The Popularity Spell

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.

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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

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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
—saying 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.