I reach out curiously to lift the lid, and that’s when I hear something. A breathy, far-off sound. Almost like a woman singing. I hastily shut the lid and the noise stops.
Mrs. Toodles emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of cookies and lemonade. She moves at about the pace of a snail on crutches, and I can never tell if it’s because she’s really old or she’s just so weighed down by all the jewelry she wears. Her armful of bracelets jangles as she places the tray on the table.
“Aha,” she says knowingly, glancing at the jewelry box. “I see la Boîte aux Rêves Cachés is already calling to you. That is an excellent sign.”
Of course, I haven’t the foggiest idea what she’s talking about. I just started taking French this year, but all we’ve learned so far are the days of the week and how to order a ham sandwich.
It’s not unusual for Mrs. Toodles to randomly mix in French words with the English ones. She was born in France and moved to the United States when she was young, so she used to speak French all the time. Now it just comes out in bits and pieces, like the rest of the stuff in her smoothie brain.
“What is it?” I ask, somehow managing to rip my gaze away from the jewelry box. But even as I do, I can still feel it there. The way you can feel someone watching you.
Ever so delicately, Mrs. Toodles lifts the blue-and-gold box and holds it protectively in her wrinkled, ring-adorned hands, like she’s guarding an injured baby bird. “Sit down, Adeline,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “I have a very special story to tell you tonight.”
“Did you know,” Mrs. Toodles begins with her usual whimsical flair, “that I am a distant relative of the Starlit Lady?”
She’s sitting at the head of the table like always, and I’m sitting next to her, stuffing snickerdoodles into my mouth and washing them down with gulps of sugary powdered lemonade.
Wide-eyed and speechless, I shake my head. Mrs. Toodles has never actually been in any of the stories she’s told me.
“The Starlit Lady,” she goes on, clutching the mysterious jewelry box in her lap, “or la Dame Étoilée in French, was a very powerful witch hired to be the personal mystic for the queen Marie Antoinette. Do you know who Marie Antoinette is?”
I nod. “Rory watched a movie about her once. She had a lot of shoes.”
Mrs. Toodles lets out a raspy laugh. “That she did. She was a young, frivolous queen who had many luxuries and many servants who worked for her. But la Dame Étoilée—the Starlit Lady—had to be kept a secret from the rest of the French court.”
“Why?” I mumble with my mouth full of cookie.
“Because she was a witch. And people in the eighteenth century didn’t take kindly to witchcraft. But after the death of Queen Marie Antoinette, the identity of the Starlit Lady was discovered and she was convicted. They executed her and burned her cottage to the ground. All of her belongings were destroyed.” Mrs. Toodles’s eyes fall to the box in her lap. “Except for this.”
Involuntarily, I draw in a sharp breath.
“It’s called la Boîte aux Rêves Cachés,” she goes on. “The Box of Hidden Dreams. It was rescued from the Starlit Lady’s cottage by her daughter and has been secretly passed down from mother to daughter for centuries. My grandmother received it on her twelfth birthday. My mother received it on her twelfth birthday. And I received it on mine. But since I didn’t have any children, I’ve been waiting for someone to give it to.”
Her gaze rises from the box and lands on me.
I blink in surprise. “Me? You want to give it to me?”
Mrs. Toodles nods once and I feel a lump form in my throat.
“But why?” I croak.
Mrs. Toodles makes a tsk, tsk sound and beckons me to lean in closer to her. I do.
“Because you,” she whispers, glancing suspiciously over her shoulder even though we’re the only two people in the house, “are a believer.”
She leans back, looking mighty proud of her confession. “I knew it from the first day I met you. I saw it in those beautiful green eyes of yours.”
I am tempted to remind her that I have blue eyes, but I resist. It doesn’t really matter. It’s not like the story is true. It’s not like any of Mrs. Toodles’s stories are true. The woman thinks her neighbor drowned an imaginary cat in an imaginary pool. Clearly, she’s not really a descendent of some eighteenth-century mystic.
“You,” she goes on, “have magic in the heart.”
I can’t help but smile at the compliment. “But why magic?” I ask. “Why do I have to have magic in my heart?”
She lets out an indignant snort, as though the answer to my question is obvious. “Because the Box of Hidden Dreams won’t work if you don’t.”
“Won’t work?” I repeat. I can feel curiosity bubbling up inside me like water coming to a boil. Even though I know it’s not real, even though I tell myself over and over again that (almost) twelve is too old to believe in stories like this, I can’t help but lean even closer and ask, “What does the box do?”
Mrs. Toodles flashes me a mischievous grin and bends forward until our foreheads are touching and I can see deep into her crinkly blue eyes. “Oh, Adeline, you silly girl,” she says mysteriously. “It grants wishes.”
The next morning my alarm goes off at six a.m. I groan and press Snooze, pulling the pillow over my head. I’m so tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. I tossed and turned for hours thinking about the story of the Starlit Lady.
Every time I closed my eyes, I could hear Mrs. Toodles’s voice in my head, like a ghost wandering the halls, reciting the same thing over and over.
“It grants wishes.”
Before I went back home for dinner, she handed me the box. “All you have to do is write your birthday wish on a piece of paper and lock it inside with the key,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “The Box of Hidden Dreams will do the rest.”
Then she stood up, grabbed the cookie tray, and casually walked back into the kitchen like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just dropped a huge bomb right into my lap.
I stood in silence for a long time, staring at the box and thinking over the things she had just said. An executed witch? A magic jewelry box?
Obviously, this is just a story, I told myself. Obviously, none of this is actually true. Obviously, the box doesn’t really grant wishes.
But then, a moment later, as I was making my way to the front door, Mrs. Toodles emerged from the kitchen again, pulled me into a hug, and whispered something into my ear. Her voice was suddenly different than it usually is. Less whimsical and childlike. More serious. “Whatever you do,” she said to me, her words warm and urgent against my ear. “Whatever you choose to wish for, be sure to hide the key in the safest place you can think of. If you lose it, your wish will be locked inside the box forever.”
My alarm clock rings again. I kick the covers off my legs and drag myself out of bed, yawning repeatedly. Why do we have to go to school on our birthdays? It should be illegal or something. We don’t have to go to school on George Washington’s birthday or Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday. So why should we have to go on our own?
My best friend, Grace, is lucky. She was born in the summer. She never has to go to school on her birthday. Although one year, when she turned nine, she insisted on having a science-themed party and we all had to do science experiments in her kitchen. I thought that was a waste of a perfectly good summer birthday because it was basically the same thing as going to school.
On my way to the bathroom, I catch sight of the blue-and-gold jewelry box on my dresser and stop, staring at it intently. La Boîte aux Rêves Cachés, Mrs. Toodles called it. The Box of Hidden Dreams. For some reason, it almost feels like it’s…like it’s…
Calling to me.
Oh, no. Am I going crazy, too? Is this what it feels like to lose your mind? Is dementia contagious? I grab the box and stuff it in the bottom drawer of my dresser, giving the drawer an extra bump with my foot to make sure it’s fully closed. Then I cont
inue into the bathroom to get ready.
I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to wear. It’s my birthday, remember, so this is a big decision. After I hem and haw in front of my closet for twenty minutes, Mom finally comes in and picks something out for me.
It’s a blue-and-white striped dress with a giant glittery starfish on the front.
Not exactly what I had in mind for my big day, but I can’t really argue because everything I did have in mind for my twelfth birthday would require me to grow eleven inches, magically sprout boobs, and raid Rory’s closet, all of which are virtually impossible.
So I guess I’m stuck with the starfish dress.
My hair is a whole other fiasco. The problem with having curly hair is that there’s really not much you can do with it. The problem with having curly hair that’s also uncontrollably frizzy is that there’s absolutely nothing you can do with it, apart from tie it up in a bun with about a million bobby pins to keep the flyaways in check.
I stare at my reflection in my bedroom mirror and let out a groan. Between the aquatic apparel, the uninspired hairstyle, and the hundreds of freckles on my face (that I can’t cover up because of the whole no-makeup-until-high-school policy), I might as well just tape a sign to my chest that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LOSER.
Or I might as well just go back to elementary school, where I belong.
I grab a pencil from my desk and stand with my back against the frame of my bedroom door, marking the spot where the top of my head meets the wood.
When I step back, it’s just as I suspected.
Not even a centimeter taller.
“Addie!” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs. “We’re late! Get a move on!”
With a sigh, I grab my blue-and-white polka-dotted backpack and hurry downstairs to face what I’m already expecting to be the worst birthday in history.
Grace and I were supposed to be born a week apart. Our mothers met in childbirth class, so technically Grace and I have known each other since before we were born, which is probably why we’re such close friends now. The only reason Grace is a summer baby is because she was born premature, while I was born exactly on my due date. Mom says that’s when my punctuality streak ended, because now I’m pretty much late for everything.
Dad is already gone when I get downstairs, which is pretty typical. He leaves for work every morning at 6:30 on the dot. Mom is just finishing her moss-colored power smoothie when I emerge into the kitchen.
“Happy birthday!” she trills, holding out a bagel wrapped unceremoniously in a paper towel.
“A bagel?” I say. “On my birthday?”
“That’s what happens when you run late,” Mom replies. “If you had gotten down here earlier, I could have made you something special.”
“Maybe if I had a dog to take care of, I’d be more motivated to get out of bed in the morning.”
Mom gives me a look. “Nice try.”
I grab my bagel and sulk all the way to the garage. I’m not sure why I thought the dog argument would work today when it hasn’t worked the past three hundred times I’ve tried it. I have no idea why my parents are so against the idea of having a dog. No one in the house is allergic, and I already promised to feed it and walk it and do all the things that need doing, but for some reason, they still refuse.
I climb into the backseat of Mom’s SUV and stare down at the sad little breakfast in my hand. The bagel isn’t even toasted. And it’s onion flavored. I hate onion flavored. I prefer plain. Or sesame. Onion will only give me bad breath, but I’m starving, so I take a bite anyway, vowing to find someone with mints the moment I get to school.
The middle school bus passes by our house super-early, so I only take it on the way home. In the mornings, my mom and Grace’s mom take turns driving us to school. Today is Friday: our day to drive. When we pull up, Grace is waiting in front of her house. She’s holding a white sweater in her hand, which I find strange because she’s already wearing a sweater.
“Happy birthday!” she tells me as she gets into the car. “I got a very strong clothing vibe this morning. I thought maybe you’d need this.” She tosses me the extra sweater.
Sometimes Grace and I can read each other’s minds. It never happens when we’re trying; it always comes randomly. Grace normally wouldn’t believe in that kind of stuff. She’s extremely scientific and usually has to have physical proof of something before she’ll buy into it but for some reason, she believes in this. Maybe because it happens so often, it’s hard to ignore. Maybe that’s proof enough for her.
Gratefully, I take the sweater and throw it on over my embarrassing starfish dress. It’s not a total makeover, but it’s definitely an improvement. I’m just starting to feel a little better about my ensemble when Grace turns to put on her seat belt and I catch sight of the super-awesome braid she has in her hair this morning.
Grace is a braiding master. She comes up with all sorts of elaborate designs. Today her long, sandy-blond hair is swept into a messy side braid that starts at the crown of her head and swoops down over her shoulder. I reach up and subconsciously touch my plain brown bun, suddenly remembering why I was in a bad mood to begin with.
Not that I’d have the patience to do a braid like that. I’d probably just mess it up and then quit. Grace is superpatient and meticulous. It’s why she’s a better trumpet player than I am. We both started lessons in the third grade, but she’s already four levels ahead of me. The band teacher says I need to practice my scales more, but scales are so incredibly boring. I’d much rather just play a song. Except you can’t really get good at a song until you learn your scales, so there you have it.
As Mom pulls away from the curb, I see Grace’s little sister, Lily, coming out the front door to wait for the elementary school bus. Lily is eight and always driving Grace crazy. She’s really cute with her pigtails and glasses, but I suppose I might think differently if she were my sister and always deleting my shows from the DVR without asking and eating the last of the good cereal.
Still, I wave to her and she grins wildly and waves back.
“I’m so excited for tonight,” Grace says. “I have so many ideas of things to do!”
Every year on our birthdays, Grace and I have slumber parties. We always have regular parties with lots of people on the weekend, but it’s been our tradition since we were five to spend the actual night of our birthdays together. Just the two of us.
“Oh my gosh!” Grace exclaims, jumping up and down as much as her seat belt will allow. “We definitely need to work on our dance routine. I have some new ideas for the breakdown section that I think you’ll like. And then obviously we’ll do the sleeping bag obstacle course. That’s a given. Oh, and I found this really amazing new friendship bracelet design I want to try and…”
Grace is rambling now. Even though I’m smiling and nodding, I’m not really listening anymore. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Normally, the mention of one of our epic slumber parties is enough to pull me out of any bad mood, but not today. Maybe it’s because of the lack of sleep last night, but for some reason, hearing Grace list all our usual slumber party activities is making me kind of tired. But not like sleepy tired, like mentally tired. I mean, we’ve been doing the same activities for years now. Doesn’t she want to try something new?
My mom must sense my bad mood, because after turning off Grace’s street she puts on my favorite Summer Crush song, “Best Day Ever,” in an effort to cheer me up. And I guess it kind of works, because a moment later, Grace and I are dancing in our seats, singing along at the top of our lungs, “Between you and me, I know this will be the best day ever! Ever! Ever!”
Okay, Berrin Mack, the lead singer of Summer Crush, is so totally wrong. This is not the best day ever. In fact, this might be the worst birthday in the history of birthdays.
First, I’m late to math class because Asher O’Neil, a stupid boy in my class, decides he wants to pretend to be a bull in front of my locker. He keeps snorting and ramming me
like I’m a matador with a cape whenever I try to get close. Eventually, I give up and go to class without my books, which of course the teacher yells at me about.
Then, at the end of second period, when we line up at the door to be excused, Teddy Rucker lets out a huge belch, which all the boys think is really funny. I pull the collar of my dress over my nose and try not to throw up from the horrible smell. Did he eat rotten pickles for breakfast?
In science class we have to do a lab experiment, and instead of following the directions in the textbook and pouring the chemicals into the beaker in the order specified, I figure it would just be easier and quicker to dump them all in at once. I’m a big fan of shortcuts. My philosophy is: If there’s a quicker way to do something, why not just do it? Grace calls this laziness. I call it basic efficiency. For instance, why take the stairs when the escalator gets you there faster? Why clean your room when you can just shove everything in the closet and be done with it?
Apparently, though, there are a few things in life this philosophy doesn’t apply to. Like science experiments. Which becomes evident a few minutes later when the beaker—filled with what can only be described as a thick fluorescent orange goo—explodes in my face.
Fortunately, I’m wearing safety goggles.
Unfortunately, I fail the experiment.
And now Grace’s beautiful white sweater is covered in neon slime.
Also, today I have gym, which means I have to wear my gym clothes. I hate my gym clothes. All they do is show off my scrawny legs, which are still covered in embarrassing blond hair because my mom says I’m too young to shave them.
As I change clothes in the locker room (shorts and a baggy T-shirt to cover up how pathetically flat I am), I can’t help but glance across the aisle at Clementine Dumont. She’s talking to one of her friends about some super-romantic movie she saw last weekend while she pulls her long, blond hair into a messy bun on top of her head. If I tried that kind of hairstyle, I would probably look like a Muppet.