Addie Bell's Shortcut to Growing Up Read online

  “Maybe we could work on our English project,” Grace suggests. We’ve been studying retellings in English class. That’s when someone takes an old, outdated story and transforms it into something new and shiny that people can relate to again. The assignment is to retell any story in any format we want. As soon as Ms. Mailer said we could work in pairs, Grace and I immediately reached for each other’s hands.

  “But it’s my birthday,” I point out. “Why would I want to do homework on my birthday?” I can tell from Grace’s slightly injured reaction that I was a little too bratty when I said that, but I’m sorry. All her suggestions so far have been really lame.

  “I thought that sounded like fun,” Grace defends. “Maybe we can make a movie and our movie studio could be called Graddie Productions!”

  I shrug. “What story would we retell?”

  Grace’s eyes light up with an idea. “Ooh! How about doing a modern-day retelling of a fairy tale!”

  I immediately perk up at the suggestion. Grace always has the best ideas for school projects. But then, a second later, just as I’m making a mental list of my favorite stories, I think about what would happen if we showed up to school with a fairy-tale movie. We’d get laughed at for sure. Clementine Dumont would never do anything so immature.

  I quickly change my smile to a grimace. “A fairy tale? Seriously?”

  “What?” Grace asks, sounding offended. “What’s wrong with fairy tales?”

  “For starters, we’re not seven.”

  She crosses her arms. “Fine. What story do you want to retell?”

  I think about the conversation I overheard in the locker room today between Clementine and her friend. They were talking about some new romantic movie that’s out in the theaters.

  What’s the most romantic story ever?

  My eyes open wide. “Romeo and Juliet! We could retell it in modern times with a music video! It would be so awesome.”

  Grace’s expression looks like she just drank sour milk. “No.”

  “Well, it’s better than doing Snow White,” I mutter.

  “I never said it had to be Snow White. It could be something cool like Rapunzel.”

  I shake my head adamantly. “No.”

  “Okay,” Grace mumbles, tugging at her earlobe. It’s what she does when she’s nervous or uncomfortable. “Let’s just forget about the school project for now.”

  “I know something we could do tonight,” I say, jumping up to my knees.

  “What?”

  “Rory is getting ready for a school dance right now. When she leaves, let’s break into her room and try on all her makeup!”

  Grace giggles but rejects the idea quickly. “No way. If she finds out, you’ll be dead. And I kind of like having you around.”

  I laugh, too. “Okay, well, when Henry comes to pick her up, let’s sneak into the back of his car and spy on them at the dance!”

  The light in my best friend’s eyes goes off like someone hit a switch. “Why?” she asks, and I don’t miss the subtle hints of repulsion in her voice.

  “Because it would be fun,” I snap, causing Grace to flinch. I sort of feel bad for getting so defensive but to be honest, I’m kind of frustrated with her. Would it kill her to grow up a little bit and try some new things?

  “But what if we get caught?” she asks.

  “So what?”

  “So, that doesn’t sound fun at all.”

  “Aren’t you curious what a high school dance is like?”

  Grace fidgets with the edge of her pillowcase. “I guess. Maybe a little. But we’ll find out eventually, right? You know, when we’re in high school.”

  “But I want to know now.”

  Grace bites her lip in response.

  “Well, it sure beats making friendship bracelets,” I sneer.

  She looks shocked. “I thought you liked making friendship bracelets.”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “Maybe when I was like nine.”

  “What are you saying?” she asks, and now I hear the defensiveness in her own voice.

  I pick at some dried green paint on the wall. It’s from two years ago, when Grace and I tried (and failed) to paint a jungle mural. “Nothing. I’m just getting tired of doing all this immature kids stuff.”

  “So you think I’m immature?”

  I just shrug, but apparently that’s enough for Grace to get really mad.

  She leaps to her feet. “What’s going on with you?”

  I blink in surprise. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you! You used to be fun. You used to want to do fun things.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I guess I’m just growing up faster than you.”

  Grace’s fists clench at her sides. I can see her face starting to turn red like it does when she gets really upset. “If growing up means becoming totally boring, then I think I’ll stay the way I am!”

  I snort. “If I’m so boring, then why are you even here?”

  I feel kind of bad about that last part. Grace looks like she’s about to cry.

  “I don’t know!” she screams, and then begins hastily rolling up her sleeping bag.

  I expect her to stomp out right then. She certainly looks ready to stomp out. But instead, she just stands there, staring at me. I think she’s waiting for me to stop her. Maybe she’s waiting for an apology.

  Guilt suddenly punches me in the stomach. I shouldn’t have said those things. But I’m still all riled up from everything that’s happened today. I open my mouth to tell Grace I’m sorry and that I didn’t mean what I said, but apparently I’m taking too long, because she says, “Since you’re so grown-up and mature, then maybe you should celebrate your birthday all by yourself!” And then she really does stomp out.

  She slams the door so hard behind her, the little chalkboard falls out of the windowsill and lands with a thud by my feet.

  Grace’s mom came to pick her up an hour ago. I watched her drive away from my bedroom window, trying to convince myself that it didn’t bother me. That I didn’t need Grace to have a fun birthday. But I’ve never been very good at convincing myself of things that aren’t true.

  So I lie in bed and continue to feel guilty instead.

  I toss and turn, trying to fall asleep, but it’s no use. I can’t get comfortable. I left my sleeping bag and my good pillow in the Hideaway because I didn’t want to wake up my parents by dragging them through the house. When Mom finds out that Grace left early because of something I did, there are going to be lectures. I’m going to have to listen to Mom drone on about the right way to treat guests and the wrong way to be a friend.

  After another hour of feeling wretched and being unable to sleep, I decide to call Grace. I get up and tiptoe into the hallway to grab the phone from the charger and carry it back to my room.

  Grace’s mom won’t let her have a cell phone until high school either. It was some kind of pact our mothers made a few years ago, thinking it would be easier on both of us if neither of us had one. For some reason, Grace doesn’t seem to mind all that much, while I, on the other hand, pretty much consider it child abuse.

  I start to dial Grace’s home phone number, but halfway through the digits, I catch sight of the time on my alarm clock.

  It’s after midnight.

  I don’t think Mrs. Harrington would be too thrilled about getting a call at this hour.

  I quickly hang up and toss the phone onto my bed.

  If only our parents would let us have cell phones, I could text her right now and tell her how sorry I am.

  If only we were sixteen, this wouldn’t be a problem.

  Then again, if we were sixteen, I wouldn’t actually need to apologize because Grace and I wouldn’t have been fighting in the first place. Everything would be perfect. I’d be able to wear the clothes and makeup I want to wear; the boys in my class wouldn’t be such immature, smelly dorks; hostesses at restaurants wouldn’t give me children’s menus; I wouldn’t be a flat-chested shrimp; and I’d have my driver’s l
icense and an awesome life. I’d have no reason to be mad about anything!

  This whole day just stinks.

  I collapse back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. When I was seven and obsessed with princesses, my dad hired a guy from his construction crew to paint a giant fairy-tale castle on my ceiling, complete with fluffy white clouds and a sparkling crescent moon. In fact, my whole room is decorated with princess stuff, down to my glittery pink walls, pink chiffon curtains, and matching ruffled comforter. I remember how much I used to love this room. How excited I was to show all the girls at school. Now it makes me want to cry.

  As I lie here, stewing in my bad mood, I think about everything that’s happened today and everything that’s gone wrong. My obnoxious starfish dress and Grace’s slime-covered sweater. Jacob Tucker and his exploding grape soda. JoJo’s Pizza and their stupid kids’ menu. Fighting with Grace. So far, turning twelve has been such an incredible letdown. I think about the next four years and how agonizingly slowly time goes.

  And then, to my surprise, somewhere in the darkness, I hear a distant voice.

  Like a ghost whispering through the walls.

  “It grants wishes.”

  I sit up and flip the switch on my bedside lamp. The room comes into focus. There’s no one there. Yet I still can’t bring myself to shut off the light.

  “It grants wishes.”

  Mrs. Toodles?

  My gaze sweeps to the corner of the room, as if something is actually pulling my eyes in that direction. Something that’s making my heart race with anxiety. Curiously, I stand up, creep over to the white dresser with the silver knobs, and kneel down in front of the bottom drawer. I ease it open and pull out the jewelry box.

  La Boîte aux Rêves Cachés.

  I carry the box to my desk and set it down, studying it from all sides. Then, ever so carefully, I lift the lid. That strange, eerie voice I heard at Mrs. Toodles’s house is back. It sounds like a woman singing. But very far away.

  I run my fingertip along the cracked velvet lining. The inside smells musty and kind of fruity, just like everything in Mrs. Toodles’s house. It immediately makes me smile.

  “All you have to do is write your birthday wish on a piece of paper and lock it inside with the key. The Box of Hidden Dreams will do the rest.”

  I bite my lip, feeling my hands tingle in anticipation.

  It doesn’t really work, I tell myself repeatedly. Jewelry boxes don’t grant wishes. Magic isn’t real.

  I hastily close the lid and hurry back to my bed. I scramble under the covers and switch off the light, feeling the box watching me in the darkness.

  Then a peculiar thought comes to me.

  If it’s not real, then it doesn’t hurt to try.

  It’s this very thought that eventually motivates me to flip the light on again, creep back to my desk, tear a piece of paper from my notebook, scrawl out a message, and slip it inside the box. Then I close the lid and turn the key in the lock.

  As soon as I’m done, I feel the tightness in my chest ease, like someone has loosened a firm grasp on my heart.

  I breathe out a heavy sigh and pad back to my bed, yawning as I curl up under the covers. Just as I’m about to fall asleep, I remember something else Mrs. Toodles said.

  “Whatever you choose to wish for, be sure to hide the key in the safest place you can think of. If you lose it, your wish will be locked inside the box forever.”

  I peel open my eyes and glance at the jewelry box sitting on my desk. I can see the brass key with the starburst top still poking out of the lock. I should probably get up and hide it somewhere safe, like Mrs. Toodles said, but my eyes are growing heavy and I’m too tired to move.

  I’ll find a safe place for it tomorrow.

  Then, surprisingly, I fall asleep fast.

  The very last thought in my mind, as I drift into dreams, is the memory of my own handwriting scribbled on the piece of paper that’s now locked safely in Mrs. Toodles’s jewelry box.

  I wish I was sixteen.

  I dream I’m being attacked by a giant slippery eel. It slithers under my chin, leaving behind a trail of wet sludge. I bat at it with my hands until it finally squirms away. But when I wake up to the sound of my mother’s voice yelling at me from downstairs, it’s like I can still feel the slimy residue on my skin.

  Shivering, I rub at my neck. My fingertips come back damp.

  That’s freaky.

  “Adeline!” my mother calls. “Are you up yet?”

  Adeline?

  My mother never calls me Adeline. Does this have something to do with our conversation outside JoJo’s Pizza last night? Is she taking pity on me because I complained that the nickname Addie was babyish? Or am I in trouble?

  Uh-oh.

  She must have talked to Grace’s mother. She must know what happened last night. I’m about to get the lecture of the century. That does not motivate me to get out of bed. I close my eyes and roll onto my other side to try to go back to sleep, but my face smashes against something hard and…furry?

  I blink open my eyes. I can’t see anything, though, because there’s a wall of golden-yellow hair in my face. I blow out a breath and the hair moves. Then the whole wall starts to move. It stands up and hovers over me, wiggling its entire body in some kind of excited shimmy.

  Is that a…?

  “And don’t let Buttercup on the bed!” Mom calls from outside my door. “You know she’s not allowed on the furniture!”

  “Buttercup,” I repeat curiously.

  The furry creature lets out a yelp of excitement.

  It is! It’s a dog! My parents finally got me a dog! This must have been my big birthday surprise! Well, they sure did an awesome job keeping it a secret. Waiting until the day after my birthday to give it to me. Mom even pretended to get all flustered when I brought it up yesterday. That was a nice touch.

  I squeal and leap up to pet the dog. She seems to feed off my energy and starts bouncing around on the bed. “Aren’t you the cutest thing ever?” I coo in an obnoxious baby voice. “Well, hello there! Hello! Yes, you’re so cute! Yes, you are!”

  A giant tongue protrudes and licks my face. I giggle.

  I have to go downstairs and thank Mom and Dad. Eagerly, I jump out of bed and run toward the hallway, smashing right into my dresser.

  OUCH!

  What is that doing there?

  My dresser is supposed to be in the corner. And that doesn’t even look like my dresser. It’s black. Mine is white. I slowly glance around the room, wondering if I’m still stuck in that creepy eel dream, because this is definitely not my bedroom. This is way too cool to be my bedroom.

  The walls are painted a dark fuchsia pink. The dresser, nightstand, and desk are all a slick, shiny black. The bedspread is a stylish white-and-black floral design with fuchsia throw pillows. The lamps have a cool silver base with a white-and-black striped shade. And the walls are covered with framed black-and-white photographs of beautiful women I don’t even know.

  Where am I?

  I look at the door to the hallway. At least that seems to be in the right place. And that was definitely my mom’s voice yelling at me.

  The dog yelps and paws at the closed door, wanting to be let out. I take a hesitant step toward her, but freeze when I catch sight of something else strange about the dresser. It has a mirror.

  Or rather, it has what looks like a mirror. But obviously it can’t be a mirror because that’s not my reflection in it. I stare openmouthed and wide-eyed at the glass. The stranger stares openmouthed and wide-eyed back at me. I reach up to touch my chin. The stranger reaches up to touch her chin.

  I shriek and leap back.

  The stranger does the same.

  But…

  How…?

  What…?

  That can’t be me! That girl is tall and lean and has beautiful long, silky, straight hair. I mean, she does kind of look like me. Her eyes are the same color and her chin is the same shape, but her face is thinner, her nose
is smaller, and she has only a faint sprinkling of freckles. I take a wary step back toward the dresser, pulling at my cheeks and hair and watching in bewilderment as the girl in the mirror does the same.

  I tear my gaze away from the alien reflection and brave a glance down at my body, letting out another shriek.

  I have boobs!

  I mean, they’re not like comically huge or anything but they’re…there. Boobs where there were no boobs before.

  With shaky hands, I reach toward my chest and grab on to them.

  Whoa. They’re real! And they feel so weird.

  Of course, just as I’m standing there, holding the mystery boobs, is when my mother decides to barge into the room without knocking.

  “Adeline. Oh, good. You’re up. It’s a miracle.”

  I drop my boobs and make a weird gesture with my hands, like I was just dusting invisible crumbs off my nightshirt.

  The dog takes advantage of the open door and bolts into the hallway.

  I have a million questions buzzing through my head right now—Where did the dog come from? Where did all my furniture go? Why do I suddenly have breasts?—but the one that comes bumbling out of my mouth at that very instant is “Why are you calling me Adeline?”

  Mom gives me a funny look. “Because you told us to.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes.” She sighs and sticks an earring into her left ear. “How could I possibly forget the Great Name Change Charter you made us all sign?”

  Great Name Change Charter?

  What’s a charter?

  I’m about to ask this very question when Mom says, “You better hurry up. I’m not writing you another note.”

  “Hurry up for what?”

  Mom looks like I’ve just told the worst joke in the world. “For school.”

  School?

  But it’s Saturday.

  Isn’t it?

  Yesterday was my birthday and that was definitely Friday because my mom drove the carpool. And that means today is my birthday party, which, according to all the invitations we sent out, is on Saturday.

  “Why do I have to go to school today?” I ask, confused.