Spells & Sleeping Bags Read online

  “I'll have you know that Anthony let me choose which side of the cabin I wanted, and I chose you guys.”

  “When we were all in one bunk last year, both Penelope and Deb were our counselors,” Alison explains to me. “Frankly, Debs, I'm surprised you weren't sick of us. I thought you would have requested Koalas after last year.”

  “I could never get sick of you girls!”

  Morgan snorts. “We got sick of you.” She's sitting cross-legged on her bottom bunk, her flip-flops kicked to the floor.

  Deb parks herself next to Morgan and starts poking her arm. “Let's see the C-cups you've been e-mailing me about.”

  Morgan sticks out her chest. “Nice tits, huh?”

  Ew, she said it again!

  “Not bad.” Deb sticks out her own chest. “But not as big as mine.”

  “Debs, you're five years older. I should hope yours are bigger. Mine are going to look huge, though,” Morgan continues. “You should see the bikinis I bought. They all have ridiculous padding. Will Kosravi will have no choice but to fall in lust with me.”

  I almost choke on my tongue. They're talking about my Will!

  “Keep drooling, Morgan sweetie,” Deb says. “First of all, he's staff, and staff are not allowed to date campers. And second of all, he told me in precamp that he has a serious girlfriend back home.”

  Morgan's freckled features crumple in disappointment. “No way! Who?”

  Deb shrugs. “I don't remember her name.”

  “It's Kat,” I pipe up.

  Everyone looks at me.

  Morgan puts her hands on her hips. “How do you know?”

  “I, um, know the Kosravi boys pretty well.”

  “Do you go to school with them?” asks Poodles, not turning around from her postering.

  Oh yes. “Uh-huh.”

  I must be bright red, because Morgan asks, “Did you date Will?” at the same time that Poodles asks, “Did you date Raf?”

  Funny they should ask. “Well . . . kind of.”

  Alison looks up at me. “Which one?”

  Here comes the weird part. “Both?”

  All four of my new bunkmates' jaws drop. So does the counselor's.

  “You dated Raf and Will Kosravi?” Carly squeals.

  “Kind of.”

  Alison whistles. “You're like a legend.”

  Even Poodles is now paying full attention. “Who's a better kisser?”

  “Girls, less gossiping and more unpacking,” Deb says, now fully recovered. “Dinner's in one hour and I expect this place to be perfectly put together by then, got it? Off to the cubby room you go.”

  I step down from my bed, happy to avoid answering the question. Because unfortunately, I don't know the answer. Raf and I haven't really kissed.

  Sorry, let me rephrase. Raf and I haven't really kissed yet.

  When I realize that my bunkmates and my counselor are all vacating the bunk for the cubby room, I see my opportunity to fix my bunk bed situation. If I leave things the way they are, I will surely end up rolling off in the middle of the night and breaking my head.

  I wait a few seconds for the room to clear out, and then I hurry to the far corner of the room, where no one can see me. Unfortunately, I don't have A2. But at the prom, I made up my own spell, and that seemed to work, so . . .

  I clear my throat, close my eyes, focus my raw will, and chant under my breath:

  “Bunk bed, split in two.

  Two single beds are what I need from you!”

  The air gets sucked out of the room, and I jump up and down as the metal frame starts to quiver. It's working!

  Now the bunk bed is swaying from side to side like a rocking chair.

  Clank! Clank! Clank!

  Uh-oh.

  Suddenly, the frame cracks in two, sounding like a firework and causing the top bunk to crash into Alison's bed below it.

  See, the thing is, I was kind of imagining two perfectly formed single beds, not one bunk bed sawed in half. I was planning on telling the other girls that the bunk bed had been desperately needed in one of the other bunks, and that I had reluctantly agreed to let them have it in return for two singles. . . .

  Yeah, my plan was obviously not very well thought out.

  “What was that?” Poodles asks, rushing back into the room with Deb and Carly.

  “Omigod, my bed!” shrieks Alison from behind them. “Rachel, are you okay? You could have been killed!”

  “If this had happened when you were asleep, you both could have been killed,” Deb says, eyes wide.

  “I'm fine, I'm fine,” I tell them sheepishly.

  “I'll call the office and tell them to get a new bunk bed pronto,” Deb says. “Plus I'm making them check over every bed here to make sure they're secure. In all my years here, I have never seen that happen!”

  What can I say? She's never had a witch for a camper.

  Just one more thing I can't blame on Tigger.

  3

  THE ART OF UNPACKING

  Once everyone calms down, I explore the rest of the cabin. The cubby room is a large rectangular space filled with—you guessed it—wooden cubbies. Some of the cubbies are already stuffed with clothes, though most of them are empty. Duffel bags are piled in the center of the room.

  Omigod. You've got to be kidding me. I'm expected to change right here and prance around naked in front of all these strangers? They're going to see my deformity!

  From inside the cubby room, I can peek into bunk fifteen. Instead of two bunk beds and one single, it has three bunk beds.

  The cubby room leads to the bathroom, which I realize I very badly have to use.

  Yes, the bathroom! I can change in there, can't I?

  I squeeze through the girls and the bags and step inside. There are three stalls on my left and four sinks on my right.

  But where are the showers?

  Beyond the bathroom is a dangling white sheet. Maybe the showers are on the other side? I pull aside the sheet to take a look.

  “You can't come in here,” snaps a dark-haired older teen, who appears to be napping on one of two single beds. “It's the counselors' room!”

  The sheet drops out of my hand like a hot potato. Not that I would ever hold a hot potato. Who came up with that expression, anyway? The girl must be Penelope, the counselor for bunk fifteen. Good thing I got Deb. “Sorry,” I mutter.

  I vaguely remember Alison mentioning showers being on Upper Field. Does that mean there are no showers in the cabins?

  I retreat into one of the stalls. One of the tiny stalls. There's no way I could ever change my clothes in here. I lock the door, cover the seat with flimsy one-ply toilet paper, bang my knees against the door, and pee.

  I also read all the graffiti on the back of the door. Lynda D. seems to still really love Jon C.

  Once done and out of the stall, I smile at myself in the mirror, pump some of the communal soap into my palms, wash my hands, then dry them on someone else's black towel and look around. I think I'm finally getting my bearings. The cabin is shaped like the letter T. First you have the two sleeping rooms, which both lead into the cubby room, which leads into the bathroom, which leads into the counselors' room.

  No problemo. Now back to the cubby room . . .

  Or shall I say, the disaster zone.

  There are bags, clothes, and girls everywhere. I try to tune out the loud chattering (“My butt got so much wider over the year!” “You have to see my adorable running shoes.” “Did you get your belly pierced?”) while I locate my two bags. Of course, I find one of them under a pile of others and practically break my arm yanking it out.

  I don't understand how I'm expected to keep this cubby organized. Honestly. How am I supposed to cram

  8 T-shirts

  3 pairs of shorts

  2 pairs of jeans

  2 pairs of sweatpants

  1 pair of black pants (dry-clean only, so they'd better not get dirty)

  2 long-sleeved shirts

  2 swea
tshirts

  12 pairs of socks

  12 pairs of underwear

  8 bras

  3 bathing suits

  1 jean jacket

  1 pair of sneakers

  1 pair of flip-flops

  1 pair of cute strappy black sandals

  9 towels (3 hand, 4 beach, 2 shower)

  1 alternate pillowcase

  2 alternate twin-size sheets (1 flat & 1 fitted, both boring and white)

  2 laundry bags

  1 invisibility shield, aka enchanted umbrella (Let me tell you, it was no easy feat sneaking this past my mother's snooping eyes to pack. Though it's a good thing it becomes invisible only when cloaking someone. Otherwise, how would I ever find it?)

  1 bathrobe

  into a space the size of my school locker? What I need is some sort of organizing spell. While waiting for the room to clear, I brainstorm, trying to come up with rhymes. Not that spells have to rhyme, but all the coolest spells in A2 are in verse, and I'm not about to take a chance with my wardrobe. Now, what should I try? I want to zap my clothes into being folded neatly. The way they look on a store shelf. What rhymes with zap?

  Wrap? Tap? Map?

  I got it! I open my bag and shove all my stuff into the cubby; then, when the room has pretty much emptied out, I stand right in front of my cubby (blocking any potential snoops), close my eyes, focus, ram my hands inside the cubby, wiggle my fingers, and say:

  “With this zap,

  Let my clothes look like they do at the Gap!”

  Here comes the rush of cold air . . . and presto!

  I step back and study my creation. Omigod! My clothes are folded into flawless squares and, oh yes, color-coordinated, too. From light to dark, like a rainbow.

  Yes!

  I unfold a flattened shirt. It's a pale green and white striped short-sleeved V-neck top. That doesn't belong to me. That doesn't have my Rachel Weinstein camp label.

  Instead, a price tag is dangling from its neck.

  Um . . . did I poof up new clothes?

  I look at my now empty duffel bag with longing. Where art thou, oh, favorite jeans? What am I going to do? Are they all gone forever? Even my cute new bikini?

  Although . . . maybe these clothes are even better! Designer clothes! I shake out the shirt with excitement.

  A glance at the label tells me that the shirt is a women's large. I hunt through the clothes, looking for a piece of clothing that might fit.

  Oh good, here's something smaller. Much smaller. It's a size 1 girls' jean dress with a lace trim.

  A toddler size 1.

  I said Gap, not BabyGap, didn't I?

  I frantically search through my cubby, looking for something—anything—I can wear. A linen maternity skirt? No. Boys' cargo pants? Also no. Men's black and white checkered boxer shorts?

  Definitely not.

  I wish I had my old stuff back. But since the world of magic tends to like exchanges, my real clothes are probably heaped in a big mess on a shelf at a suburban shopping mall.

  I'm making my new bed (a brand-new top of a brand-new bunk bed—oh joy) when a voice comes from the sky. “Attenthion all camperth and counthlorth. Attenthion all camperth and counthlorth. Pleathe head to the meth hall for thupper.”

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “It's Stef,” Alison says.

  “Or Thtef,” Morgan says.

  “Don't be mean,” Alison says. “It's not her fault she has a lisp.”

  “You mean lithp?” Morgan says.

  “Stef is the head counselor's sister,” Alison explains. “She's been running the office and doing the announcements for years.”

  I look down at my new Gap jeans (with rolled-up cuffs, because they are two sizes too long) and my too-tight scooped-neck shirt. The girls are giving me weird looks, but there's nothing I can do until I can get Miri to swing by with a spell reversal—which she hopefully can . . . if she brought the enchanted crystal to camp. I was kind of wanting to look my most gorgeous for my first Raf sighting, but this is the best I can do.

  Changing in front of all the other girls was completely humiliating. They all threw their clothes off like they were starring in some kind of camp porn movie. I kept my eyes on the dusty floor and changed quickly and furiously.

  “Let's bust a move, girls!” Deb hollers while stomping and clomping through our bunk.

  I follow my bunkmates onto the porch and down the tree-lined gravel road to the mess hall. Along the way, we pass a few green cabins on our right and the waterfront on our left. Even when it's calm, the lake scares me. As do the tied-up sailboats. At some point I'll probably have to mention my nautical inexperience to Deb. But one issue at a time. First I have to make my way to the mess hall.

  The chaotic, earsplitting, overwhelming mess hall.

  Our bunk's table is all the way in the rear, by the back window. The kitchen is near the entrance. “Why are we so far from the food?” I ask.

  “All the Lions sit back here,” Alison answers.

  The wooden walls are decorated with hand-painted plaques that make me wish I had been coming to camp forever. Army versus Navy, Color War 1975. Empire versus Rebels, Color War 1989. '50s versus '60s, 2001. I've heard that color war is like mock Olympics, but I've never done one before. Fun!

  Any minute, I realize, I'm going to see Raf. I take a deep breath and try not to obsess.

  When I get to our table, which is right next to bunk fifteen's, I scoot onto the bench up against the window so that I can keep my eye out for He Who Should Not Be Obsessed Over. On the table are a pile of cutlery, a pile of paper plates, a stack of Styrofoam cups, two yellow pitchers filled with some sort of purple liquid, a basket of sliced French bread, and a basket of mini peanut butter and jelly packets.

  “Want some bug juice?” Carly asks from across the table.

  I assume that's the purple drink in the plastic pitcher and not some sort of disgusting smoothie. “Sure, thanks.”

  My stomach grumbles, so I nab a piece of bread. I'm wondering where the food is when I spot Deb in the long line of counselors going into the kitchen. When she finally returns, she places two large plastic bowls of food in the center of the table, one filled with steaming mac and cheese, the other filled with salad. Alison and Poodles leap up to make themselves a plate.

  And that's when I see him. Raf. My breath gets lost somewhere between my lips and my lungs. I think I might have swallowed it. He's still dark and handsome and lean and handsome and did I say handsome? His dark hair seems so soft and touchable. He looks the same as he always does, but he's the summer version in a thin white T-shirt, which shows off his lean muscled arms, and khaki shorts and navy flip-flops, which show off his lean muscled legs.

  He's standing in the doorframe, talking to a scruffy-looking blond guy near our age while looking around the room.

  Is he looking for me? He might be looking for me. Please say he broke up with Melissa because he likes me. It must be me. It must. Please say he's looking for me. Maybe I should wave.

  Nah, I don't want to be too obvious. But I want him to see me. But I don't want him to think I was looking for him. But I want him to think I'm glad to see him. But not too glad.

  Don't obsess, don't obsess, don't obsess. . . .

  Contact! Yes! Our eyes have made contact! He sees me! By George, he's smiling! He's walking over to me! I start to stand up.

  “Freeze!” screams Deb.

  Huh? I look around our table to discover that my four bunkmates are frozen in place. Yes, frozen. As though they're on a TV show and someone has just pressed Pause on my TiVo. Carly is in mid-peanut-butter-and-jelly bite. Alison is standing in mid-mac-and-cheese scoop.

  I must look confused, because Deb orders, “Rachel, freeze!”

  Am I under arrest? I freeze just in case. Since I was in the middle of standing up to greet Raf, this isn't easy. Raf, meanwhile, laughs when he sees me, and mouths, I'll talk to you later.

  No, no, no. Talk to me now! I was so close!
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  “When a counselor calls ‘freeze,’ you have to freeze,” Deb explains. “First person who moves has to stack.”

  I don't know what stack is, but since my four bunkmates are remaining in their frozen state, I'm assuming it's something I don't want to be doing. So I stay frozen.

  Unfortunately, staying frozen is becoming increasingly painful. It feels like I'm in the middle of one of those squats they force us to do in gym.

  Poodles was about to pour herself a glass of juice, and now her hand is shaking from holding up the pitcher. Carly is still in mid-peanut-butter-and-jelly bite. Deb stands up and balances a paper plate on Poodles' head.

  My butt is majorly hurting. Need to sit down. Is this over yet? When is someone going to move?

  Deb then opens one of the strawberry jellies, dips her finger inside, and dabs it on Morgan's nose.

  Morgan cracks up.

  “You stack!” Deb tells her, howling with laughter.

  The girls resume their activity. I rest my butt back on the bench (ahhhhhhh) and ask, “What is stack, exactly?”

  “Cleaning the table,” Alison says, returning to her mac and cheese. “Counselors call ‘freeze’ at every meal. Whoever moves first, stacks. Or they call ‘pig.’ That's when they go like this”—she puts her index finger on the side of her nose—“and the last person to do it stacks.”

  It's like moving to a new country and having to learn all the customs.

  After filling my plate with salad and mac and cheese, I look at Raf's table (three over from mine). Should I go say hi now? Probably not, since he's currently wolfing down his food. Now what? Do I wait for him to talk to me? Do I go over in front of everyone? I don't want to interrupt. What if he just stares at me like I'm crazy? What if he doesn't think we're going to be a couple? What if we spend the entire summer playing the camp equivalent of phone tag and I never talk to him again?

  I try to control myself and not stare. I don't want all his bunkmates wondering who Crazy Stalking New Girl is.

  Don't obsess, don't obsess, don't obsess. . . .

  “Ketchup?” Alison asks me, interrupting my panic.

  “No, thanks.” Miri puts ketchup on her mac and cheese. I do not, as that is disgusting.