As though in agreement, Cleo began sharpening her claws on the rug.
‘How am I meant to choose?’ I moaned, thinking of Josephine’s message and the warning it seemed to carry. ‘I’m not made for decision-making! That stuff is for middle management, not for sports writers.’
Lara rolled her eyes. ‘Well, when you take this job with me, you’ll practically be middle management.’
I grimaced. ‘The thought of managing a team gives me even worse hives than the thought of resolving my love-life issues.’
Lara wasn’t having it. ‘Babe, we’re not doing this. In the immortal words of my dad after I cried because Susie Bruxhill wore the same Ariel costume as me during my first Halloween,Toughen up, princess. Figure out your heart.’
I frowned. ‘Do you hear that?’
‘A whisperwind?’ asked Lara, hopefully.
I shook my head. Someone was arguing outside – not loudly, but fiercely. I went to the window, trying to see what was going on. It was the boys.
I couldn’t make out what was being said, but they were in each other’s faces, exchanging sharp words. Noah’s expression was one of frustration, and Finn was waving his hands the way he did when he was upset.
‘What are they saying?’ whispered Lara, joining me. We pressed our noses against the stained glass as we spied on the brothers. ‘Can you do some magic lip-reading or something?’
I grimaced. ‘All I can make out is that they’re both pissed.’
Just then, both of the boys turned in our direction.
Lara and I ducked down.
‘Did they see us?’ she whispered.
They must have, because a huge net of magic swept across the room in a way not unlike the magical storm on the night of the Summerween Festival.
On my bed, the diary crackled, flipping open once more. The whole room seemed to fill with electricity, and I squealed as the quilt rose up on my bed as if it was possessed by a ghost.
I crouched in a ball on the floor, rising up on my toes like I’d been taught to in the event of a lightning strike. Meanwhile, Lara threw herself into the corner armchair with a yelp, covering her face with her hands. When the magic finally subsided, we both straightened, blinking owlishly and checking our outfits for scorch marks.
‘What the heck was that?’ I asked.
‘Oh my god, Molly,’ said Lara, clamping her hands over her mouth. ‘Your hair.’
I turned to face the mirror that leaned against the wall. What I saw there made me clap my hands to my head. Because my hair was standing on end in a giant, frizzy ball. And no amount of hair product or magic was going to fix it.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Molly?’ came Noah’s muffled voice. ‘Are you in there?’
I shook my head furiously. No way was one of the Tucker boys going to see me like this.
‘She’s sleeping,’ shouted Lara. ‘Come back later.’
Somehow this worked, because he left. I, meanwhile, was busy squinting at the new line of text that had appeared in Josephine’s diary.
The longer you wait, the harder it gets.
Chapter 17
THE POWER OF A GOOD HAIRCUT
A good night’s sleep can fix many things, but not a love triangle. Or a bouffant with magical origins. I’d tried it all: washing it, straightening it, hexing it, squishing a hat over it. And yet my hair remained a giant puffball.
Feeling like the Phantom of the Opera, I’d remained hidden in my room until the others had left to go about their days. Then, grabbing one of Rosie’s giant silk scarves and a pair of the biggest sunglasses I could find, I’d gone racing down the boardwalk into town, not making eye contact with anyone along the way.
Made it.
