7

The candle flickered, casting demon shadows on my bedroom wall. Paula-Jean sat silent and still — a little off to my left side, like she was worried the spell might go haywire and ricochet off the walls and onto her by accident. Cyrus was lying in his usual spot at my bedside. He raised his little eyebrows and then buried his snout deeper between his front paws as though he was avoiding certain disaster. The air was thick with anticipation, while the faint aroma of dwarf winterberry euonymus whispered into my nostrils.

I gripped the branch tightly in my right hand and then closed my eyes. I did my best to picture Jordan’s goofy grin. I thought of all the millions of mean and nasty comments he’d made over the years. I thought about the time when I was seven and he got gum stuck in my hair. My parents had to practically shave me bald to get it all out. And the time he knocked me into a sea of mud — on photo day. I was a mess and although they let me do a retake for my personal portrait, there was nothing I could do about the class picture. And then there was the time he told Mom and Dad that I broke the chandelier when he was the one who dared me to throw a perfect spiral with his foam football. I had to pay for the chandelier with a whole five-months’ worth of my allowance.

I struck the carpet with my branch once and became suddenly aware my lips had been moving independently of my brain. My little green book lay open in my lap, but I hadn’t even glanced at it; I had blurted out the entire curse without even realizing it. The second time I made a conscious effort. I pronounced each word deliberately, thumping the stick three or four times, feeling all my anger and frustration toward Jordan sliding from my brain, down into my arm, through my hand, onto the stick ,and into the thick, beige carpet. The third time, it was like I was in some kind of weird trance. I thumped and thrashed and thwacked. I whipped and whomped and whacked. I beat that carpet so wildly the stick slipped from my hand, flew straight up in the air, and came down, smacking me right between the eyes, snapping me out of my stupor.

“Eeoowww!” I shouted, rubbing my forehead and turning toward Paula-Jean. “Did you see that? That branch attacked me!”

Paula-Jean stifled a giggle. “Serves you right, Claire. You were totally out of control.”

Before I could stop him, Cyrus hoisted himself to his feet. He scrambled toward the stick and snatched it in his gooey jaws. He nudged the door open, and made off into the hall and down the stairs with the dwarf winterberry euonymus. I would have chased after him, but my body suddenly felt like a sack of dirty laundry. I fell backward into the carpet and sighed deeply. Lack of sleep had definitely caught up with me.

“So?” asked Paula-Jean, yawning. “Do you think it worked?” She wriggled into her sleeping bag and fluffed her pillow.

“No idea,” I said. I barely had the energy to blow out the candle and crawl into my own sleeping bag. I lay there for a few moments thinking about Jordan and what I may or may not have done to him. A slight twinge of guilt flitted through my brain, but it was nothing that a deep yawn couldn’t cure. “I guess we’ll find out in the morning.”

In a matter of minutes, Paula-Jean was snoring away. Although my body felt as though I’d just run three consecutive marathons, I couldn’t manage to fall asleep. I twisted and turned. My back was itchy where the juniper needles had stabbed me. My forehead was sore where the branch had struck me. And for some reason, no matter what position I tried, I just couldn’t get comfortable.

Morning light dribbled through the cracks in the blinds, snuffing out any remaining chance I had of getting a decent night’s sleep. Paula-Jean yawned and stretched, turning toward me all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

She smiled. “Hey.”

“Mm,” I grunted. As I wriggled out of my sleeping bag, a dull ache rippled through my whole body. I groaned.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I decided not to tell Paula-Jean I felt like I’d been in a train wreck. I just knew she’d find a way to connect my aches and pains to the what goes out, returns threefold and I was in no mood for any I-told-you-sos.

I got up and got dressed as quickly as my sore limbs would allow. Despite my fragile condition, I was anxious to see if my curse had actually had any effect on Jordan.

Paula-Jean and I sat at the breakfast table suspiciously still, our cereal getting soggier by the moment, eyeing each other and waiting for Jordan to arrive. When I heard his bedroom door creak open and his lumbering steps descending the stairs, my back straightened and my pulse quickened.

“This is it,” I whispered. “This will tell us for sure if that book is magic.”

Paula-Jean nodded once and then fixed her eyes on the doorway.

Jordan entered the kitchen rubbing his neck. He stopped short when he saw us sitting there like a couple of statues, gawking at him.

“You two freaks practising for the staring Olympics?”

I fumbled for my spoon and shovelled a heap of mushy cereal into my mouth and pretended to chew. All the while, I studied Jordan as he walked over to the fridge, opened it, got out the milk, and poured himself a tall glass. He kept moving his head side to side, bending his neck and rolling his shoulders. He reached around and rubbed the small of his back with one hand and then scratched his scalp.

My jaw dropped and mushy cereal leaked out of my mouth. I glanced at Paula-Jean who had the same stunned look on her face. But a sore neck was one thing. I needed to hear him say it. I needed confirmation. I clamped my mouth shut, swallowed the cereal, and dragged a sleeve across my face. “Ask him,” I mouthed.

Paula-Jean shook her head violently.

“Ask him,” I repeated, this time in a whisper.

She shook her head again, so I kicked her lightly under the table.

“You ask him. He’s your brother,” hissed Paula-Jean.

Jordan swung round to face us. He frowned. “Ask me what?” He was now rubbing his neck with his free hand, holding his milk with the other.

I cleared my throat. “Um … well … Paula-Jean was wondering …” She shot me a fierce scowl. “… if you, er … feel okay …” I winced. Even I thought I sounded ridiculous.

Jordan narrowed his eyes. For a second I thought he was going to just ignore me, but then he set his glass down on the counter, folded his arms and said, “If you really wanna know, I feel horrible. Like I slept on a bed of nails.”