Parties & Potions #4 (12 page)

“Go bug Mom.”

“She’s sleeping.”

“See? Normal people are asleep,” I say woozily. “And I want to be normal.”

“Too late. You’re a witch. By definition, you’re the very opposite of normal.”

I flip my pillow. “Speaking of the opposite of normal, are you coming makeunder shopping with me and Wendaline tomorrow?”

“Of course! Not that I think she needs a makeunder. But I want to hang out with her.”

“Good. Now go to sleep!” I pull the covers over my head and drift off.

Until Miri crawls into my bed. “Fitch invited us to his Sim this Friday,” she whispers.

I open one eye. My room is pitch-black. “What time is it? And what exactly is a Fitch?”

“It’s two, and you remember Fitch! He’s the short French one. Do we want to go?”

“I want to go to sleep.”

“Focus, Rachel, focus. He’s having a party. This Friday night. He invited us to come.”

“Where is it?”

“The Eiffel Tower!”

“Huh? In Paris?” Now both eyes are open. I can kind of make out her outline in the dark.

“No, in Oklahoma. Yes, in Paris,” she says in a low voice. “His family is originally from France.”

“But still. The Eiffel Tower?”

“Boys have them in crazy places.”

Like a cemetery isn’t crazy.

“So do you want to go?”

“If you want to.” I like France. I like French fries. French manicures. French kissing.

“Do you think there’s dancing? Will we have to dress up? What if Praw is there?”

“Then you’ll dance with him,” I say.

“How am I going to dance with him when I can barely talk to him?”

Silly Miri. “You don’t need to talk if you’re dancing.”

“But we’re going to go? I want to RSVP.”

“You have to ask Mom first.” I close my eyes. “Wait! What about Dad? Next weekend is his. What are we going to tell him? We already have to come up with a way to disappear for three hours on Saturday for our Sam class. Do you think we could just pretend we’re napping?” We could put pillows under our covers in case Dad comes in. Although Prissy would probably rip the covers off. Maybe we can give her a napping spell. We can give the whole house a napping spell! It will be just like
Sleeping Beauty
except for three hours instead of a hundred years. Of course, we could always pause them, but then they would be weirded out over having lost three hours. Hmm …

“I think we should tell him the truth,” Miri says.

“About the Simsorta? Yeah, that would confuse him just a little.
Excuse us, Dad. We’re hopping over to Paris for a few hours for a party.
”

“No. You don’t understand. I want to tell him the truth. About us.”

I spring into a sitting position, my heart racing. “What?”

“I want to tell Dad the truth.”

“Yes, I heard, thank you. I just can’t believe what I heard. Why would you want to do that?” We can’t tell him. We just can’t.

“Why not?”

“Mom never told him the truth. If she didn’t want him to know, we can’t go behind her back.” The words tumble out of my mouth until I’m out of breath.

“Times have changed. Witchcraft doesn’t have the same stigma it used to.” She talks about witchcraft as though it’s as American as pie baking. “Anyway, Mom always said we could tell Dad if we wanted to. I wanted to wait until I finished my training, and I’m pretty much done. And now I feel like he should know. I mean, we got mad at Mom for not telling us important things, right? Don’t you think Dad has a right to know? I hate lying to him.”

“You’ve been lying to him for half a year!”

“I know, and it makes me feel bad. I don’t want to lie anymore. And I want him to come to our Samsorta. Don’t you? We can’t have a huge coming-out party and not invite our father! It’s just not right.”

“He’s going to tell Jennifer. You want her to know too?”

She frowns. “He doesn’t
have
to tell her.”

“Yes, he does,” I say. “They’re married. Married people tell each other things. It’s the rule.”

She wrinkles her nose. “We’ll ask him not to. He’s our father. He loves us.”

“Then he’s lying to
her.”
Ha! I got her there.

She hesitates, then says, “Let me think about it. Maybe we should talk about this during daylight hours.”

I nod. Then. Or never.

“But what about Fitch’s Sim?”

“If you want to go, we’ll go,” I say. “But you have to figure out what to tell Dad.”

Her eyes brighten. “Technically, we don’t have to tell him anything. Paris is six hours ahead of New York, so the party should be done at six p.m.”

“Oh, sure,
now
you remember time zones.”

She ignores my dig. “We can be at Dad’s at our regular time. We can skip the train and transport ourselves right from the Eiffel Tower to the Long Island train station. Smart, huh?”

For someone who’s so insistent on not lying, my sister can sure make up stories.

Miri hops out of my bed and sneaks back into her room. I close my eyes, but unfortunately, I can hear Miri’s typing through the walls.

Click, click, clack, click.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Miri might be the loudest typist in the history of the world.

I can’t believe she wants to tell Dad. We can’t tell him. I flip onto my stomach. But don’t I want to share something this important with him? Don’t I want him to know who I really am? Won’t he love me anyway? He has to, right? He’s my dad. If you truly love someone, don’t you love them no matter what? And when you really love someone, don’t you love them not despite their quirks, but because of them? I need to think this through. I need sleep.

Clack, clack, click, clack.

What I really need are earplugs. I focus and chant:

Not the world’s best rhyme, I know, but give me a break. It’s the middle of the night.

Anyway, it works. Sort of. Two identical bathtub plugs materialize on my night table.

Too tired to cast another spell, I bury my head under my pillow and finally,
finally
fall asleep.

Makeunder Madness

When I open my eyes the next morning, I discover I’ve slept right through the pillaging of my closet. Half my outfits are splayed on the pink carpet, no longer in their original forms. Meaning my first-day-of-school shirt is now a mini-dress; my last year’s green prom dress is now blue; my sandals are now strappy stilettos; and my running shoes are now heels. My sister sits in the eye of the tornado, in just her underwear and a sequined top. I believe the top was once a necklace.

“Um, Miri? What are ya doing?”

“I have nothing to wear,” she wails.

I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. “To what?”

“What do you mean, ‘to what’? To the Simsorta! To see Praw! I need to look pretty! And I have nothing pretty! Nothing!”

“Mom said we could go?” I ask.

“Kind of,” she says. “She said we weren’t allowed to miss school for someone we barely know, but that we could go for the dancing. So we’ll come home right after school, get ready, then go to Paris. But only if I have something to wear!”

“Calm down. We’ll find you something nice. You’ll come shopping with me and Wendaline today. We’ll make you beautiful.”

“You scare me when you speak in syllables.”

I cackle for effect.

That afternoon, while we’re waiting for Wendaline at Bloomie’s, a woman in a black smock asks us if we’d like her to do our makeup.

“Yes! Start with her,” I say, pushing Miri forward. “She really needs it.”

Miri shakes her head. “I don’t wear makeup.”

“Do you want to look pretty or not?” I ask, arms crossed.

“Have a seat,” Smock Lady says. “I promise not to bite.”

Miri hesitates. “Can you make it look really natural?”

“Absolutely.”

Miri reluctantly climbs onto the stool.

“I’ll start with your eyes. You know, really make them pop. Bring out the green.” She peers at my sister’s face.

“She has brown eyes,” I say quickly. “Like I do. I haven’t agreed to have a color-blind makeup artist paint my sister, have I?”

“You haven’t,” Smock Lady says, picking out a thin brush. “Your sister’s eyes are definitely brown. But she has some gorgeous flecks of emerald I’m going to bring out.”

Who knew? I step toward one of the seven hundred mirrors and examine myself. Do I have flecks of emerald in my eyes too?

Is that one? No.

There? Also no.

It seems my eyes are fleckless.

Smock Lady pulls out a palette, studies Miri, looks back at the colors, studies Miri again. “I’m going to try a new shade called Perfectly Pretty on you.”

I love how all the shades have fun names. I flip over the containers to see what the other colors are called. Lady in the Water, Lucidity, A Dozen Roses—who comes up with these names, anyway? I bet I could do it. That would be a fun job. When I grow up, I want to be an eye shadow namer. Fun!

I turn back to Miri.

Smock Lady applies eyeliner and mascara and then swings Miri’s stool around to face one of the seven hundred mirrors. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” she says, looking at herself. “It’s so makeup-y”

“She’ll take them!” I exclaim. She looks amazing. Her eyes are popping all over town. “What do you have in a lip gloss for her?”

“I don’t need lip gloss,” she says.

“You do too,” I say. “Don’t you want to look kissable?”

She turns bright red.

“I don’t think she needs a blush,” I say.

After Miri’s done, I climb onto the stool and let Smock Lady do her magic. “Use everything,” I say. “Mascara, shadow, blush, lip liner… the works!” I’ve always wanted to see how to apply my makeup without getting that punched-in-the-eye look.

When she’s done, I admire my many reflections. Yes! She dusted my eyes in mauve and lined them in gray and now they are popping! And I thought I had cheekbones before? Hah!
Now
I have cheekbones. Rusty pink ones. And my lips! Beautiful, glossy, kissable lips. “Fantastic!” I exclaim. “I’ll take them!”

Miri shakes her head. “Didn’t Mom say we could only spend two hundred dollars?”

Mom was nice enough to hand me her credit card, with the instruction that I could spend two hundred dollars on a new dress for Miri. But I’m sure that didn’t include accessories, so I dismiss her with a wave of my hand. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. I don’t need a dress, since I have the one I wore for prom.”

Miri raises an eyebrow.

“What?” I say, defensive. “I’m not a celebrity, you know. I do wear things more than once.”

While I’m charging the purchases, Wendaline arrives. She’s wearing another ridiculous outfit—red lace skirt, draping black velvet top—but at least she arrived by foot.

“Don’t you two look pretty!” she says.

I curtsey, charge the makeup, and then lead the way up the escalator.

“Okay, ladies, here’s what we need!” I rub my hands together. I feel like a football coach. “We are looking for a new dress for Miri. Something that shows off how cute she is. Something fun. Something flirty. Something—”

“To bring out my green eyes?” She bats her mascara’d lashes.

“Not green, Miri,
fleckled
with green. Supposedly.”

“You mean flecked,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Anyway. For Wendaline we’re looking for jeans,” I say. “Not too tight, not too flared. The perfect boot cut. She also needs some tops.”

“Can’t I wear the shirt I have on with jeans?” she asks, gesturing to the black velvet number that is draped over her upper body.

“No,” I say simply. “You cannot. And for me—”

“I thought you weren’t getting anything,” Miri interrupts.

“I’m keeping an open mind.”

“What do you need a dress for?” Wendaline asks.

“A guy named Fitch invited us to his Sim.”

“No way! This Friday? On the Eiffel Tower? I’m invited too!”

“Yay!” Miri cheers. “We can all go together.”

“My whole family is invited,” she says. “My mom went to Charm School with his mom.”

“No time for chatting,” I say. “Let’s move. We’ll meet back at the changing room in fifteen. Go, team!”

The troops disperse.

Fifteen minutes later, Wendaline returns with three pairs of jeans that are clearly wrong. (Too big! Too low! Did I say bell-bottoms? No, I did not.) Miri also gets it wrong. The dresses she picked are the most awful pieces of clothing I have ever seen. Seriously. They’re hideous. One has hot pink embroidered tulips and one has fluorescent orange crinoline. Luckily, I have good taste and have made more appropriate selections. Unfortunately, I spent so much time finding clothes for them, I had time to pick out only three shirts and a pair of black jeans for myself. The black jeans are too advanced for Wendaline, but I’ve been noticing them on a bunch of the A-listers.

For some reason, we all crowd into one dressing room.

The jeans I picked out for Wendaline are
perfect.
They elongate her legs and make her butt look small.

“They’re so tight,” she says. “Are you sure this is the right size?”

“Yes,” I say adamantly. “They stretch.”

“I hope so. They’re not that comfortable. There’s a but-ton pushing into my stomach.”

“You have to get used to them. Now try on this top.” I pass her two T-shirts, one long-sleeved and one short-sleeved. “Layer them,” I instruct.

Miri slips on a red dress. “What are we supposed to wear for
our
Samsorta? Is Kesselin Fizguin going to talk about that?”

“We all have to wear heliotrope dresses,” Wendaline says.

I zip Miri up. “A what?” Sounds like a circus act.

“Purple,” Wendaline says. “Purple-pink. Like the flower. The color has magical properties—it supposedly enhances beauty.”

If only I had known that last month. It would have been the perfect color for my back-to-school shirt.

“Where do we get these dresses?” Miri asks. “Anywhere?”

“I’m not sure,” Wendaline says. “I have to wear my mom’s. She’s kept it preserved for thirty years especially for my Sam.”

“Do you think Mom still has her dress?” Miri asks me.

“I doubt it,” I say. “Although it could be in the cleaning closet. Anyway, we’d still need one new one. It’s not like we could both wear it.”

“Dibs!” Miri calls.

She’s more than welcome to wear Mom’s Windex-scented number while I get myself something brand-spanking-new “Fine with me,” I say, and then admire her reflection. “That looks sexy.”

Miri pushes in front of the mirror and turns sideways. “It’s too red. Makes me look like I’m trying too hard.”

I roll my eyes. “If you don’t want it, let me try it on.” I can always zap it bigger if it’s too small. Or ask for a larger size. Whichev. I turn to Wendaline, to see how she’s doing. “No, no, no. You have it on wrong,” I bark. “The short-sleeved shirt goes over the long-sleeved one.”

“Then you can see the sleeves!” she says. “Why would I do that?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re supposed to see the sleeves. That’s the style. Switch it up.”

She shrugs and pulls them both off.

Omigod! “Wendaline, you have huge boobs! I had no idea. What cup size are you?”

She models her bra in the mirror. “I’m a C.”

“You need to wear tighter shirts,” I tell her as I shimmy into the red dress. Nice! Yes! I love it! Why should I wear my old prom dress to the Sim when I could be wearing this? And what if Miri’s magical tantrum with my wardrobe this morning did any lasting damage? I need something new so I can look hot. Red hot.

Do I want to look red hot? Why do I want to look red hot?

Miri pulls her tulip number off the hanger.

“That one looks like fun,” Wendaline tells her.

“Are you guys blind?” I ask. “Honestly, you are not even allowed to try that on.” I pull it out of her hand and throw it over the dressing room door. “That does not say ‘pretty’ That says ‘fiasco.’ If it were an eye shadow, that’s what it would be called. Fiasco. Try this on instead.” I hand her a simple green silk dress. “It’s stunning and simple.”

She slips into it, I zip it up, and we both look in the mirror.

Miri smiles at her own reflection. “Not bad,” she says.

“Not bad?” I say dismissively “Please. It’s gorgeous. If
it
were an eye shadow, it would be called—”

Wendaline winks. “Simply Stunning.”

Exactly.

My game plan is destroyed on Sunday night. Mom freaks at the Bloomie’s receipts and makes me promise to return my new dress and the black jeans. “I said two hundred dollars total!” she says.

“Why does Miri get to keep all her stuff and I have to return everything?”

“Because you already have a dress you can wear. And you spent a hundred dollars on back-to-school clothes two weeks ago!”

Oh. Right. Prom dress it is, then. Perhaps with some magical modifications.