those cartoon characters that are mad and have steam coming out of their ears.”
“As long as I look like a straight-haired cartoon,” she snapped.
9:45
Operation Straight Hair was going great, until . . . the phone rang.
Olivia! I grabbed the cordless, switching the iron to my left hand.
“Stevie!” Alex said, annoyed.
“Don’t worry. I got it. Just hold still. DO NOT move a hair.”
It was Olivia. Even though I was going to see my best friend in about twenty-one minutes, she started yakking away about all this stuff that happened yesterday since I’d seen her, telling me all about:
A spitball catapult some kid named Dylan built in shop class
How she fell asleep studying the night before and messed up Potamia (as in flubbed her test on Ancient Mesopotamia)
Her new piano teacher’s hairy-toed bare feet (Hairy Feet wears flip-flops!)
9:49
“What’s that burning smell?” Alex asked.
All of a sudden, I smelled a stinking smell. An awful smell. A terrible, horrible burning smell, vile and odiferous. Worse than the Chinese Fried Rice Incident — the time I burned the rice in a skillet so bad it filled the whole kitchen with smoke.
Holy Hamlet! Alex’s hair!
I dropped the phone.
9:51
Alex yanked her hair out from under the iron. The iron and ironing board went crashing to the floor. I grabbed the iron, turning it off before it could burn anything else.
The back of her hair was . . . smoking! Way worse than a cartoon character.
Alex stood up.
All of a sudden, to my horror, I saw a big hunk of Alex’s beautiful, once-curly long hair fall to the ground. Then another. I’d left the iron on her hair too long!
Alex turned around.
The shape of the iron, like a big triangle, was burned out of the back of her hair.
“Uh!” I sucked in a horrified breath, my mouth gaping open. I covered my mouth with both hands, not daring to say a word.
“Look at me! My hair! And the play is tomorrow! What am I gonna do?” She shook a fistful of burned hair at me. “You could have burned me and this old house down!”
Alex zinged from mirror to mirror. In the bathroom, under the bright lights, she held up a hand mirror to inspect the back of her hair.
“Ahhhhh! Look what you did to me!” she yelled (and a bunch of other not-so-polite stuff. I think “canker blossom” and “be-slubbering fly-bitten rat’s bane” were in there somewhere). “I look like a scarecrow!”
“Too bad the play isn’t The Wizard of Oz !” I said, trying to lighten the mood, but it didn’t exactly go over.
Alex shook the hand mirror at me accusingly. “You did this on purpose, Stevie Reel! Don’t think I don’t know —”
“I did not! It was an accident! I was talking to Livvie and not paying attention for like one second. I didn’t do anything on purpose. You’re the one who had to iron your stupid hair.”
“Oh, yeah? You’re just jealous.”
“Me, jealous? Ha!”
“You know you’ve been dying to get back at me ever since I got the lead and you didn’t.”
“And whose fault is that? I didn’t even stand a chance, because you went running to Mr. Cannon, telling him that I was too busy and shouldn’t get the lead.”
If I had thrown a rock at Alex and hit her right between the eyes, I don’t think I could have stunned her any more. For once, my sister wasn’t acting.
Silence fell between us, thick and impenetrable, like a curtain that drops, separating actor from audience.
When I finally worked up the courage to look up at my sister and meet her eyes, I saw that they weren’t hard anymore. In fact, it was impossible to stay screaming-mad at somebody who looked so pathetic, standing there in her pajama top and princess pantaloons, with her hair sticking up like an inside-out umbrella.
“You know about that?” she half whispered.
Just then, I heard a car honk outside. The doorbell rang. Olivia! It was time for the cake-off.
Before either of us could say another word, I was on my way out the
“As long as I look like a straight-haired cartoon,” she snapped.
9:45
Operation Straight Hair was going great, until . . . the phone rang.
Olivia! I grabbed the cordless, switching the iron to my left hand.
“Stevie!” Alex said, annoyed.
“Don’t worry. I got it. Just hold still. DO NOT move a hair.”
It was Olivia. Even though I was going to see my best friend in about twenty-one minutes, she started yakking away about all this stuff that happened yesterday since I’d seen her, telling me all about:
A spitball catapult some kid named Dylan built in shop class
How she fell asleep studying the night before and messed up Potamia (as in flubbed her test on Ancient Mesopotamia)
Her new piano teacher’s hairy-toed bare feet (Hairy Feet wears flip-flops!)
9:49
“What’s that burning smell?” Alex asked.
All of a sudden, I smelled a stinking smell. An awful smell. A terrible, horrible burning smell, vile and odiferous. Worse than the Chinese Fried Rice Incident — the time I burned the rice in a skillet so bad it filled the whole kitchen with smoke.
Holy Hamlet! Alex’s hair!
I dropped the phone.
9:51
Alex yanked her hair out from under the iron. The iron and ironing board went crashing to the floor. I grabbed the iron, turning it off before it could burn anything else.
The back of her hair was . . . smoking! Way worse than a cartoon character.
Alex stood up.
All of a sudden, to my horror, I saw a big hunk of Alex’s beautiful, once-curly long hair fall to the ground. Then another. I’d left the iron on her hair too long!
Alex turned around.
The shape of the iron, like a big triangle, was burned out of the back of her hair.
“Uh!” I sucked in a horrified breath, my mouth gaping open. I covered my mouth with both hands, not daring to say a word.
“Look at me! My hair! And the play is tomorrow! What am I gonna do?” She shook a fistful of burned hair at me. “You could have burned me and this old house down!”
Alex zinged from mirror to mirror. In the bathroom, under the bright lights, she held up a hand mirror to inspect the back of her hair.
“Ahhhhh! Look what you did to me!” she yelled (and a bunch of other not-so-polite stuff. I think “canker blossom” and “be-slubbering fly-bitten rat’s bane” were in there somewhere). “I look like a scarecrow!”
“Too bad the play isn’t The Wizard of Oz !” I said, trying to lighten the mood, but it didn’t exactly go over.
Alex shook the hand mirror at me accusingly. “You did this on purpose, Stevie Reel! Don’t think I don’t know —”
“I did not! It was an accident! I was talking to Livvie and not paying attention for like one second. I didn’t do anything on purpose. You’re the one who had to iron your stupid hair.”
“Oh, yeah? You’re just jealous.”
“Me, jealous? Ha!”
“You know you’ve been dying to get back at me ever since I got the lead and you didn’t.”
“And whose fault is that? I didn’t even stand a chance, because you went running to Mr. Cannon, telling him that I was too busy and shouldn’t get the lead.”
If I had thrown a rock at Alex and hit her right between the eyes, I don’t think I could have stunned her any more. For once, my sister wasn’t acting.
Silence fell between us, thick and impenetrable, like a curtain that drops, separating actor from audience.
When I finally worked up the courage to look up at my sister and meet her eyes, I saw that they weren’t hard anymore. In fact, it was impossible to stay screaming-mad at somebody who looked so pathetic, standing there in her pajama top and princess pantaloons, with her hair sticking up like an inside-out umbrella.
“You know about that?” she half whispered.
Just then, I heard a car honk outside. The doorbell rang. Olivia! It was time for the cake-off.
Before either of us could say another word, I was on my way out the
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