8

"You gotta get rid of that thing,” said Paula-Jean. She sat on the edge of my bed and pointed a trembling finger at my precious little green book. “I’m telling you, Claire, there’s something wrong here. Very wrong.”

“Wrong?” I shouted. My voice rose an entire octave. “What’s wrong with a little magic? What’s wrong with a little power?”

I turned the book over in my hands. It was the answer to my prayers. A magic book that could cure zits. That could put Jordan (and anyone else who crossed me) in their place. And that was only the beginning. The tip of the iceberg. Who knew what the book was really capable of? I flipped through the pages. Rheumatism Remedy. Rain-Making Ritual. Luuuuvvvv Potionnnn … No way was I getting rid of this treasure. Not a chance. I hugged it close to my chest and stared at her defiantly.

Paula-Jean didn’t say anything for the longest time. When she finally spoke, her voice was cautious. “Look, Claire … it’s like Mrs. Martin said in Social Studies the other day. Too much power in any one person’s hands can be … well … dangerous …” She had been staring at the carpet and when she looked up and our eyes met, I swear I saw a hint of fear flickering there.

That really set me off. She was supposed to be my best friend, after all — my caring, non-judgmental, best friend — so where did she get off sounding all high-and-mighty, looking at me like I was some kind of maniacal monster? Besides, my father had the monopoly on cryptic sayings.

“I don’t believe you! How can you say such a rotten thing?” I yelled. “How could you think I’d do anything really terrible? All I did was cure my zit …”

“And thrash Jordan …”

“Indirectly thrash Jordan,” I corrected her. “I never actually laid a finger on him. And why shouldn’t I get back at him? Do I need to remind you that I’m the victim here?”

She looked me up and down with her big brown eyes and suddenly I didn’t feel like much of a victim. That made me all the more angry. I stood up and turned my back on her. I walked to the window and pretended to look out at the empty yard, the bleak sky, and the bare branches. All the while I kept thinking that Paula-Jean should be happy for me. That she should be supportive. That she should be standing by my side, rejoicing in my new-found magical abilities. We were a team. Like Batman and Robin. Like Holmes and Watson. Like peanut butter and banana.

“You think I’m a horrible person, don’t you?” I mumbled.

It was less of a question and more of an opportunity for her to redeem herself. I wanted her to say, Oh no, Claire, you are the sweetest, most kind and generous person in the whole world.

But she didn’t.

“It’s not that,” she began. “It’s just that … you’re … well … you’re impulsive, and …”

“Impulsive? Who? Moi?” I practically leapt over my bed and thrust the book in her face. “This book came to me for a reason,” I said smugly. “I didn’t find it. It found me.” I narrowed my eyes. “I suppose you’d rather see it in someone else’s hands? Someone like Hollis Van Horn?”

“I didn’t say that,” she countered.

“Aha!” I yelled. “But you were thinking it!”

Paula-Jean rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, so now I’m not only impulsive, I’m ridiculous, too!”

She sighed. “Enough, Claire. I’m not gonna sit here and argue with you. Keep your stupid book if you want. But don’t come crying to me when something goes wrong.”

Paula-Jean picked up her sleeping bag. She stood staring at me for a moment, waiting for me to stop her. But I didn’t say a word. I just stood there scowling. She shook her head and began gathering up the rest of her things. I didn’t move a muscle to help her. I just watched as she headed down the stairs, stepped into her shoes, got her jacket, and quietly closed the door behind her.

I spent the rest of the day sulking in my bedroom and hoping Paula-Jean would call to apologize, but she didn’t. I came downstairs to say hello to my grandparents and my Uncle Rob and Aunt Theresa who had arrived for Thanksgiving dinner — but only because my mother forced me to.

My body ached all over. Even my taste buds were sore. When it was finally time to sit down to Mom’s magnificent turkey dinner with all the trimmings, I wasn’t even hungry. I just sat there staring at my plate, while Mom, Dad, Grandma Bea, Grandpa Joe, Uncle Rob, Aunt Theresa, Jordan (who looked like he’d gotten over his twinge and itch pretty quickly), and even Cyrus enjoyed the delicious food and good company.

By early evening, I was as miserable and achy as ever. Cyrus had hidden the dwarf winterberry euonymus branch somewhere and I couldn’t find it. I needed to compost it to complete the spell, which I was sure was why I was still aching. And then, to top it all off, that night, when I went up to brush my teeth and get ready for bed, I was devastated to discover that my face was plagued with four new pimples!

I closed my eyes and took a deep cleansing breath. Lucky for me (and no thanks to Paula-Jean), I was still in possession of my little green book and there was plenty of garlic in the wire basket and loads of cheese in the fridge.