The Sleepover (5 page)

Madame Mesmer flicks off some lights and drapes a few scarves she's brought across the rest of the lamps so that the room is cast in this weird, sort of spooky glow. “Make yourselves as comfortable as possible,” she says. “Feel free to lie down if you'd like.”

We all obey. It seems like she wants us to, even if she phrased it as a suggestion. I hug my legs to my chest for just a second or two and give myself a tiny pep talk that mostly includes the words,
Breathe. Just breathe.
I remind myself that we're in Anna Marie's basement. Mrs. Guerrero is right upstairs, taking a bath. When this part of the party is over, we'll probably
just paint our toenails and watch TV until it's time to climb into our sleeping bags (or cot, if you're Veronica) and whisper secrets about which movie star we're crushing on (hello, Graham Cabot all the way) and what three items we'd want if we were stranded on a desert island. I already have mine picked out: my iPod, with one of those solar batteries that recharges in the sunlight; an array of shovels so I can spend my days making incredible sand sculptures and also SOS sand letters that planes could see from the sky; and a fishing net . . . because, entertainment aside, a girl's gotta eat.

“All right. Close your eyes, please,” Madame Mesmer says in a voice just above a whisper. “Now I'd like you to imagine yourself in your happy place, somewhere that is relaxing to you. It might be the beach. It might be a field of grass. Wherever you are, take a moment to look around. Now feel your surroundings. Feel the sun on your face and the sand or the grass under your feet.”

I wiggle my toes but keep my eyes screwed shut. I try extra-hard to picture the art room at school with my class's latest still-life paintings hanging to dry and the pottery wheel in the back corner. It's fuzzy, but I force my brain to stay there. Is this working?

“Good,” says Madame Mesmer. Her skirt swishes and her bangles clatter as she weaves her way among us, stepping over our legs. “Working bottom to top, you're going to let each
part of your body relax. Relax your ankles. Now press the backs of your knees into the floor. Feel them getting heavy and connecting with the carpet. Next relax your bum.”

I can't believe none of us giggle over the word
bum
. I have one about to bubble out of my throat, but I stop it with an exhale, letting my (mostly flat—blergh) chest rise and fall with deep breaths. This whole time my eyelids have been fluttering because they want so badly to peek, but now they finally relax, and I start to concentrate only on Madame Messmer's voice. It's soooo soothing. Maybe I
can
do this. Maybe I
can
let go.

“Next I want you to imagine yourself flying through the air. Swoop your arms low on one side; now dip to the other. The wind is in your hair; you are a bird, incapable of falling. Just feel the freedom of flight; let the joy of it bubble up in your chest. Take a rest on a puffy cloud and then swoosh back through the air again.”

The room is totally silent, except for Madame Mesmer's voice. Is anything happening? I don't
feel
anything happening. But I'm going with it. I think maybe I even
want
it to work.

“Okay, now, when I count to ten, I want you to slip into a deep state of hypnosis. One . . . two . . . three . . .” She continues to count until she reaches, “Nine . . . ten. You are now in a state of hypnosis. You are safe. Your entire body feels relaxed and free. You are peaceful as you sink into a deeper and deeper state of hypnosis. You are safe. You are free.”

T
ake me to New York. I'd like to see LA. I really want to come kick it with you. You'll be my American boy. . . .

I bolt upright, tangling my legs in my sleeping bag.

“What the what?”

The music from Summer Dance Party blares from the TV so loudly, I think the police might show up. There's something hard underneath my butt; I scoot over, yank the remote out from my jumbled mess of covers, and jam my finger on the power button.

Ahhhhh. Blissful quiet.

Without the glare from the flat-screen, the room also goes to mostly dark, but there's some crack-of-dawn light streaming in from the half windows, enough so I can make out the shapes of my friends as they start to stir. I can't imagine how any of them slept through
that
.

A beam of light shines directly into my eyes, forcing me to throw a hand over my face. “Paige! Seriously?”

“This flashlight app comes in handy,” Paige replies.

I respond by bunching up a sweatshirt I find next to me and chucking it at Paige. Too bad I miss by a mile.

On the cot in the corner, Veronica says, “Christmas is crunchy,” then lies back down and promptly resumes snoring. Loudly.

I sure hope I don't talk in my sleep. Or snore. I've never been able to ask anyone before because I'm always sleeping alone in my room and there hasn't been anyone
to
ask. But it suddenly hits me that I'm here. It's the next day, and I'm here! My brain is still early morning fuzzy, so I don't really remember making the conscious decision to stay last night, but clearly I must have. I hug my covers around me and celebrate with a happy little shoulder jiggle. I did it! My first true sleepover.

Paige plops back down and snuggles into her sleeping bag again, but from the way she's huffing and puffing and sighing all annoyedlike, I'm guessing she isn't going to be able to get back to sleep. And knowing Paige, her philosophy will be: If
she's
up, then the whole world should be too.

Might as well beat her to it.

I unzip my bag and use my legs to push the cover the rest of the way off. Then I stand. My eyes are still adjusting and the sun isn't bright enough through the windows yet, so all
I can make out are dark shapes. I know the basement pretty well, but we pushed a lot of furniture around last night. Plus there are people sleeping in places we usually walk. Nothing seems familiar, and I don't trust myself not to trip on something or some
one
, so I drop to my knees and crawl toward the wall, feeling pretty ridiculous.

Halfway there something brushes against my face, and I very nearly scream. My hand swipes at my cheek, and I catch something wispy in my fingers.
Please don't be a spider web, please don't be a spider web. If you have to be a spider web, please,
please
don't be a spider web with an actual spider attached to you.

Whatever's in my hand is thin, like spaghetti, slightly sticky, and almost a little spongy-feeling. I bring it close to my face and squint.

Silly String? My brain catalogues the texture between my fingers and confirms the match. Weird. I don't remember any Silly String battles last night. My crawl gets ten times more awkward as I attempt to make forward progress on my hands and knees while also keeping one arm up to sweep the air in front of me for any other unwelcome surprises. When I finally reach the wall, I slide along its length until I'm on my feet at the edge of the room. I stretch my hand along the wall and feel the edge of the flat-screen. That means if I go in the opposite direction I should hit the bank of light switches right about . . . here.

I fumble with the switch in the dark and then flip it on, saying a silent
sorry
to Veronica, who is still snoring.

My jaw drops to the floor right alongside my stomach.

Um, this is all seriously . . . like, whoa. To put it mildly. For starters, there is Silly String ev-ery-where. Wound around the base of the potted plant, looped along the Irish pub signs, threaded through the holes in the net of the Ping-Pong table, and crisscrossing Veronica's body on her cot.

The second the light goes on, and Paige settles the sweatshirt I'd lobbed at her over her face.“Whyisthelighton?” she groans.

“Um, Paige. I think you need to see this.”

“Umph,” comes through the sweatshirt.

“Seriously, Paige. I
really
think you need to see this.” I tiptoe my way through hundreds of Doritos crumbs and popcorn kernels covering the carpet in the corner by the stairs and bend to examine a wrapper covered in sticky melted ice-cream sandwich remnants. I place it gently in the center of the coffee table, next to a towering pyramid built out of Mountain Dew cans, and wipe my sticky hands on my pajama pants.

Wow. Just . . . wow.

I reach Paige and jostle her shoulder. She still has the sweatshirt over her eyes and an arm draped across that, holding it in place. “C'mon, Paige. Wake. Up. Now!”

She swats at me from under the covers, but I catch her
wrist and tug, dragging her out of the sleeping bag. The sweatshirt falls aside, and I stare into her face.

Paige looks back, opens her mouth . . . and screams.

Which wakes Veronica. And makes
me
scream.

“Eeeeeeeeeep!” we all shriek.

“What's happening?” My voice is high-pitched, like I've inhaled helium. I turn to Veronica—wait, is she wearing footie pajamas? No time to think about that right this second—who blinks at me once before her mouth drops open. Oh God. I get a bad taste in my mouth that doesn't have anything to do with morning breath. Why are they looking at me like I grew a second nose overnight? My hands fly to my face, and I dart frantic looks back and forth between the two of them. Why aren't they saying anything?

“What? What is it? Do I have a giant zit, because that happens sometimes and I can't—”

“It's not that.” Paige's forehead goes all crinkly. “It's . . . Oh man, I don't know how to . . .”

“You're missing an eyebrow,” Veronica blurts.

Say
what
?

My fingertips move from my cheeks to my eyes, and I begin feeling above them. I brush distinctive fuzz, and there's a reassuring, soft scritching sound as I explore the ridge above my right eye. But then I move my fingers to the same spot above my left eye and . . . it's disturbingly smooth, like the skin of an apple.

No. No, no, no, no, no,
no
!

This cannot be happening.

I kick aside a pillow and step over Paige in a race to the bathroom, not even stopping to get grossed out over something gooey I step in. I grab the door handle and push down, but it doesn't budge. I jiggle it a few times and am just lifting my fist to pound when it opens inward, throwing me off-balance.

Max, in plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a matching top, blinks at me; then, after a beat or two, grins. “Classic,” he says, laughing as he slides past me.

Ugh! I feel like screaming again, but I bite it back and slam the door shut behind me. Then I creep to the sink, prop my hands on the sides, and lean in close to the mirror.

Oh. Heavenly. Heckweasels!

I have one eyebrow. ONE! I stare and stare, but no amount of blinking shows me anything different than a one-eyebrowed freak. This cannot be happening. Can. Not. My life is ruined. It takes a few moments of gaping into the mirror for my brain to start moving again and, when it does, it's completely full of questions I have zip—zero—answers for.

At the top of the list: how long does it take for eyebrows to grow, anyway? Surely, longer than a few hours, which is all I have before my mom comes to pick me up and take me to handbell practice at church. Could a hat hide it? Makeup?
I mean, obviously I'm not allowed to wear makeup, but maybe Paige can work some magic so my parents won't notice.

Oh God, but then there's school! There is
no way
I can go to school on Monday with one eyebrow—and it's not like I'll have Paige at my house in the morning to help even if she
could
find a way to hide it with makeup. Plus our school has a no-hats-indoors policy, so that won't work.

“Megs?” Paige taps gently on the other side of the door. “Are you okay? Can I do anything?”

“I'm fine. I just need to . . . process.”

I go back to thinking as hard as I can.

A headband? I've seen some high school girls wearing a thin ribbon around their foreheads in some hippie-bohemian kind of look. Would anyone buy it if I suddenly went boho?

No. Of course they wouldn't.

Could I get a fake eyebrow? Some kind of stick-on one like the mustache I wore last Halloween when I went to the party at school dressed as Luigi from Super Mario Bros.? Or maybe like the toupee our mailman wears, which I always try so hard not to stare at whenever he hands me the stack of catalogs and bills for my parents?

Let's face it. My life is over.
O-v-e-r.

I don't even want to
think
of the nickname I'll probably end up with after this. What if it follows me to college? What if I
want to run for president one day, and all the people I knew in middle school resurface to tell the whole world about the time I had a unibrow, and not from lack of tweezing above my nose? Or what if I
still have it
? What if it
NEVER
grows back?

For a long time all I can do is stare into the mirror, not really seeing the reflection but working through and shooting down forty-seven million more harebrained schemes to possibly save me from my mother's screeching and, more important, from the bottom rungs of the social ladder at school. But then a small movement in the mirror, just behind my reflected shoulder, catches my eye.

What on earth . . . ?

I spin to face the bathtub and am greeted by a slew of tiny, fluffy balls on legs. I slump back against the sink and begin counting. One. Two, Three. Four. Five, Six . . . There are sixteen baby chicks happily parading around the empty bathtub! But
why
are there sixteen baby chicks parading around the bathtub? Why am I missing an eyebrow? What did I step in on the way to the bathroom, and why are there Silly String loops connecting the faucet to the shower nozzle? What is even happening right now?