Read Online Spells & Sleeping Bags #3 by Sarah Mlynowski - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Mlynowski
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asleep without the sound of honking New York taxis.
Squeak! Scrape!
Every time any of the girls move, creaks echo through the room.
Ah, I think. That's better.
I turn onto my side, smiling to myself.
5
MORNING GLORY
“Time to get up! Let's go!”
Why is my mother screaming?
“Flagpole in thirty minutes!”
Oh, right. I'm at camp.
My eyes spring open, and I sit up and look around the cabin. The sun is streaming through the windows, but my bunkmates are all still fast asleep.
Itch. Ouch. My knee is on fire. A mosquito bite. Another one on my ankle. And another . . . on my nose. The nerve of that mosquito! Now I really don't feel guilty about banishing him to Never Never Land. I am so getting West Nile virus.
“Time to get up,” Janice says, stomping through the bunk like she's wearing tap shoes. “Flagpole's in thirty minutes.”
Yikes, it's freezing in here. My nose has morphed into an ice cube. An itchy ice cube. I'm about to climb down the ladder, but nobody else is budging. Well, if they're not moving . . . I lie back down, pull my flimsy blanket over my face, and go back to sleep.
About twenty minutes later, I hear squeaks and peeps and remove my blanket to see Carly on the floor doing her stomach crunches. Morgan is on her feet and yawning.
It's so cold in here I can practically see my breath. I hope the Gap makes ski jackets.
Alison groans in the bed below me. “It's not morning already, is it?”
“It is,” says Morgan.
“What time is it?” Alison whimpers.
“Ten past eight.”
My bunk bed creaks as Alison pushes herself out. She grabs her glasses from our shared blue wooden shelf, pops a piece of gum into her mouth, throws her baseball hat over her messy brown hair, slips her socked feet into her Tevas, and says, “Ready.”
Is she kidding me? “You're going in your pajamas?”
“Of course. It's breakfast.”
“You're not even wearing a bra!”
She shrugs. “I'm pretty flat.”
There is no way, nohow I'm wearing these oversize flannel pajamas to breakfast. They are so not for public viewing. “I think I'd rather put on clothes.”
“Then you'd better hurry,” Carly says, peeling herself off the floor. “We were supposed to leave, like, two minutes ago.”
“Bunk fourteen better be on the porch in five seconds!” orders Deb.
I fly down my ladder and sprint to the cubby room, where I frantically search for a new pair of women's underwear. Nope. (Mental note: ask Miri for reversal spell!) I put on yesterday's jeans and a sweatshirt that looks like it might fit but doesn't. No time to change. I need to find my shoes. Where did I put them? After finding them in a heap under Alison's bed, I run to the bathroom to pee. I'm in midflush when Deb screams, “Move it, girls!”
I slam open the door and hurry to wash my hands. And that's when I spot my hair in the mirror. Omigod. It's a disaster. Where is my brush? I need to find my brush! Did I bring a brush?
Poodles struts out of the end stall as I'm staring at myself in despair. She's wearing silky pink pj bottoms and a tight white hoodie. Her long blond hair is pulled back into a high ponytail. No fair. Why does she look dining-room presentable even in pj's while I look like a lumberjack whose head got caught in a thunderstorm?
I need a hair spell, pronto. I close my eyes and wish.
Hair, I'm running late.
I really need you to get straight!
Cold air! Zap!
I open my eyes. The results stare back at me from the mirror.
Well, it worked. It's straight. It's standing straight up like porcupine quills, or like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket, but it is straight.
Now what?
I rummage through the stuff on my shelf for an elastic, return to the bathroom mirror, and tie my hair into a high
ponytail.
Not terrible. Kind of cheerleadery.
“Weinstein, on the porch!” Deb commands, coming to get me. I notice with a smidgen of anxiety that she's still in her pj's. Will I be the only one not wearing
Squeak! Scrape!
Every time any of the girls move, creaks echo through the room.
Ah, I think. That's better.
I turn onto my side, smiling to myself.
5
MORNING GLORY
“Time to get up! Let's go!”
Why is my mother screaming?
“Flagpole in thirty minutes!”
Oh, right. I'm at camp.
My eyes spring open, and I sit up and look around the cabin. The sun is streaming through the windows, but my bunkmates are all still fast asleep.
Itch. Ouch. My knee is on fire. A mosquito bite. Another one on my ankle. And another . . . on my nose. The nerve of that mosquito! Now I really don't feel guilty about banishing him to Never Never Land. I am so getting West Nile virus.
“Time to get up,” Janice says, stomping through the bunk like she's wearing tap shoes. “Flagpole's in thirty minutes.”
Yikes, it's freezing in here. My nose has morphed into an ice cube. An itchy ice cube. I'm about to climb down the ladder, but nobody else is budging. Well, if they're not moving . . . I lie back down, pull my flimsy blanket over my face, and go back to sleep.
About twenty minutes later, I hear squeaks and peeps and remove my blanket to see Carly on the floor doing her stomach crunches. Morgan is on her feet and yawning.
It's so cold in here I can practically see my breath. I hope the Gap makes ski jackets.
Alison groans in the bed below me. “It's not morning already, is it?”
“It is,” says Morgan.
“What time is it?” Alison whimpers.
“Ten past eight.”
My bunk bed creaks as Alison pushes herself out. She grabs her glasses from our shared blue wooden shelf, pops a piece of gum into her mouth, throws her baseball hat over her messy brown hair, slips her socked feet into her Tevas, and says, “Ready.”
Is she kidding me? “You're going in your pajamas?”
“Of course. It's breakfast.”
“You're not even wearing a bra!”
She shrugs. “I'm pretty flat.”
There is no way, nohow I'm wearing these oversize flannel pajamas to breakfast. They are so not for public viewing. “I think I'd rather put on clothes.”
“Then you'd better hurry,” Carly says, peeling herself off the floor. “We were supposed to leave, like, two minutes ago.”
“Bunk fourteen better be on the porch in five seconds!” orders Deb.
I fly down my ladder and sprint to the cubby room, where I frantically search for a new pair of women's underwear. Nope. (Mental note: ask Miri for reversal spell!) I put on yesterday's jeans and a sweatshirt that looks like it might fit but doesn't. No time to change. I need to find my shoes. Where did I put them? After finding them in a heap under Alison's bed, I run to the bathroom to pee. I'm in midflush when Deb screams, “Move it, girls!”
I slam open the door and hurry to wash my hands. And that's when I spot my hair in the mirror. Omigod. It's a disaster. Where is my brush? I need to find my brush! Did I bring a brush?
Poodles struts out of the end stall as I'm staring at myself in despair. She's wearing silky pink pj bottoms and a tight white hoodie. Her long blond hair is pulled back into a high ponytail. No fair. Why does she look dining-room presentable even in pj's while I look like a lumberjack whose head got caught in a thunderstorm?
I need a hair spell, pronto. I close my eyes and wish.
Hair, I'm running late.
I really need you to get straight!
Cold air! Zap!
I open my eyes. The results stare back at me from the mirror.
Well, it worked. It's straight. It's standing straight up like porcupine quills, or like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket, but it is straight.
Now what?
I rummage through the stuff on my shelf for an elastic, return to the bathroom mirror, and tie my hair into a high
ponytail.
Not terrible. Kind of cheerleadery.
“Weinstein, on the porch!” Deb commands, coming to get me. I notice with a smidgen of anxiety that she's still in her pj's. Will I be the only one not wearing
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