All-Season Edie by Annabel Lyon

stand in one corner, ruffled curtains, tasseled cushions on the bed and three pairs of ballet slippers in a row under the window, silk ribbons tucked neatly inside. CDS line the sill. But the biggest difference is the closet. One door, its catch broken, swings slightly open, revealing Dexter’s greatest preoccupation of all: clothes. The closet’s stuffed, as stuffed and bulging as a burger on a TV commercial. These, surely, are her most cherished objects, but somehow I can’t imagine stealing and burying one of Dex’s umpteen sweaters. Maybe something smaller?
    I’ve barely taken a step toward the closet when I hear voices.
    â€œYou know who is cute?” says a voice: Mean Megan. Oh no. “Tyler is cute.”
    â€œHe is not,” Dexter says. The voices are coming closer. Dexter’s middle school lets out later than my elementary. Mean Megan must have come home with Dex to hang out for a while. That means, usually, sitting on her bed, listening to music, having long private discussions and telling me to get lost.
    â€œIs too.”
    â€œIs not.”
    â€œIs!”
    â€œNot!”
    The difference between friends and sisters, I reflect as I hurriedly tuck myself inside the closet—there’s nowhere else to go—is that friends enjoy the arguing.
    â€œClose the door so my little brat sister doesn’t come poking her nose in,” Dexter says. They’re in the room now. I can’t see a thing, but I hear something heavy land on the bed. Knapsack maybe. “She is so annoying.”
    â€œThe next time she bugs you, you should steal her night-light,” Mean Megan says. They giggle. “Shred her precious peacock feathers!” Mean Megan says, as Dexter shrieks with laughter. “Poison her cat!”
    That’s it. When I figure out my powers, these two are toast.
    â€œDon’t make me laugh so hard,” Dexter says. “It makes my stomach hurt even more.”
    â€œI know what you mean,” Mean Megan says. Half listening, I start quietly feeling around in the closet. Something small, I think.
    â€œYou know how to get someone to like you?” Mean Megan says. I hesitate. My hand has just closed over something hard in a coat pocket. “First, you need something of theirs, something they’ve touched or carried around a lot.”
    WAIT A MINUTE HERE.
    â€œAnd three candles and a small mirror.”
    â€œWhat ever ,” Dexter says doubtfully.
    Breathlessly, I stick the little hard thing, whatever it is, in my pocket. The clothes around me rustle with my movement, making the closet door creak.
    â€œWhat was that?” Mean Megan says.
    â€œCloset,” Dexter says. “It doesn’t close right. It always does that.”
    â€œI know who already likes you anyway.”
    â€œDo not.”
    â€œDo too.”
    â€œNot!”
    â€œToo!”
    â€œLet’s go get a snack.”
    â€œOkay.”
    OH FOR PETE’S SAKE, I think. What about the spell? And how does Mean Megan know a spell anyway, even if it is just a lame love spell? Still, I don’t have time to think about it now. As soon as I hear their voices fade off down the hallway, I slip from the closet, ready to make my escape. But then I hesitate again. On the bed, half unzipped, lies Mean Megan’s blue denim pack.
    If that isn’t fate bopping me on the nose, I don’t know what is. A few long hairs cling to the straps like long black threads: perfect. I also take a bright red felt pen that, even capped, smells strongly of cherries. I don’t know if Mean Megan cherishes it, but something about “cherry” and “cherish” makes it seem appropriate enough. And (borrowing from the interesting new information I’ve just picked up) she certainly carries it around all day and probably touches it a lot too. My pocket isn’t big enough for the pen so I stick it in my sock, where it digs rigidly into my ankle, like