Charmed, I'm Sure Page 4

  “Well, I bet Damien Wolfe will stop drawing comics for a minute when Rosie walks into Language Arts, and he’ll ask her first,” Nicole huffs.

  “How much do you want to bet?” Katie says.

  “Um . . . guys? I’m standing right here!” I remind them.

  My presence apparently doesn’t seem to affect their eagerness to wager on my dating prospects.

  “I’ll bet you a CandyFloss Lipgloss that Damien asks her first,” Nicole says.

  “Done!” Katie agrees. They fist-bump to seal the wager.

  “Now that you’ve bet on me like I’m a racehorse, can I get some advice?” I say.

  They finally appear to remember I’m there and a real person, not just a dating project.

  “Sorry, Rosie!” Katie says, hugging me.

  “Me too,” Nicole agrees. “I guess we got a little carried away.”

  I think of how I actually asked my mom for some of her kelp and betony smoothie this morning—Note to self: It tasted just as disgusting as last time—and tell them, “No problem. It’s easy to do.”

  “So, how can we help?” Katie asks.

  “I’m not sure, exactly. I just . . . well, flirting isn’t my thing, if you know what I mean. And I tried googling How to get a date in middle school and—”

  “Wait . . . You googled how to get a date in middle school?” Nicole asks.

  “Uh . . . yeah,” I confess.

  “For reals?” Katie says, barely able to contain her laughter.

  I nod.

  The two of them start cracking up. They practically have to hold each other up because they’re laughing so hard.

  “What did it say?!” Nicole asks.

  “That’s the problem,” I tell them. “It was all this conflicting advice that totally confused me, like: Be charming and funny—but not too flirtatious . . . and be confident, but don’t come across as loud and strident. I mean, seriously. How are you supposed to know if you’re doing that?”

  “Because we’re here to tell you,” Katie says.

  “Yeah, don’t worry, we’ll keep you in line,” Nicole assures me.

  Katie lets go another snort of laughter. “I still can’t believe you asked Google for dating advice instead of us.”

  “I still can’t believe I asked my mother for dating advice,” I mutter.

  “Hey, look at all the amazing clothes you scored,” Nicole points out. “I’d ask my mom for advice in a second if it meant a shopping spree at Très Cher.”

  Just like that, I feel like an ungrateful brat. I am lucky that my mom was willing to do so much for me. I just wish it didn’t all feel so strange and . . . uncomfortable.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I’m sure this will all work out and I’ll have a date for the dance in no time. Maybe even by the end of today if I’m lucky.”

  “That’s right,” Katie says. “Positive attitude.”

  If only I actually believed the words coming out of my mouth.

  Damien Wolfe, Nicole’s dance date candidate, is in my first period math class. So is Nicole, and she spends the entire time we’re walking to class telling me his eyes are going to pop out of his head when he sees the new, improved Rosie. I find this hard to believe.

  Sure enough, when we walk into the classroom, Damien is in his usual seat in the back, sketching in his notebook, and his eyes remain firmly in his head. In fact, he doesn’t even notice that we’ve entered the room.

  Why not?

  Well, he is busy drawing, as usual. I find myself strangely miffed that even Mirror Girl isn’t enough to draw his attention. It feels like a challenge—one that I’m determined to win.

  So I “accidentally” drop my books right near his foot—except one of them, the really heavy math textbook, lands on his foot, and he jumps up with an exclamation of pain. That part really was an accident. Cross my heart, I do not lie.

  “Omigosh, I’m so sorry, Damien!” I exclaim. “Are you okay?”

  He sits back down, holding his toe through his sneaker, as I pick up my books.

  “I’ll live,” he says. “But can you call AAA? I think I might need a toe truck.”

  A tow truck?

  “Oh!” I giggle, finally getting it. “Sure. I have them on speed dial.”

  “Why, do you make a habit of dropping heavy books on people’s toes?” he asks.

  “No, I . . . Never mind,” I mumble, turning to go to my desk.

  This definitely isn’t going the way I thought it would.

  “Nice haircut,” Damien says just as I sit down, convinced the whole thing has been a complete fail.

  I smile my thanks back at him as class begins, feeling a warm glow of . . . victory.

  Hunter Farthington is in my PE class, which is next. We’re doing a unit on yoga, which is supposed to help us learn how to de-stress and be mindful, except inevitably someone farts and everyone cracks up. Then Coach W gets mad and starts not yelling in her I’m not going to shout because this is yoga but if it weren’t I’d totally be screaming at you voice, which makes it even more stressful than dodgeball. There’s something about her carefully suppressed fury that’s scarier than when Coach G, the other PE teacher, shouts at the top of his lungs across the gym.

  “So, what prompted this sudden makeover?” Genny Krulinski asks when we’re getting changed in the locker room.

  “I don’t know—I guess I just felt like a change,” I lie.

  I’m not about to admit to Genny Krulinski that I was willing to try pretty much anything to get a date for the Fall Festive—including asking my mother for advice.

  “Pretty radical change,” Genny says.

  “Really?” I respond as casually as I can manage. “You think so?”

  She gives me a “duh” look.

  “One day you’re the Thrift Store Queen and the next day you’re a walking ad for Très Cher. I’d say that’s pretty radical.”

  “Well, I think you look pretty, period,” Aria Thornebriar says. “What’s the matter with changing it up once in a while?”

  “I didn’t say there was anything the matter,” Genny huffs, taking her towel and stomping away, even though the way she said it made it sound like there was.

  “Don’t let Genny get to you,” Aria says. “I think she’s just jealous because of how Hunter reacted this morning. She’s had a crush on him since sixth grade.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask as we walk out to the gym together.

  Aria gives me a skeptical look.

  “Oh, come on. Tell me you didn’t notice how he could barely string together a sentence when you showed up this morning?” she says.

  “Well . . .”

  “Okay, I know Hunter isn’t a great conversationalist at the best of times, but it was even worse.”

  I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help laughing.

  “Yes, I noticed,” I admit.

  “Well, so did Genny Krulinski. And if looks could kill, you’d be lying in a glass coffin like your mom,” Aria says.

  I’m taken aback that she brings up Mom and The Tale so casually, like it’s no biggie. Nobody at school ever talks about it, even though they know. I think it’s a New York City thing. So many celebrities live here that it’s uncool to be starstruck. But I guess Aria knows what it’s like to be the daughter of celebrity parents. Her mom is Briar Rose, aka Sleeping Beauty.

  “Well, luckily for me, I’m still alive and kicking,” I joke, heading to get a yoga mat. “Now I just have to try and get through yoga without dying.”

  “Or even worse, farting,” Aria says.

  “Why does everyone fart during yoga?” I ask. “It’s like an epidemic.”

  “No, it’s natural,” Aria explains. “I googled Why does yoga make you fart and got over four hundred and sixty thousand results.”

  Note to Katie and Nicole: I’m not the only person at Manhattan World Themes Middle School who googles weird things.

  Genny’s mat is right next to Hunter’s. She’s asking him about yesterd
ay’s practice like it’s the most interesting thing on earth.

  Did she google How to get a date in middle school too, I wonder?

  I can’t help feeling satisfaction when Genny lets an enormous booty bomb go when we’re doing the plow pose, and the entire class starts cracking up, Hunter and his friends loudest of all.

  Or when Hunter smiles up at me as I look at him upside down while doing the downward dog.

  Fairest in the Land . . . Own it.

  Smiles are a good first step, but I still need him to go further than that. I need him—or Damien—to ask me to the dance.

  Chapter Six

  I DECIDE THAT IT’S TIME for advice that isn’t Mom, or Dad, or my friends. I need some insight on guys from some real, live guys. Luckily, I know just the place to get that because I know seven who live all together in one apartment. Mom used to do housework for them, once upon a time.

  My seven height disadvantaged “uncles” used to live across the Seven Mountains. Now they live across Central Park on West Seventy-Seventh. If I were wearing my Converse I’d walk through the park, but after just one day at school these ballet flats are already giving me a blister, so I take the crosstown bus instead.

  My uncles would never take the bus—they prefer being underground. That’s one of the reasons they insisted on buying a basement apartment on West Seventy-Seventh—so they’d have the double benefits of as little sunlight as possible and being near the subway.

  These days they’re not swinging their pickaxes to mine precious gems. Instead, they work in more comfortable surroundings in the diamond district, dealing in stones and fashion jewelry for CharmingLifestyles.com. Mom and Dad (and CynCorp) get a percentage of the sale in exchange for merchandising the gems, and everybody’s happy.

  Everyone’s happy except for Uncle Herb, that is. Dad says Herb’s not happy unless he’s unhappy. This doesn’t make the slightest sense to me, because he seems to be unhappy all the time, which means he should be happy, right? Grown-up logic can be so twisted.

  When I get to their building, I go down the steps to their door, which is below street level. It’s the kind of apartment that most people wouldn’t think is that desirable because of security and lack of light, but my uncles were willing to pay a premium for it. Getting seven short cohabiting bachelors past the co-op board wasn’t easy, but when Snow White and Prince Charming showed up to give them all personal character references, it sealed the deal. Celebrity has its privileges.

  Uncle Shrimpy answers the door. He’s the one a lot of people think is stupid, but Mom says he just thinks differently from the way most people do. That’s for sure. Today his hair is dyed bright purple and he’s wearing red velvet shorts, a black T-shirt with a glittery gold star on it, and a pair of three-inch gold platform shoes.

  “Rosie honey!” he exclaims, wrapping me in a hug, which is always awkward, because even in three-inch platforms his face comes up to my belly button.

  “What’s up, Uncle Shrimpy?” I ask. “Love the outfit.”

  “This old thing?” he says, with a dismissive wave. “But aren’t these shoes great? I got them at the thrift store on Ninety-Seventh.”

  Uncle Shrimpy knows all the best thrift stores. Everything I know about getting good deals on vintage clothes I learned from him.

  “Totally awesome,” I tell him. “Just make sure you don’t break your ankle.”

  “Hey, guys, our little Rosie’s here!” Shrimpy shouts.

  Considering that I’ve towered over all of them since I was eight, it’s both funny and comforting that my uncles still consider me their “little Rosie.” I follow Uncle Shrimpy into the living room, where Uncles Jem, Zafiro, Yù, and Bijou are hanging out on their child-sized chairs and sofas. They keep two full-sized chairs for when Mom and Dad come to visit, and deciding that my new outfit makes me more grown-up, I sit on one of them, instead of in my usual kiddie chair.

  The act does not escape Uncle Jem’s notice. Very little does.

  “Does the sophisticated new outfit and your decision to perch your bottom on your mother’s chair signal that you have acquired ambitions of a more . . . shall we say . . . rebellious adolescent nature?”

  If he hadn’t been born with a height disadvantage in the days before there were laws against discrimination, Uncle Jem could have been a diplomat.

  “No, no, no.” Uncle Zafiro shakes his head and surveys me with disapproving dark eyes. “This is trouble. This is about the boys. I feel it in my bones. Trouble, I tell you.”

  “Zaffy, man, the only thing you feel in your bones is arthritis,” argues Uncle Bijou. “Our Rosie is just learning to shine like the star she’s meant to be.”

  He beams at me, his teeth gleaming white against the darkness of his skin.

  I smile at Uncle Bijou, even though I know that Uncle Zafiro is the one who is right.

  “Are you nuts? NO MORE GARLIC!”

  Uh-oh. It sounds like Uncle Herb is getting into another argument with Uncle Rocco in the kitchen. They are both extremely passionate about food. Against my better judgment, I decide to play peacemaker and get up to go see what’s happening.

  Uncle Rocco looks like a knight with a saber, waving a chef’s knife that’s almost as long as his arm, except instead of armor he’s wearing a tomato sauce spattered apron. At least I’m pretty sure it’s tomato, because I don’t see any blood on Uncle Herb. Yet.

  “YOU are the crazy one!” Uncle Rocco spits, with a dangerous swish of the knife. “It needs more garlic, not to mention black pepper!”

  Uncle Herb appears to be defending himself with a large wooden spoon that is dripping globs of sauce all over the floor.

  “It looks like a police show crime scene in here,” I observe. “But it smells delicious.”

  They finally stop glaring at each other long enough to notice I’m standing there, and seriously, it’s like someone waved a magic wand—and fortunately, not one covered with tomato sauce—because Uncle Rocco’s stony expression turns to a broad smile underneath his graying mustache, and Uncle Herb grins and puts the wooden spoon back into the huge pot that’s bubbling on the stove.

  “Look at our little princess,” Uncle Herb says, moving to hug me. “Doesn’t she look a pretty picture?”

  “Um, maybe you could wipe off the tomato sauce before you hug me?” I suggest, sidestepping his embrace. “This is a brand-new outfit.”

  Uncle Rocco, who was coming in for the embrace too, takes a step back along with Herb, and they both blush to match their aprons.

  “Sorry, Rosie,” Rocco mumbles, surveying the state of Herb, the kitchen, and himself. “I guess we got a little carried away.”

  “Well, he did, anyway,” Herb mutters. “With the garlic.”

  “Only because you put in too much basil and—”

  “Okay, time-out!” I say, making a T with my hands. “Gentlemen, to your corners.”

  To my confusion, they look at each other and burst out laughing—and I’m talking some serious guffaws. Uncle Rocco throws his arm around Uncle Herb, who is wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, as if they weren’t just threatening each other with kitchen tools only moments before.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s so funny?”

  “You remind me more of your mother every day,” Uncle Rocco gasps.

  “She’s even starting to look more like Snow,” Herb adds.

  Between them and the Mirror going on and on about that Fairest in the Land stuff, I’m starting to feel like I’m reliving a creepy version of The Tale.

  “If you’ve finished trying to murder each other, can you come sit down with the rest of the uncles?” I say. “I need your advice.”

  “Advice?” Uncle Herb’s face lights up, and he takes off his apron. “You’ve come to the right place. We gave your mother lots of good advice.”

  “Yeah,” Uncle Rocco says. “Too bad she didn’t listen to any of it.”

  “I’m not my mother,” I snap. “I know all about Stranger Danger.”

>   I can hear crazy rhymes coming from where I dropped my backpack on the living room floor: Pay no heed to the men of no height; you’re the one who is beautiful, and right.

  Call me crazy, but I’m really starting to believe the Mirror in that compact Mom gave me talks just like the Mirror.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” I mutter.

  “Say what to all the girls?” Uncle Herb asks.

  “Yeah, it’s not like Herb is such a . . . what do they call them these days . . . a chick magnet?” Uncle Rocco says, washing off his hands and face.

  “And you are?” Herb retorts. “You haven’t been on a date since . . . what? . . . 1784?”

  Rocco turns from the sink, dripping wet hands outstretched like he’s about to put them around Herb’s neck.

  “O-kay, about that advice,” I remind them, hoping to head off another fight.

  Rocco lowers his hands and wipes them dry on a nontomatoey dish towel.

  “C’mon, Herb. Rosie needs our wisdom.”

  Uncle Jem winks at me as I lead the two warring uncles back into the living room.

  “Nice work,” he mouths.

  Once we’re all seated, I take a deep breath and start explaining the problem.

  “So, there’s this dance coming up at school a week from Saturday called the Fall Festive—”

  “See!” Zafiro interrupts, pumping his fist in triumph. “I knew this was about boy trouble.” He taps the side of his nose. “Zafiro’s nose never fails to sniff out the truth!”

  “Maybe because Zafiro’s nose takes up most of his face,” Bijou says.

  I’m starting to wonder if this whole asking the uncles for advice idea was a mistake, but since I’ve already taken the bus across town and broken up a fight, I might as well go for it.

  “It’s not exactly boy trouble, Uncle Zafiro. It’s lack of boy trouble,” I explain. “I still don’t have a date. That’s why Mom thought I needed some fashion guidance, so she sent me to Phillipe for a consultation. And that’s why I look like this.”

  “This happens to be very lovely,” Uncle Jem observes.