“You sort of passed outontoBettie Watson.”
“A do-over it is.” He stares at me steadily, the right half of his face lit up in rainbow, a groove between his brows. “Say the words.”
“Take us back half an hour. Make my wish come true.”
Hall grabs my arm, and we spin, feet lifting off the floor. We’re flung through stark, heavy nothingness, compressing my lungs. I can’t get enough air, I can’t—
We land on our feet, but barely, toppling against the washing machine. It isn’t as bad this time around, maybe because we only traveled half an hour, and we went backward instead of forward. He catches me, both of us staggering. I knock over the Tony, breaking off the iconic medallion that sits within the trophy’s pewter swivel. Hall repairs it, but he’s still unsteady on his feet and his magic comes out wrong. The trophy grows to six times its normal size.
“What’d you do?”
“Shh, I’m fixing it!” he hisses. Since we’re still in the laundry room/bathroom, it’s almost as if we never left at all—except that the prismatic window film strikes the left side of Hall’s face now, the position of the sun rewound. He frowns determinedly at the trophy and it shrinks back to normal. The comedy and tragedy masks engraved in the medallion have been replaced with Idris Elba and James Corden as they appeared in the 2019 filmCats.
“Wait,” I interrupt before Hall can mess with it again.
He pauses.
“Keep it that way.”
“What?” His voice is high, and I gesture wildly to drive it back down into a whisper. It’s supposed to be half an hour ago, which means he and I should be hiding behind the cluster of lodgepole pines that Grandpa planted to prevent us kids from whizzing down the mountain to our deaths in our sleds. I quickly lock the door. “I can’t leave it like this. This is Bettie Watson’s Tony award!”
“That’s what she gets for not having enough pictures of me around. We’re going to fix that, too. I want you to switch out those dreamy glamour photos of Grandma with my mug shot. Also switch out Athena’s husband in all of their wedding pictures for Gritty, the mascot for the Philadelphia Flyers.”
Hall’s mouth pops open, terror in his eyes, as I say, “Make my wish come true.”
His jaws snaps together. “Let me fix the Tony.”
“How about instead of that, we give me a makeover.” I survey myself. “I’m not impressive enough, it seems.” Which is outrageous, because I’m wearing the vest fromBill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Not a replica! It’s the real thing! “Give me something dazzling? Make my wish come true.”
Poof, and I’m in a Christmas sweater. Tinsel fringes the collar, hem, and both sleeves.
“Not dazzling enough.”
Poof.My pants have tinsel fringe, too.
“You’re thinking small scale,” I tell him, and then convey us through a series of wardrobe changes. I try on Christina Aguilera’s outfit from the “Lady Marmalade” music video, just forfunsies. (Hall blushes.) Marilyn Monroe’s white dress billowing in a blast of air. Every single outfit fromCrazy Rich Asians. Sissy Spacek’s blood-drenched prom gown. Björk’s swan dress. None of them are grand enough. I begin to despair. “I want something big and powerful. Astatement. Something fit for a queen.”
Hall snaps his fingers and I’m in a dress of rich gold and crimson brocade, with a magnificently jeweled collar that fans up toward my chin and then flares out. It weighs about a hundred pounds. I admire myself in the medicine cabinet mirror. “Damn, boy, is this medieval?”
“I took it directly from the closet of Mary the First.”
“See? This is what I deserve, Hall. Actual royalty.” I do a twirl, with no small amount of effort, knocking him out of the way. My skirt takes up the whole room.
“You need to spiff up, too,” I advise. “Try on that confusing cowboy archaeologist getup fromIndiana Jones.”
He does, but it’s not enough drama. “We need a jaw-dropper, or Grandma’s going to lacerate you from top to bottom again as soon as you walk through the door. It’s those marshmallow snowmen on your sweater—she looks at them and sees a bull’s-eye.”
“Actually.” He bites his lip, a bit bashful. “Thereissomething I’d like to try.”
“Go for it! Big guns.”
“But don’t laugh.” He swallows, shutting his eyes tightly, a fog of mint enveloping him. When it’s dispersed, he’s decked out in a sharp white suit, chestnut hair slicked back. The crisp onyx collar beneath his white waistcoat is scandalously unbuttoned, exposing a distracting quantity of chest, and—is that—?
It is. A gold necklace winks at me. It flashes little cartoonsparkles and I swear I hear it make ading!sound. He looks... unsettlingly attractive. If he were simply a guy I’d spotted in a bar, I would definitely ruin his life.
“Is the chest hair too much?” he asks self-consciously, skimming one hand along his truly spectacular coiffure. “I gave myself a lot more of it, to better emulate John Travolta.” He strikes a pose. “I’mSaturday Night Fever.”
“You look great.” I clear my throat.
