingerly in my trembling hands. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Although part of me had really wanted to believe the book had magical powers, the other part of me thought it was just a cheap ploy to rip off desperate fools such as myself. I gazed up at the flawless complexion staring back at me in the mirror and then back down at the book. My mouth went chalk-dry. My knees wobbled.

This book was real. It was magic. And it was all mine.

“What are you doing?” asked Paula-Jean. “What’s that in your hand?”

For a second I’d forgotten all about her. How would I explain everything to Paula-Jean? Would she believe me? Or would she think I’d completely lost it? I decided there was only one way to find out. I took a deep breath and explained.

Paula-Jean sat silently listening to the whole story. Her big, brown eyes grew into saucers when I told her that my golf-ball-sized pimple had up and disappeared leaving no evidence of its existence and all because I’d glooped some home-made concoction onto my face, chanted a few simple words, and managed to get rid of my anger.

“Like magic …” she sighed.

I nodded. “Like magic …”

She stared down at the book, as if she wanted to touch it, but was somehow afraid. I stared down at it, too, finding myself curious as to what else my little treasure was capable of. I looked up at her just as a sliver of a grin snaked across my lips. She drew back and shook her head.

“No,” she said waving her hands in front of her face. “Nuh-uh. I’m not getting involved in any weird magic stuff, Claire.”

“Come on, Peej,” I said. “Just one teensy-weensy spell.”

“No way,” she insisted. “If that book is really magic, you have no idea what you could be getting yourself into. What if something went wrong? What then?”

I dangled the book at her like it was some sort of giant hairy spider. She squeaked and dove for cover under my duvet.

“Don’t be such a chicken, Peej,” I scoffed. Then I let the book fall open to a random page. I lifted it up and let the words hover in front of me. “What could possibly go wrong?”