The Ultra Violets Read online

  “Pizza’s here!” Dr. Jones announced. “And we’ve got a very special delivery person for your sleepover!”

  Opal’s shoulders shot up to her ears again. For one agonizing second, she imagined that the delivery boy might be Albert Feinstein himself, in which case she was sure she would disintegrate into thin air. But as the figure emerged down the steps, pizza boxes in hand, Opal was almost as shocked as if it had been Albert.

  “Candace?” the girls said together.

  Standing two steps from the bottom of the stairs was their former babysitter. She looked pretty much the same, just more grown up. Four years more grown up, for those keeping count. She still had dishwater blond hair, but she was working it in a funky geometric bob with ruler-straight bangs. Thick black glasses still framed her gray eyes, though the squarish spectacles were the perfect accessory to prove the chicness of geekness, just like Cheri had said. And she still wore her starched white lab coat, only now it fit over a sleek pencil skirt.

  “Hi, girls!” Candace said, peeking out from behind the pizza boxes. “Hi . . .” her eyes goggled behind her glasses “. . . Iris.”

  “Hey, Candace,” Scarlet said as her stomach grumbled. “And hello, pizza!”

  The girls swarmed to greet her, Cheri, Scarlet, and Iris each grabbing a pizza box and bringing it over to the table. Only Opal stayed put, hoping her Albert confession would be forgotten, and watching Candace watch Iris.

  “Viomazing.” Candace let the strange word escape her lips, then began rummaging in the pockets of her lab coat.

  “Candace is a senior now,” the disembodied voice of Dr. Jones called down the stairs. “And as part of her studies, she’s interning at the FLab. Isn’t that wonderful? She always was so clever in biochemistry! She stopped by to drop off some lab results, and she wanted to say hi to her former babysittees.”

  “Hi!” Scarlet shouted back, tearing through a slice of pepperoni-marshmallow.

  “I really like your short bangs,” Cheri said.

  From the table, Iris avoided eye contact and tossed over her shoulder, “Cool to see you again, Candace!” No doubt the babysitter was staring at her hair. Everyone stared at her hair. But Iris really didn’t want to get into it all over again. Besides, all the talking was making her hungry! The sooner they ate the pizza, the sooner they’d get to the cupcakes.

  “Opal, aren’t you ravenous?” Cheri asked, sitting down next to her and delicately cutting up her piece with a knife and fork. “Go get a slice for yourself—then you can come back and tell me all about your true love for Albert!” Cheri sighed as she sampled her slice. “Opaline Feinstein. It has a nice ring to it! If you want to put a ring on it . . .”

  That was enough to snap Opal out of her thoughts. Candace still didn’t seem to have realized that she was even there; that she was back in the group, too. No, Candace’s eyes were fixed on Iris. Iris and her precious purple mane. Opal felt invisible, and it all felt oddly familiar. Like a playground nursery rhyme, she could almost hear the voice of seven-year-old Iris chanting in her ear, “Candace? Hey, Candace? Look at me, Candace! Look!”

  Cheri poked her in the leg. “Opes?”

  Candace was still standing on the second-to-last step, as if frozen in place. But by now she had taken out her smartphone and was frantically scrolling down its screen, only stopping every few seconds to look up at Iris’s hair again.

  “Um, say, ‘Cheese!’ girls,” Candace said, holding up her phone in camera mode.

  “Cheese, girls!” Cheri sang out, stretching the mozzarella from the tip of her slice.

  “Cheese, girls!” Scarlet mumbled, chewing on her crust.

  “Cheese, girls,” Iris said quietly from the table, bowing her head instead of turning around to smile.

  “Cheese, girls,” Opal murmured, a beat behind the other three.

  “That one’s going on my Smashface page!” Candace proclaimed, with what Opal thought sounded like forced cheerfulness. From where she sat, it looked as if Candace had aimed the phone at the table. At Iris. Opal doubted she’d even made it into the picture.

  And she was sure she could see Candace’s left eye nervously twitch.

  Saturday = Crazy

  WHEN ONE HAS EXPERIENCED THE INTENSE BONDING ritual that is the sleepover . . .

  When one has played the party games . . .

  When one has confessed deep-down secrets and consumed way too much popcorn, pizza, and cupcakes, not necessarily in that order; has stayed up till midnight talking; and then watched a movie that was maybe too scary and that one’s mother would have killed one for watching had she known, a threat more scary than the movie itself . . .

  When one has done all these things, and then come out on the other side, into the bright light of morning . . .

  One may have what is known as a sleephangover, and one may wish for some alone time.

  So it was that Opaline’s secret crush was confessed, the strange case of Iris’s purple hair was discussed, Cheri’s belief in love was professed, Scarlet’s skill with glitter was revealed, and Candace returned to their lives. It was, in a word, an epic sleepover. (Okay, two words.)

  After the epic came the breakfast. And after the breakfast came the quiet. Cheri, Iris, and Opal parted ways at Scarlet’s house on Saturday, each retreating to the solitude of her own bedroom.

  • • •

  Cheri’s room felt warm and welcoming after her night away. All her stuffed animals still sat on her bed, awaiting her return. She put her Hello Kitty sleeping bag back in the closet, sat down at her desk, and popped open her laptop. She had homework for math class that she really was in no mood for. Fractions. Instead, she put on a clear top coat to protect her nail polish. Last night, while the other girls had been watching that horrid movie about zombie aliens battling ghost sharks in an abandoned forest cabin, she’d kept her eyes down and concentrated on her pink-and-green checkerboard mani. Now, as she daubed another layer on her fingertips, she noticed a trace of purple running down the length of her pinkie. When she smiled at the memory of the quickie candle ceremony, a delicate, lacelike pattern of purple swirled across her forehead, then faded away. But Cheri didn’t see that. Only her stuffed animals did. And they were in no position to tell her!

  When she was out of ways to procrastinate, Cheri clicked the link to her math assignment and stared dumbstruck at the numbers that popped up on the screen.

  Solve the following system of equations:

  3x + 2y = 11

  5x – 4y = 11

  Oh swell no! That couldn’t be right. She must have gone to the wrong folder. Whatever this was, sixth-grade math this was not!

  Though she bet Albert Feinstein could solve it.

  Cheri’s mind started wandering again. She imagined Albert in his bedroom on Saturday afternoon, his walls covered with posters of past winners of The X Variable (NOT among her fave shows). He probably finished his homework as soon as he got home. He probably had the whole weekend free to do whatever it was Albert Feinstein did on weekends. Probably just more math homework, Cheri thought. And not even for extra credit. For fun!

  Honestly, what did Opal see in him?

  Cheri imagined Albert and Opal on their first date. She doubted she could convince Opal to give up her Peter Pan collars, but maybe she could soften the look with a sweet pastel cardi. And if Opal refused to remove her two barrettes, Cheri could at least replace them with rhinestone clips. A dab of pearly shadow would really brighten Opal’s brown eyes. It was a start.

  As for Albert, change the khakis to cargos, lose the belt, switch the button-ups for a T-shirt, and he might just be a heartthrob-in-training. Though there was no escaping the braces: Cheri wasn’t a magician, after all. More to the point, she barely knew Albert. How was she going to get him to let her give him a makeover? How was
she going to solve that problem?

  Cheri concentrated. She concentrated on this imaginary dilemma more than she ever concentrated on her homework. And suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue (whatever that means, though it’s what people say), she got the answer. Not to the problem of Albert’s wardrobe. To the algebra equation.

  “X equals three, and y equals one,” Cheri said aloud. She looked at herself in her bedroom mirror, hardly able to believe she was the one doing the talking. Or the thinking. “Using both equations and multiplying them by the same constant, eliminate one of the variables. Multiply the first equation by two, and 6x plus 4y equals twenty-two. Add this to the existing equation, 5x minus 4y equals eleven, in which 4y negates itself, to arrive at 11x equals thirty-three. Dividing thirty-three by eleven, x equals three. The original sum can now be solved: 3x plus 2y equals eleven; (3 x 3) plus 2y equals eleven; nine plus 2y equals eleven. Since nine plus two equals eleven, y equals one.”

  The audience of stuffed animals were the only witnesses to her flash of brilliance. They smiled back at her encouragingly.

  Oddly, Cheri found her spontaneous problem-solving both completely astonishing and perfectly clear. As clear as the top coat she’d just dabbed on her mani. She didn’t understand how she understood the math, she just did. It was as if a window had opened up in her brain. And all the birds who knew algebra had flown in to roost.

  Cheri faced the computer and back-clicked to the assignment folder, finding the correct one for her class. She figured she’d knock it out in just a few minutes now. Take that, Albert Feinstein, she thought with a smile. The makeover challenge no longer seemed daunting at all.

  • • •

  There’s math. And then there’s aftermath.

  Scarlet was back in the basement. Now that all her friends had gone home, she had the un-fun chore of cleaning up after their party. In the harsh light of day, she could see she hadn’t quite thought through the fallout from rampant glitter-soaking.

  The mini microphone at her ear crackled. She tapped the ToothFayree to respond.

  “Yes, Dad, I’ll vacuum like I promised! Over,” she said, then switched the device to VIBRATE.

  But the shiny tiny squares had slipped into every nook and cranny in the space. It was probably going to be sparkling for years to come.

  “Bummer, basement,” Scarlet said, though she didn’t really feel too sorry for the room. Bits of glitter give it a touch of glamour! she thought. Then palm-smacked her forehead to stop her brain from talking like Cheri. Her fingernails caught her eye mid-slap. A circle of purple still stained the pinkie where the candle wax had seeped in. And while she’d been agape at the bloody showdown between the zombie aliens and the ghost sharks in the forest cabin, Cheri had given her a stealth manicure! The sneaky diva. Cobalt blue with a sliver of turquoise on the tips.

  Grudgingly, Scarlet admitted that she liked it.

  She’d overheard Ninja Turtle brother once boast that the more trashed the place, the radder the party. Scarlet scanned the wreckage: videogame disks and Iris’s sketches scattered across crumpled sleeping bags, popcorn kernels mixed with glitter, leftover pizza congealing on the table beside half-empty bottles of soda and juice. What a mess! The sleepover had been a big success.

  And my mom stresses that I’m antisocial. She smirked. Ridic!

  Only crumbs remained of the cupcakes. With the exception of a pink-frosted one that was propped on a pillow like a crown for a princess. Scarlet picked it up and took a bite out of the icing. It was a little stiff after sitting out all night, but still sweet.

  Sugar-charged, she commenced the clean-a-thon.

  I’ll start with the sleeping bags, she thought, picking up the Pikachus and dragging them to the back door to shake out in the fresh air. She imagined the little anime creatures protesting in squeaky cartoon voices. The idea made her snicker.

  Dance, you crazy yellow monsters, dance! she thought.

  But as she shook the sleeping bag, she realized she was shaking—she was shimmying—too.

  Weird.

  Scarlet did not shimmy.

  Climb, kickbox, punch: yes.

  But shimmy?

  Shaken by the shaking, she rolled up the Pikachus and tucked them on a shelf in the laundry room. Then she walked back to the den for the second sleeping bag.

  Except she didn’t exactly walk so much as . . . well, glisser is the official pretentious French word. But if, like Scarlet, you have never taken ballet, let’s just call it gliding. She glid (past tense) over to the Blueberry Muffin bag. Lifted it by two corners. Held it over her head like a banner. And positively skipped out the back door.

  Tippy-toe skips!

  What the—? Scarlet thought, but couldn’t stop. Phantom tendrils of lavender-gray smoke curled up from her heels, evanescing into the air before she ever detected them. She skipped two full tippy-toe figure eights in the backyard, waving Blueberry Muffin from one side to the other, before spinning back into the laundry room.

  Scarlet dropped the sleeping bag and body-slammed against the washing machine, panting hard. She stared down at Blueberry Muffin’s blank, moon-pie face as if it were possessed.

  Maybe it’s the leftover cupcake, she thought, heart pounding. Mom’s always telling me to cool it on the sugar.

  She reached down and gingerly lifted up the cover by one corner.

  “Don’t give me that look,” she growled at the giant muffin head. “You’re a sleeping bag now, but you’ll be a punching bag next if you make me start skipping again!”

  Thankfully, Blueberry Muffin stayed mute. Scarlet rolled the bag up tight and slid it onto the shelf next to the boogaloo Pikachus.

  One more sleeping bag to go.

  She stood in the laundry room doorway. The few steps to the middle of the basement, where the Ninja Turtle waited, suddenly seemed scarier to cross than a six-lane highway. But Scarlet was not the scaredy type. She clenched her fists. Furrowed her brow. Jutted out her lower lip. Blew her bangs out of her eyes. Then she lifted her foot and . . .

  . . . leaped the entire distance in a single gazelley bound, fanning out her arms and flapping her fingers as she did. She landed on the balls of her feet, bent over from the waist to sweep up the Ninja Turtle sleeping bag like a bullfighter’s cape, and in another leap she was out the door and full-on dancing. Left, she dodged, then right, sidestepping a pretend bull, spinning the sleeping bag over her head like pizza dough.

  Pizza dough, Scarlet thought, still in mid-spin. I’ve got to clear off the table and stuff. But now, instead of resisting, she gave in. She gave in . . . to the dance!

  And in a matter of minutes, not only had she shaken out, rolled up, and put away the last sleeping bag, but she’d bagged all the empty bottles, folded the three pizza boxes, fluffed the pillows, vacuumed the glitter, and, for good measure, performed both parts of the Black Swan pas de deux from Swan Lake. A ballet she’d never seen!

  “Scarlet Louise!”

  Dr. Jones stood at the bottom of the stairs, mouth hanging open. The basement was spotless. And apparently her pugnacious daughter was a covert prima ballerina.

  “When did you learn to—?” Dr. Jones spluttered. “Have you been taking—?” For a highly intelligent woman, she was having a hard time completing a sentence. “How—?”

  “Beats me.” Scarlet stood panting in fifth position in the center of the stage room. “But I was perfect . . .” she murmured, exhausted, and took a bow.

  • • •

  Great. My pinkie is purple, Iris observed as she dabbed a dot of caramel-colored paint on the canvas. Instead of wearing off, it was as if the candle wax had suffused her skin, and now very pale vines of violet veined up her arm. So pale she was sure only she could see them. Or maybe they were always there and I just never noticed them before, she reasoned.

  She might have been more al
armed if she didn’t already have purple hair.

  Iris had tucked her curls up into a weathered blue bandanna—sometimes she’d try to pretend they were still blond. And she’d changed into faded denim overalls, which had pockets for all her brushes and pencils and lollipops. She wanted to capture her memory of the sleepover while it was still fresh in her mind. Maybe Scarlet could hang up the picture in her basement. Maybe that would become their clubhouse or something.

  Iris and her mom had moved into a glass-walled high-rise in Sync City. From her room, she could see all the way to the river. During the day, the light was everything a young painter could dream of. At night, all the other skyscrapers sparkled like diamonds. Iris adored it: It felt like her bed was floating among the stars.

  But a modern apartment wasn’t the best place for a clubhouse. That’s what basements were for.

  Iris had painted Cheri, sitting cross-legged in her ice-cream-cone pajamas, polishing her nails. She’d painted Scarlet, on the prowl with the glitter gun. And now she was putting the finishing touches on Opaline, capturing the soft brown of her eyes.

  How sweet that Opal is, crushing on some boy, Iris thought as she painted. So cute the way she confessed it! Iris wasn’t even sure who Albert Feinstein was, but she was going to find out. Maybe she could help nudge them together. Opal was so shy that this Albert boy probably hadn’t a clue he was the object of her affection! But the idea of making Opal happy made Iris happy, and she hummed along as she painted.

  When the painting was done, Iris put down her brush, shook her hair out of the bandanna, and popped a fresh piece of bubblegum. The sun had begun to set, shooting dusky beams between the glass and steel buildings. Not too far away, she could see the HQT, with its domed lab atop the forty-second floor. The waning light split into rainbow rays as it filtered through the prisms of the FLab’s crystal walls.