Read Online Bras & Broomsticks by Sarah Mlynowski - Free Book Online

insisted that the Glinda costumes were all sold out and that I’d have to settle for going as a fairy princess. At the time I believed her. Now I know different. She was afraid that if I dressed like a witch, I would somehow will my magic into being. I can’t believe she tried to thwart my powers! I can’t believe a lot of what my mother did. Or didn’t do.
    She’s a witch. She could have cast spells to make me happy. Like the time I wanted to get tickets to a concert at Roseland, but they were sold out. She could have whipped up two more. Plus backstage passes! She should have stopped me from ever getting hurt! She could have stopped my dad from divorcing her. The back of my neck stiffens. I haven’t forgotten that early morning conversation about experiencing the good and bad, but still . . . why not make life picture-perfect?
    “Because,” I say now, taking a deep breath, “we’re going to put a spell on Dad.” If my mom wants to ignore the tools available to her, then that’s her problem. Not mine. And not Miri’s, if I can help it.
    Miri raises the other eyebrow. “We’re?”
    She has to rub it in, doesn’t she? “Fine, you put a spell on Dad.”
    “How did I know that would be your solution?”
    “Because you’re psychic as well as a witch?”
    “Or because Mom warned me that you’d try to get me to use magic.” She shakes her head. “No. I can’t do it. I can’t use spells to manipulate our father. It’s not right.”
    Strike out.
    Okay, no need to panic. Obviously, a goody-goody like her needs time to let the idea seep in.
    And plenty more STB aggravation is sure to come.

    I don’t have to wait long.
    Later, when we’re called downstairs for what we assume is dinner, STB and Prissy are sitting, arms perfectly crossed, on the white suede couch. My dad is sitting in a chair, wearing a hideous red and brown striped shirt. He has the worst taste in clothes. He always asks us how he looks, and we all say fine, because none of us wants to be the first to tell him he has bad taste.
    “What’s going on?” I ask. They’re acting creepy. I swear, if they tell us they’re witches too, I am seriously going to lose it.
    “Miri,” my dad begins, rubbing the shiny bald spot on the back of his head, “please take a seat.”
    My eyes meet Miri’s and we sit down. Uh-oh. Did they hear me scheming? Did Miri inadvertently put a hex on STB? Is she no longer able to speak, but capable only of high-pitched ribbits now?
    “We are very worried,” my father says, his forehead crinkling in actual concern, “about the health of your fingers.”
    Miri flushes bright red. I laugh. It’s a nail-biting intervention.
    “Chewing your fingers,” my father continues, “can lead to damaged cuticles and infections. Not to mention all the germs you allow into your mouth because they were on your hands.”
    I bet STB looked that up on the Internet and scared my dad. The woman will stop at nothing to get what she wants.
    Miri’s eyes are quickly filling to the rims with water, like clogged toilets.
    “I want to help you, honey.” At this point he pats my sister on the head. “We’ve considered treatments, and Jennifer has come up with an excellent plan.” He points his chin toward the coffee table, where a box of Band-Aids lies.
    STB runs her perfectly manicured nails through her coiffed blond hair, then says, “We’re going to wrap each of your fingers so you don’t bite.”
    That is so embarrassing. Perfect! God, I really hope Miri can’t secretly read my mind.
    Miri opens her mouth, then closes it. I think she’s too upset to speak. She’s looking like Drew Barrymore in Firestarter, and I’m getting nervous that she might set the house aflame telepathically.
    Prissy rocks back and forth in her spot. “Miri, biting your nails is yucky.” She fans out her little French-manicured fingers. “Don’t you want pretty nails like me?”
    It’s too much. Too awful. I have to help. “Dad, I hardly think