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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2015 by Toni Gallagher

  Cover art copyright © 2015 by Helen Huang

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhousekids.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gallagher, Toni.

  Twist my charm / Toni Gallagher.—First edition.

  p. cm.—(Twist my charm)

  Summary: Eleven-year-old Cleo is having trouble fitting in at her private school in Los Angeles, but when she and her friend Sam try to improve things using the voodoo doll her uncle Arnie sent, there are unexpected results.

  ISBN 978-0-553-51115-4 (trade)—ISBN 978-0-553-51116-1 (lib. bdg.)—ISBN 978-0-553-51117-8 (ebook)

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Vodou—Fiction. 3. Middle schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Single-parent families—Fiction. 6. Theater—Fiction. 7. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.G355Twi 2015 [Fic]—dc23 2014022807

  eBook ISBN 9780553511178

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To Con and Taps.

  You knew I could do it…I think.

  A masterpiece! That’s what this drawing is going to be. It’s an intergalactic panda shooting rainbows out of his butt, and one day people will look at it in an art gallery and talk in whispers about how the artist, Cleo Margaret Nelson, was only eleven years old at the time, but had the talent of somebody really rich and famous.

  All the picture needs is a little more yellow to fill in the stars and maybe some blue for Pandaroo’s eyes, and then my masterpiece will be complete. Pandaroo is just one of the characters I’ve created as an aspiring animator, and one day I want them all to be in cartoons on TV and big-time movies, not just on pieces of paper.

  I search in my desk and find some colored pencils poking out between the homework papers, candy wrappers, and other junk. That’s when I hear someone say my name from the front of the classroom.

  It’s Kevin, my teacher. “Cleo, didn’t you bring a snack for break?”

  This is bad for a couple of reasons.

  First of all, I have a teacher named Kevin. That’s just weird. Back in Ohio, teachers were named Mr. Nagurny or Mrs. Stem, like normal adults with last names, not Kevin or Janet or Roberta, like they’re your friends. But I’ve lived in Los Angeles for three months now, and like they say here, whatever!

  Second of all, this school’s snack break is only fifteen minutes long and you’re supposed to bring something “delicious and nutritious” to eat while you sit at your desk doing tasks that are “enriching to your life and spirit,” whatever that means.

  On top of all that, no, I do not have a snack for snack break. But I don’t want Kevin bringing attention to it in front of everybody. Especially Madison Paddington.

  Madison Paddington—Maddy Paddy to her friends—is eleven like me, but she’s a Los Angeles eleven, which is more like fourteen anywhere else in the world. Her hair is like golden sunlight on a wheat field in a painting you’d see in a museum. Her jeans probably cost three hundred dollars. And her teeth are totally straight and shiny; she’ll never need braces.

  Then there’s me. I’ve got a gap between my front teeth, and Dad says I’m going to need dental work “out the wazoo.”

  “It’s okay,” I say to Kevin. “My dad forgot to pack my snack.” And I forgot to check, but I don’t tell him that.

  “Her dad packs her lunch?” Madison whispers to her friends Kylie Mae and Lisa Lee. “What a baby.”

  Kevin doesn’t hear her, though, because he’s busy asking loudly, “Kids, does anyone have a snack they can share with Cleo?” His question makes everyone look at me, which is the last thing I want—ever!

  “I’m not hungry,” I say quietly, but it’s too late. Someone’s hand has shot up in the air.

  It’s Scabby Larry, the kid nobody likes. He’s so excited, it’s like someone asked him if he wanted peanut M&M’s and a free unicorn ride, not to share his snack. “I’ve got carrot sticks! Come on over,” he says, holding up his plastic baggie and smiling way too big.

  “I’m really not hungry.” I look at Kevin and hope he’ll just let me sit at my desk and enrich my life and spirit without a delicious, nutritious snack.

  “Part of the experience here at Friendship Community School, Cleo, is about sharing and companionship. Enjoy some of Larry’s carrots.” So I have no choice.

  The room is completely quiet as I stand up from my desk. My chair screeches against the ground, sounding like an injured coyote. It feels like it takes forever to walk across the room. No matter how many steps I take, Scabby Larry’s desk looks farther and farther away. Why did he have to be the one who raised his hand?

  I bet everybody is staring at my non-name-brand sneakers and my pants that are too high above my ankles now that I’ve had a growth spurt. I thought my clothes were fine before we moved to LA, but now I think about what’s wrong with them all the time.

  Then I make the world’s biggest mistake.

  I take the whole bag from Scabby Larry’s hand.

  “Oh, I meant take some,” he says, pulling back the baggie and handing me a few carrots.

  The laughs in the room are like Fourth of July fireworks—one or two quiet ones at first, followed by a big explosion. Madison giggles and says, “They must eat like piggies in Ohio.” Then her friends make some piglike grunts. But they’re quiet enough that Kevin doesn’t hear them.

  I go back to my desk and sit. I can tell everyone is watching me eat this handful of carrot sticks that rightfully belongs inside Scabby Larry’s stomach. And even though I know I shouldn’t, I look over at Madison. She pretends like she’s eating carrots in a big exaggerated way, licking her perfectly puffy lips with their glittery pink gloss. Then she puts her pinkie out, all dainty and casual, and pushes her nose up like a pig’s.

  I hate her.

  Okay, Dad doesn’t like it when I use the word hate, so I’m supposed to say I really don’t like Madison. Neither does Samantha, who is looking at me with a sad frowny face.

  Samantha is one of my friends at my new school. To be honest, she’s my only friend, but I hate—I mean, don’t like—sayi
ng it that way because it makes me sound seriously lame. Samantha has known Madison and the others all her life, but she’s nothing like them. The funny thing is, she’s nothing like me either. I’m too tall and too skinny and my hair is a muddy yellow tangled mess. Sam is shorter and built like a pug (a cute one) with a mop of frizzy black hair. If we got into a fight, I bet she could steamroll me with her puggy body and I’d only have a pair of bony elbows to defend myself with.

  Luckily we don’t fight, though, because we’re best friends.

  I keep eating the carrots. Every time I swallow it feels like sharp edges are scraping my throat. Usually I like carrots just fine but today they taste like dog poop rolled in sawdust and painted orange. Across the room, Scabby Larry is grinning like he did me a big favor.

  Kevin finally tells us to put our snacks away because it’s time for science. Some of the kids groan, but I don’t. I like science most of the time. You get to pour things into beakers and see if they explode and you get to learn about animals—I heard that next year we get to poke around the insides of a frog! Girls like Madison Paddington think that stuff is gross, but I love it.

  Sam loves it too. She’s super smart and fun and likes almost all the same stuff I do. We became friends my first week of school when I saw her sitting by herself in the lunchroom writing a book about the skunk population of California. I told her I’d draw pictures for it if anyone ever buys it to put in bookstores or on the Internet.

  “Today I want to talk about a project that you’ll all find really fun,” Kevin says. There are more groans in the room because when teachers think things are fun, they almost never are. “In two weeks everyone is going to do a presentation. It’s going to count as one-quarter of your grade. Who knows how much one-quarter is?”

  I know, but I’m not going to say because it’s not math class and I don’t need to bring any more attention to myself. Sam knows too, for sure, but she doesn’t say anything either.

  “Twenty-five percent!” shouts Scabby Larry. Of course he’d say it.

  “Thank you, Larry,” says Kevin. “Yes, twenty-five percent of your grade. Now, before I hear any complaints, here’s the fun thing. You get to pick the topic. It can be anything science-related. Animals, vegetables, minerals, technology, inventors. You can do a speech, make a movie, show examples, create a collage. Heck, write a poem if you want to, as long as there’s plenty of information in it….”

  This does sound fun! I stop listening because my mind is already going every which way with all the interesting things I could study. This is not a good thing because I probably should be concentrating on social studies and math and English and the other subjects we learn about the rest of the day. But by the time my dad picks me up in the parking lot after school, I’ve almost forgotten about the thing that happened with Kevin and Scabby Larry and Madison and the carrots.

  Almost.

  Back home after school, I tell Dad he forgot to pack my snack, and he says exactly what I expect. “You can always pack your own lunch then.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I say right away. “You make the best turkey, lettuce, and butter sandwiches in the universe. I could never make them as delicious as you do.”

  Dad laughs and says that flattery will get me everywhere, whatever that means. And I’m happy I won’t have to pack my own lunches when I have much more important things going on, like my science project!

  Dad seems excited about it too. He’s a website designer so there are lots of computers in our dining room, and he brings one of his laptops into my bedroom while I look online on my own computer. Toby, our Irish setter, sits at our feet with his tongue hanging out. He’s got the cutest, furriest face and the worst breath in the world, but I don’t care because I love him.

  One of Dad’s brilliant ideas is for me to write a musical about the inner life of the Costa Rican three-toed sloth. He’s being a dork as usual, but I do like the idea of picking an animal nobody else would choose. Dad and I find a lot of odd creatures online, like an insect called a walking stick that actually looks like a stick and a hilarious-looking bird called a blue-footed booby, which I’m sure I couldn’t say in front of the class without being embarrassed.

  Then I find African millipedes, and they look pretty cool! They’re sort of like worms, but bigger and more exotic. They’re dark and shiny and pudgy, and some can be over ten inches long. They have anywhere from thirty-six to four hundred legs, though it seems like a thousand! I like that they look totally slimy but also weirdly adorable. And according to one website about millipedes, they’re not too hard for a kid to take care of. Dad agrees to buy me one at the pet store Pets! Pets! Pets!, so I can live with it, learn about it, and take it to class. I wonder how Madison Paddington will feel when I do my presentation and I hold up the longest, fattest millipede with its millions of little brown legs and its slimy-looking skin as it squirms between my fingers.

  I hope she hates it.

  From the end of our hallway, I hear the doorbell ring. Toby doesn’t run or bark; he just looks up at me and Dad, wondering who’s going to answer it. I’m enjoying my millipede research, so I stay put. Dad looks at us both. “Don’t bother yourselves,” he says, kind of like a joke. “I’ll get it.”

  Dad answers the door and I can hear him talking to a guy, but I can’t tell what they’re saying. A minute later, Dad yells down the hall, “Cleo! There’s a package for you!”

  Wow. That’s something I’ve never heard before. I haven’t ever gotten a package, and that’s how I know it’s a major event. Important people get things delivered to their door, not eleven-year-olds like me. It’s not like I’m a famous artist…yet.

  Toby barks and jumps around, almost as happy as I am. We both tear down the hall, his smooth red fur and my messy yellow hair flying, and find Dad standing in the doorway. He’s holding something about the size of a shoebox and wrapped in light-brown paper. I grab it from his hands, sit right down in the middle of the floor, and rip it open.

  Inside the box is a bunch of crumpled newspaper. I throw that to the ground and finally get to the good stuff. What I find is a little bit…weird. But cool. But strange. Lying in the bottom of the box is a rag doll, but not like any rag doll I’ve ever seen before.

  The tan material feels scratchy against my hands, and the filling isn’t soft and cuddly like a teddy bear; it’s hard like corn kernels or birdseed. The edges of the doll are sewn together with thick brown yarn, and the same kind of yarn is on the doll’s head, sticking out at different angles like my dad’s does in the morning. Its button eyes are scratched and chipped, and the doll isn’t wearing any clothes except a pink tutu around its middle, which looks majorly out of place. There’s also a pin with a little black ball on top poked into its shoulder area. That’s it.

  I hold it up for Dad to see, and he sighs. “Oh jeez. I only know one person who would send you a voodoo doll.”

  Ohhhh, it’s a voodoo doll! I think I read a story about those one time. They’re for putting charms and hexes on people you don’t like. You poke the pin into a part of the doll where you want the bad thing to happen, and then it does. Spooky!

  “Who sent it?” I ask Dad. “Do you know?”

  “You’ll see,” he says. “Is there a note or anything?” I put down the doll and look. Inside the box, sort of lining the bottom, is one piece of white paper. It’s hard to pull it out with my uneven, bitten nails, but I finally do. The writing is definitely not from a computer or even a typewriter; it looks like it was handwritten by a crazy person or wacky cartoonist. It turns out to be the instructions.

  1. A voodoo doll is not a toy. Even when you have good intentions, it is serious business. Use it wisely for the good of others—and yourself!

  2. Obtain a strand of hair from the person you would like to hex with positive juju, mojo, gris-gris, hoodoo, or whatever you want to call it. Place said hair atop your new voodoo doll. Positive happy voodoo charms must be performed with a friend to achieve the desired results. The power of
two is much stronger than the power of one!

  3. Place your pin into the doll where you would like the magic to occur (e.g., top of head for more luxurious hair, wrist for better tennis playing, foot for impressive dance moves). If your hex is more general, put the pin any old place!

  4. Concentrate on the intended person and result for at least five minutes.

  5. Sit back, relax, and wait for your hex to take effect.

  For a second I sit and stare at the scribbled instructions. Juju, mojo, gris-gris, and hoodoo are words I’ve never even heard before. They sure sound interesting…but there’s no way this voodoo doll can be real. It’s probably something to play with, a joke. I mean, it’d be cool if it actually worked, but the idea of putting charms and hexes on people sounds like it was made up by some old-time writer of horror stories.

  But what if it is real? Then what could happen? I reread the instructions, and I quickly realize that while getting a lock of hair from someone wouldn’t be easy, step four would be the hardest part. Concentrate on the intended person and result for at least five minutes. Me—I can’t concentrate on anything for very long. I guess this is a big problem in life, and it’s part of the reason I’m at this goofy school where we call teachers by their first name. Friendship Community is a private school (which means it costs money), and it has a class called Focus! (exclamation point and all), where a teacher named Roberta helps some of us kids set goals and get things done and, yes, focus better. The kids who are in it—like me and Samantha and Scabby Larry—have to leave Kevin’s classroom twice a week to go to another room across the courtyard, and everybody sees us go. Sometimes I hear kids say it’s for slow people and dummies, but Dad says they’ll all be working for me one day. I like that idea. And best of all, I wouldn’t let Madison and her friends work for me in my fun, fantastic animation factory—ever!