I don’t wish on stars.
Or planets. Or whatever.
Luck is mostly a matter
of effort, Mom told me once.
I’m not sure that’s true.
I remember her trying
real hard. But she never
managed to get lucky.
Anyway, one time I told
Hannah about the owl.
An owl? Seriously?
They’re bad luck, you know.
I looked it up. In some
cultures, owls are considered
messengers of death.
Like, if they visit,
someone might die.
But in other places,
they’re symbols of wisdom.
And in the Harry Potter world
of wizarding, they are faithful
servants and masterful spies.
When I mentioned that to Hannah,
who’s a huge HP fan (one of the few
things we have in common), it made
her mad. Don’t ask me why.
But those are pretend
owls, not real ones,
she huffed, face all red.
“Superstitions aren’t real,
either. My owl has been coming
around for a while now,
and everyone’s still alive.”
For now, you mean.
It could happen anytime.
Her eyes got all big, like
she shouldn’t have said that.
But she was right.
One day someone’s here.
The next day, they’re gone.
And you can’t have them back.
I know from experience.
FACT OR FICTION:
Kids Need Nine Hours of Sleep
Answer: Most do, according to experts.
But not me. Designated bedtime
is nine p.m. My body clock disagrees,
so Aunt Taryn lets me read
for thirty minutes under the covers.
After that, lights out.
Still, my brain has a hard time
closing down, so I usually lie
there longer before dropping off.
Then, just like this morning,
around five a.m., thoughts
start ping-ponging in my head.
Should I wear shorts? Jeans?
Isn’t it awesome to have the choice?
What if everything changes tomorrow?
I get seven hours, if I’m lucky.
It seems to be plenty,
although some days I’m mad
at the world and the only
reason for that I can figure
out is maybe I’m tired.
I think that’s called cause and effect.
Now, Hannah needs those nine
hours, and as far as I can tell,
she usually gets them.
Except she’s always up early
before a competition.
Anxious about what’s ahead.
Worry is an alarm clock.
I can hear her nervous humming
down the hall, on the way
to the kitchen. She likes to “fuel
up,” as she calls it, well ahead
of her Saturday meets.
Gotta give it time to digest.
That’s what she told me, and I
think that means so she doesn’t
fart mid-roundoff or -handspring.
Not sure the judges could dock her,
but it might leave a bad impression.
I’d laugh like crazy, but that’s me.
It doesn’t take long for her
to finish her “complex carbs”
breakfast. Energy foods, she claims.
By the time I’m dressed and
my hair’s mostly pushed into place,
she’s headed back to her room.
On the return trip, singing loudly.
Guess her vocal cords
have been energized.
That proves to be the case
when a scream rises
in her bedroom next door.
Mom! Seriously? Mom!
Uh-oh.
Definition of Rad:
Radical; Awesome
I was up in plenty of time.
Had my yogurt, fruit and cereal.
Came back to my room to get
dressed and pack my gear.
But my competition leotard
seems to be missing. I dig
through my dresser, looking
for a hint of sparkly purple.
That’s our team color, which
is rad because it’s my favorite.
Misty says it goes with my skin
tone and makes the copper
highlights in my hair pop.
Misty’s kind of an expert.
She reads teen magazines
and always takes those tests,
like
What the Flower You Like Best
Says About Your Personality
or
What Breed of Dog Is Most
Compatible with Your Birth Sign.
Misty rocks.
Hmm. Where’s that leotard?
Oh, here it is, in the wrong drawer.
Why is it with my jeans?
Whatever. At least I found it.
Slip my right foot through the leg
hole. Left foot . . . Hey. It won’t go.
I slide the first leg back out,
hold up the leotard. No way!
“Mom! Seriously? Mom!”
Her footsteps come pounding
up the hall. What is it? Are you hurt?
“No, but my leotard is.
Did you wash this hot?”
Of course not. If there’s one thing
I know how to do, it’s laundry.