Bad Hair Day Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Today Is Not a Good Day

  Chapter Two: SHHHHHHH

  Chapter Three: Now Where Are We?

  Chapter Four: Up, Up, and Away

  Chapter Five: Brushing Isn’t Going to Help

  Chapter Six: No Hair to Let Down

  Chapter Seven: Decisions, Decisions

  Chapter Eight: No Parriage in Sight

  Chapter Nine: Next

  Chapter Ten: An Onion a Day

  Chapter Eleven: This Is Not a Buffet

  Chapter Twelve: Knock, Knock

  Chapter Thirteen: My Brother the Chameleon

  Chapter Fourteen: Pickles Charming

  Chapter Fifteen: Nobody Likes Spiders

  Chapter Sixteen: The Tears

  Chapter Seventeen: Hello Again

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I slump into a chair at the kitchen table.

  “So what’s wrong?” my little brother, Jonah, asks.

  It’s five o’clock, and the almost setting sun streams through the windows, making me shield my eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter. When my dad picked us up from school, I told him the same thing. My best friends, Robin and Frankie, have already called twice since I got home to see how I’m feeling, but I don’t want to talk to them about it, either.

  Jonah hunts through the cupboard and takes out a bag of chips. “You sure? You look upset.”

  I am upset. Maybe I DO want to talk about it? I swallow the lump in my throat. “I didn’t win the class spelling bee,” I finally admit.

  You might be wondering: Abby, why are you so upset you didn’t win the spelling bee? Did you expect to win the spelling bee?

  My answer: Yes! I did expect to win the spelling bee! I ALWAYS win the spelling bee.

  Case in point:

  In third grade I won the spelling bee.

  In fourth grade I won the spelling bee.

  But what happened in fifth grade? Did I win the spelling bee?

  NO. I did not.

  In fifth grade, today, I LOST THE SPELLING BEE.

  “Did you come in second?” Jonah asks. He takes a bottle of ketchup out of the fridge, sits down in the seat across from me, and squirts the ketchup directly onto a chip.

  “No.”

  “Did you come in third?”

  “No,” I snap.

  He scrunches his eyebrows. “Fourth?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “Fifth?”

  I explode. “Ninth! Okay? I came in ninth!”

  Jonah’s eyes widen. A ketchup-soaked chip falls out of his hand onto the table.

  “I know!” I cry. “I’m just as shocked as you are!”

  I can’t stop the scene at school from replaying in my head. It was my turn again. I was standing confidently among the remaining eight students at the front of the room. I gave the kids who’d already been eliminated my most compassionate smile. I waited for Ms. Masserman to tell me my word….

  “Maybe you’re just not a good speller,” Jonah says, interrupting my playback. He pops another chip into his mouth.

  “I am, too, a good speller!” I say, my face flushing.

  “Maybe you used to be a good speller compared to the kids in your old class,” Jonah explains. “But you’re not a good speller compared to the kids in your new class. Or maybe the words just got harder.”

  I nod twice. “They did get harder.”

  “What word did you mess up?” he asks.

  My chest tightens. “Cinnamon.”

  Suddenly, I’m right back there in the classroom, remembering how it felt to have everyone’s eyes on me.

  “C-I-N-A-M-M-I-N,” I’d spelled out with assurance. I waited for my teacher’s smile. Or maybe a thumbs-up. Or perhaps applause?

  “I’m sorry, Abby,” Ms. Masserman said, pinching her lips as if she’d just tasted something sour. Like vinegar. Definitely not cinnamon. “That’s incorrect.”

  Huh? What?

  “The correct spelling for cinnamon is C-I-N-N-A-M-O-N,” she said. “Abby, you’re out. Penny, your turn again.”

  My body froze. My neck. My back. My feet. “But …” My voice trailed off.

  “Yes?” Ms. Masserman asked.

  “Can I try again?” I whispered.

  “Sorry, Abby. One strike per student.”

  My throat closed up. Tears pricked my eyes. I would not cry in school. I WOULD. NOT. CRY. IN. SCHOOL.

  I cried in school.

  It was horrible.

  I asked to go to the restroom as the tears dripped down my cheeks.

  “Crybaby,” Penny muttered as I left.

  A few of the kids laughed. Not Robin and Frankie, obviously. I heard Robin ask if she could be excused, too, but Ms. Masserman said no.

  After ten minutes of sulking in the bathroom, I pulled myself together and returned to class. I avoided all eye contact.

  Now, sitting in the kitchen with Jonah, I shudder with embarrassment at the memory.

  I put my head on the kitchen table and groan.

  “Did everyone get such hard words?” Jonah asks.

  “Well, Frankie got “quandary,” which I can totally spell even though it’s hard. I know I’m the best speller in the class.”

  Jonah rolls his eyes. “Okay, Miss Conceited.”

  I cringe. I’ll admit that sounded a little obnoxious. “I guess what I mean is I thought I was the best speller in the class….”

  I trail off. Am I not as smart as I think I am? Maybe I’m not smart at all. But if I’m not smart … what am I?

  Ms. Masserman gave me a certificate that says THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT ABBY PARTICIPATED IN OUR CLASS SPELLING BEE. Did she think I would hang that up in my room? When my bulletin board already has two spelling bee certificates that both say CHAMPION on them? No way.

  I feel the tears behind my eyelids again, and I blink. There. That’s better. “I don’t want to talk about the stupid spelling bee anymore,” I say to Jonah. “Tell me about your day.”

  My brother grins. “I had a great day.”

  “Oh yeah? What happened to make it so great?” I snag one of his potato chips and pop it into my mouth.

  “Two things. One, I got new cleats.”

  “Huh?”

  “Dad got me new cleats for soccer. They’re in the living room. They are really cool.”

  Hmm. “You get new soccer shoes and I get ninth place in a spelling bee?”

  He nods.

  “Wanna trade?” I half smile.

  He munches another chip. “You don’t play soccer. And I don’t know how to spell ‘cinnamon’ or ‘quandary,’ either. I don’t even know what a quandary is. Is it a place to put ducks?”

  “It means a sticky situation,” I say. “What’s the second great thing?”

  “I learned an awesome new song. Wanna hear?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  He clears his throat: “I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves, everybody’s nerves, everybody’s nerves. I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves, and this is how it goes: I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves, everybody’s nerves, everybody’s nerves —”

  “All right, that’s enough,” I say.

  “I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves, everybody’s nerves, everybody’s nerves —”

  “I’m going to do my homework,” I say, standing up. “This isn’t helping my mood.” It feels like there’s something pointy pushing down on my chest. Soccer cleats, maybe.

  I drag my feet all the way up the stairs to my bedroom. I can hear my dad on the phone down in the basement. My mom is still at her office. They’re both law
yers and they work a lot.

  Even when I close my bedroom door, I can still hear Jonah singing.

  Our new puppy, Prince, is playing with an old tennis ball on my carpet. He jumps up when he sees me. He nuzzles his little, dark brown nose against my foot. Then he rubs his light brown cheek against my other foot and looks up at me with his big, chocolate eyes.

  “Hi, cutie,” I say, crouching down and scratching behind his floppy ears. “You still love me even though I can’t spell, right?”

  Instead of answering, he licks my face. Or maybe that’s his way of answering.

  Yup, Prince does still love me. And I love him. He’s sweet and bouncy and very, very smart. Last week I’m pretty sure he folded my sweater and put it away in my drawer.

  Okay, that was probably my mom. But still. We’ve only had him a few weeks and he already knows how to “sit,” “stay,” “come here,” and that he should wait until he’s outside to go to the bathroom. I trained him myself. Okay, my mom did that, too, but I definitely helped.

  Prince followed us back from the last fairy tale Jonah and I visited. We didn’t mean to take him with us, but now he’s ours. Our parents said we could keep him if his owner didn’t come forward. Of course no owner came forward. His original owner lives in a kingdom on the other side of our magic mirror.

  Did I mention that we have a magic mirror in our basement? Well, we do. If we knock on the mirror at midnight, it takes Jonah and me into fairy tales. So far, we’ve visited Snow White, Cinderella, the Little Mermaid, and Sleeping Beauty. We go through the mirror, we change the stories, and then we come home. Of course, we don’t mean to change the stories. Well, usually we don’t. But they all end up changed.

  You probably think I’m making that up. But I’m not. I’m being one hundred percent honest!

  I scoot over to the jewelry box my nana got me a few years ago. The box features all the famous fairy tale characters. Most of them used to be in normal, expected poses. You know — the Little Mermaid with her tail. Snow White with her apple. Now all the stories we’ve been to have new pictures to go with their new endings. Their new happy endings.

  I plop facedown on my bedspread. At least they’re happy.

  I hear Jonah thump his way up the stairs and into his room. He’s still singing. “… a song that gets on everybody’s nerves, everybody’s —”

  I prop myself up on one elbow. “Jonah!” I shout. “Enough already! You’ve officially gotten on my nerves! Now get off them!”

  Silence. Two seconds later, my door opens.

  Prince yips happily.

  “Don’t you knock?” I murmur, my face planted in my bedspread again.

  “Okay, grumpy-head, I know just what will cheer you up,” I hear Jonah say.

  “Is it you not singing that annoying song?”

  “No! We should go through the mirror tonight,” he chirps.

  I flip over and stare at my ceiling. “Don’t feel like it,” I grumble.

  “That’s exactly why we have to do it. You’re sad. Fairy tale land will make you un-sad. It’s fun.”

  “Sometimes it’s fun; sometimes we get into all kinds of trouble,” I argue. “Like almost drowning or being turned into mice. And anyway, I don’t want to have fun. I want to sit in my room and be miserable. I’m not going.”

  Jonah plugs his fingers into his ears. “I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you! I’ll come get you at midnight!”

  “No, Jonah —” I start, but he’s already backed out of the room.

  come on, Abby, let’s go!”

  I open my eyes. My brother is standing over me. I groan, seeing that my clock says 11:55 P.M.

  “Jonah, no!” I snap. “I told you I don’t want to go through the mirror tonight!”

  “Come on,” he says. “It’ll be an adventure!”

  My brother loves adventure. He’s the kind of kid who goes rock climbing. For fun. And not because someone is, say, chasing him up a mountain. He actually takes a rock-climbing class every weekend.

  Sometimes I love adventure, too. But not tonight. “If you want an adventure so badly, go yourself,” I say.

  “We always go together,” he says with a pout.

  True. We do always go together. Which is probably for the best. Who knows what would happen to Jonah if I weren’t there to help him? He’d probably have been eaten by a crocodile by now. Still …

  “I’m not coming,” I say.

  He puts his hands on his hips. “Fine. I’ll go by myself.”

  I snort-laugh. “You will not.”

  “Will too!” He spins on his heel and scurries toward the door.

  Yeah, whatever. He’s not really going to go without me.

  “Later,” Jonah says, and closes my door on his way out.

  He’s just calling my bluff.

  I put my head back down on my pillow and force my eyes closed.

  He wouldn’t really go by himself. Would he? My heart speeds up. What if something bad happens to him? What if he gets attacked by another crocodile? Or a witch? Or a wolf? Anything is possible in fairy tale land!

  I sit up in bed. I can’t let him go by himself — it’s my job as big sister to protect him.

  I swiftly change into jeans and an orange hoodie, grab my watch, lace up my sneakers, and throw open my door.

  Jonah is standing in the hallway just outside my room, with a huge smile. “Sucker.”

  I roll my eyes. “I should have known. I’m going back to bed.”

  “You are not!” Jonah exclaims. “You’re already dressed.”

  He has a point. Besides, it is pretty exciting to go through the mirror.

  “Shhh! All right, all right, let’s go,” I whisper. We can’t wake our parents. According to one of the fairies we met in our travels, we’re supposed to keep the whole magic mirror thing to ourselves. But keeping a magic mirror secret is harder than it looks. Last trip, we almost got busted.

  “Jonah,” I whisper, glancing down at my brother’s feet. “You’re not wearing shoes. And go put on a hoodie. What if we end up in The Snow Queen? It’s cold there!”

  “Oops,” he says. “Be right back. I’ll meet you in the basement.”

  “Don’t wake up Prince!” I order. Prince sleeps on a doggie bed in Jonah’s room.

  I sigh as I open the basement door and climb down the steps.

  I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I stop and look at the mirror. It’s attached to the wall with heavy bolts. It has a stone frame that’s engraved with small fairies with wings and wands.

  Maybe Maryrose won’t even let us in. Usually, all I have to do to get in is knock on the mirror three times. But not always. Sometimes we knock and knock and knock and Maryrose doesn’t answer. Sometimes we need to be wearing something special, like a bathing suit or flag-colored pajamas, which will help us when we’re in the story. The problem is that we never know what we need to be wearing since we never know what story we’re going to before we get there.

  Maryrose is the fairy who lives inside our mirror. At least we think she lives inside it. Maybe she just visits it when we knock on it. We’re not one hundred percent sure.

  I hear my brother clomping down the basement stairs.

  He’s SO loud. Is he TRYING to wake up our parents and get us in trouble?

  I scowl at the mirror. My reflection scowls back.

  Besides the scowl, I look just like I always do. Same curly brown hair. Same big green eyes. Same freckles. In the mirror’s surface, I watch Jonah hurry toward me. Like me, he’s wearing jeans. He picked a yellow hoodie. Mine is orange. We are very bright. Hopefully, we won’t have to do much hiding in tonight’s fairy tale. Unless we’re hiding in a fruit salad.

  “Ready?” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I lift my hand up to knock, grateful that I remembered to put on my watch. The thing about my watch is that no matter what day or time it is in the fairy tale, my watch always tells me the time at home. It is extremely helpful to know what time
it is back home so Jonah and I know how long we have until our parents wake up. We try to be home before our parents wake up, which is at seven in the morning.

  I knock. Once. Twice. Three times. The reflection doesn’t budge.

  “Can I go back to bed now?” I ask, crossing my arms.

  “Let me try,” Jonah says. He knocks once. Firmly. Loudly.

  Hissss.

  “It’s working!” Jonah cries.

  Hooray?

  He knocks the second time. A purple glow spreads across the room.

  Last knock …

  The reflection in the mirror begins to swirl.

  “Hooray!” Jonah cheers.

  I feel the familiar pull. It’s like someone is gently tugging on my hair. I shrug. “All right. I guess we’re going.”

  Suddenly, I hear: “Ruff! Ruff, ruff, ruff!”

  I spin around to see Prince leaping down the stairs toward the mirror.

  “Jonah!” I cry, bending down and trying to stop Prince from jumping into the mirror. “You woke up Prince! And you left the basement door open!”

  Jonah grimaces. “Oops. But can’t Prince come, too? He’ll help. He’ll love it.”

  “No, he can’t come,” I snap. “What if we lose him? His leash is upstairs.”

  Jonah frowns. “Oh, right.”

  “Sit, Prince, sit,” I order.

  Instead of sitting, Prince jumps up on my legs.

  “Ruff, ruff, ruff!”

  “Stay, Prince, stay! Sit, Prince, sit!”

  Prince does not sit. Prince does not stay. Prince tries to squirm around me.

  “If you stay I’ll give you a million pumpkin seeds when we get back,” I promise. Prince loves pumpkin seeds. Also peanut butter.

  The gentle pull has turned into a stronger pull. It now feels as though I’m standing in front of a vacuum cleaner set on HIGH. My sneakers grind against the floor as the mirror pulls me toward it. “Go back upstairs, Prince. Please? Stop barking!” I say. But Prince’s barks are getting louder. “Shhh! Prince! You have to be quiet! You’ll wake up Mom and Dad!” Why isn’t he listening? I swear, he used to listen to me.

  “Let’s just take him,” Jonah says. “C’mon!”

  “It’s not a good idea,” I say. “It is very irresponsible! We don’t even have his doggie poop bags!”

  “Ruff, ruff, ruff, RUFF!”