Free The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball by Risa Green Page B

it’s a coincidence. It doesn’t mean anything.”
    Lindsay is grinning from ear to ear, as if the whole thing with Megan and Chris Bollmer never even happened. Or maybe she’s just really happy to have something else to think about.
    â€œNo way,” she argues. “That was no coincidence. That was magic. That crystal ball of yours is magic. For real.”

Twelve
    Samantha, Lindsay, and I are all sitting around the kitchen table, finishing our homework. They agreed to come over tonight to help me with my Italy essay because I still have absolutely no idea what to write about. Although, come to think of it, I didn’t even ask them to help me.
    We were in free period this afternoon—it was sixth period, after we had all calmed down from the Spencer Ridgely hysteria—and when I mentioned that my parents were going out tonight, Samantha said that she and Lindsay would be over at five. Which normally would have been great, but I kind of hemmed and hawed, and finally I told them that I didn’t think it was such a good idea, because as much as I would love to hang out with them and watch a movie, I really do need to get started on this essay, and I have a feeling that it’s going to take a while since I have no clue what I’m going to say. And that’s when Lindsay suggested that she and Samantha could help. Which was really sweet and quite a relief, actually, because at this point, I need all the help I can get.
    I hear shoes clacking on the hardwood floor—I can tell by the sound of them that they’re not heels, but rather the ugly, practical, orthopedically correct black flats that my mother always wears—and then she appears in the kitchen. She’s wearing a black knee-length sheath dress, and I think she’s even got some makeup on—if “makeup” could be defined as a little bit of ChapStick and some under-eye concealer. And she’s wearing perfume. Hanae Mori, to be exact. It’s my mom’s favorite (also her only), and she only wears it when she has somewhere really important to go. Unlike Samantha’s mom, who wears perfume to the market or to play tennis or even just to sit around the house. Samantha’s mom says that she doesn’t feel like she’s fully dressed unless she’s wearing an eau de toilette —she actually says that, eau de toilette , and she says it with a perfect French accent. When she was modeling in Paris in her twenties, she taught herself to speak the language. And just for the record, Samantha’s mom also does not feel fully dressed without mascara, eye shadow, lip liner, lipstick, heels, and, I’ve heard, a thong.
    Samantha would kill me for saying this, but it’s not hard to see where she gets some of her habits. Although, I guess the same could be said for all of us, for better or worse.
    My mom takes her wallet out of her purse and places two twenties on the kitchen counter. “Girls, I’m leaving you cash for dinner, and there are takeout menus in the drawer. Tip the delivery guy fifteen percent, and when he rings the doorbell, make sure you ask him for identification. There are all kinds of crazy people who go around impersonating delivery men.”
    Samantha, Lindsay, and I all roll our eyes at each other. We’ve been through this drill a million times with my mother.
    â€œGot it, mom,” I groan. “We’ll ask for ID. Promise.”
    â€œYou look nice, Dr. Channing,” Lindsay says, changing the subject. “Where are you off to?”
    My mom blushes. “Oh, it’s just a charity event for the hospital where I work. I’m getting an award. It’s really nothing.”
    â€œIt’s not nothing ,” my dad counters as he walks into the kitchen. “She’s getting the award for pediatric doctor of the year. It’s the hospital equivalent of a Best Picture Oscar.” He’s wearing the same black suit that he wore to