“Before you freak out, I’m Frank,” the man says, holding up both hands. At least he doesn’t have a weapon.

I scream like a banshee (actually I don’t even know what a banshee is or if they even scream, but my mom says that all the time) and twist around, not sure if I should run or fight or just keep screaming. But when I do, the man is gone.

What the heck? I back toward my door, ducking to see if he’s hiding under my bed or behind my curtains. Did I just imagine him? I’m almost to my door when I see him again, in the mirror. Now he’s standing right next to me! I scramble up onto my bed, grab my dream catcher from its nail on the wall, and hold it up in front of me like a shield. Don’t ask me why—it’s all I can find. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace myself for whatever is about to happen. When nothing does, I gather up enough courage to open my eyes. When I do, he’s gone again.

I race to my closet, swing open the door. Nothing. He’s not under my bed or behind my polka-dot chair or my curtains either. He’s gone. Which leaves me with only one of two possible explanations for the mystery man in my room: either I’m totally losing it, or I have a concussion and it’s making me see things that aren’t there. I did get bonked on the head pretty good today. I’m praying that’s it.

You are totally safe and not at all crazy, I tell myself. I do another thorough scan of my room, but there’s no weird man in here. Freaky.

Get it together, Malone, I tell myself. Why don’t you try to pick out an outfit for your birthday? That always cheers you up. I pull my turquoise sparkly tank and my favorite jean skirt from my dresser. I’m holding the clothes up to try to see how they look when the man pops up right behind me again.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Maggie Malone,” he says to me.

I wheel around, snatching up my piggy bank that’s chock-full of quarters, and cock it back ready to fire when I realize he’s gone again. I lean into the mirror to see if my eyes are dilated—that’s a sign of a concussion, you know, which would explain everything—and when I do, there he is again. Maybe crazy runs in the family! Maybe it’s in my JEANS! I drop my jean skirt to the floor.

“You catching on yet?” the strange man asks, trying to pull his faded jeans up over his big belly. Yeah, that’s not happening.

“Huh?” I say, because apparently now I’m talking to the peculiar man in the mirror.

I haul my five-pound piggy bank over my head and hurl it right at him, but it just lands on the floor and shatters into about a zillion pieces.

“Really, kid?” the man says, like you really thought you’d clobber me with that? “Maybe you wanna take five or something,” he says, shifting his weight from one boot to the other. “I’m Frank, Frank the Genie? Your Aunt Fiona was supposed to mention me in the letter she rolled up in those boots you’re wearing. But of course she forgot to do that, didn’t she? That’s Fiona for you! These things never go like they’re supposed to.”

“Wait, how do you know my Auntie Fi?” I ask, swinging around to face him. But instead I’m looking at my coat rack, filled with hats and scarves and belts.

“Your aunt said you were some smart cookie, but you seem to be a little slow on the uptake here, pal. No offense, of course,” Frank-the-genie says when I look back into the mirror.

He gives me a crooked smile and hikes his eyebrow up on the right side. I think it’s the right side—it’s hard to tell since I’m looking in a mirror. I decide to stay still this time and get a better look at this guy. He seems harmless enough. He’s got a hound dog kind of face with tired-looking, droopy eyes like my Uncle Doyle. He’s wearing cowboy boots that look a lot like the ones Auntie Fi just sent me, and he’s got a big tarnished silver belt buckle that says “Aerosmith” on it, whatever that means. Maybe he’s an alien, not a genie, and that’s the name of his spaceship. To top it all off, he’s wearing this huge, worn-out cowboy hat with hot pink and green peacock feathers on the front.

“Genies aren’t real,” I tell him, putting my hands on my hips. “And if they were, I don’t think they’d look like you. No offense.” Well, they wouldn’t.

“Of course genies are real, or else you’d be standing here yapping to yourself, and that would just be nuts,” Frank says to me with a big laugh. “Oh, and no offense taken. But you shouldn’t believe everything you see in the movies. I don’t know a single genie who wears a turban or has a pierced ear. Just so you know.” He pauses to check his watch and looks a little bit freaked out.

“Oh shoot, I’m running out of time,” he continues. “Do you want to know about those boots you’re wearing or not?”