The Glitter Trap

  Text copyright © 2013 by Barbara Brauner and James Iver Mattson

  Illustrations copyright © 2013 by Abigail Halpin

  Cover illustration © 2013 by Abigail Halpin

  Cover design by Whitney Manger

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion Books, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10011-5690.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-7922-1

  Visit www.disneyhyperionbooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Acknowledgments

  For my mom: see where bedtime stories lead?

  –B.B.

  For my parents, Katie and Iver, who gave me good initials

  –J.I.M.

  For Emily and Becky

  –A.H.

  My mom’s name is Didi Unger, and that’s a fine name.

  My dad’s name is Jonathan Ware, and that’s a fine name, too.

  My name is Lacey.

  Lacey Unger-Ware.

  Were they crazy?

  How would you like to be “lacy underwear”?

  I Googled it, and I can change my name when I turn eighteen. But that’s six whole years away.

  It’ll be a miracle if I make it through middle school.

  My best friend, Sunny Varden, runs up to me before homeroom. “You’re not going to believe what’s happened to Paige!”

  “Let me guess,” I say. “They’re crowning her queen of sixth grade?”

  “No!”

  “She’s getting her own TV show?”

  “No!”

  “The cute vampire in World Cultures is madly in love with her?”

  Sunny stares at me, totally distracted: “Wait! There’s a cute vampire in World Cultures? Is it Ian? He’s so pale!”

  “Sunny! How many times do I have to tell you? There are no vampires, no werewolves, no leprechauns. So, what’s up with Paige?”

  “You. Are. Not. Going. To. Believe. It!”

  “Tell me, already!”

  “Paige Harrington. The youngest head cheerleader in Lincoln Middle School history. Most popular girl in the universe…has a ZIT! A big red one. Right on her chin!”

  No way! If anyone’s gonna get big red zits, it’s me, not Paige. She’s so perfect that she went from New Girl to Most Popular in a single month. Nobody with zits could have done that.

  Sunny drags me down the hall toward the gym. We turn the corner, and there’s Paige, hanging a poster for Friday’s football game. And sure enough, she’s got a zit on her chin—it’s huge! I pull out my cell phone to take a picture.

  I’m not a bad person, really. I’m nice to old people and small animals. I never even kill bugs. But I am going to post this picture on Facebook, with a funny comment, because when Paige Harrington has a zit, the world needs to know.

  Then, the big red dot on her chin catches the light and sparkles.

  “That’s not a zit,” I say to Sunny, totally exasperated.

  What Sunny thought was a pimple is actually a chunk of glitter off the stupid football poster. Glitter is something the cheerleaders go crazy over, and I don’t get it. It’s just tiny bits of shiny plastic. Why is that so appealing?

  When Paige sees Sunny and me staring at her, I take a couple of steps back and bump into the wall. Paige shouts: “Underwear Girl! NO!”

  Sunny whispers, “Oh my gosh! Paige Harrington knows your name!” Which would be true if my name were Underwear Girl. I shrink back some more, so embarrassed I feel like I’m glued to the wall.

  Wait a minute, I am glued to the wall. My hair is all tangled up in the sticky, sloppy, glitter glue on Paige’s football poster.

  Paige jumps off her ladder and runs over like she’s going to murder me with her staple gun. But instead of stapling me to death, she pulls me away from the poster.

  Ow! I get yanked, but a lot of my hair stays behind. The glitter glue is now all over my hair, my shirt, my jeans, and my backpack—but especially my hair. It looks like Glinda the Good Witch vomited on me.

  Sunny chirps, “I think we can fix it!” as she tries to pick glitter off my clothes and stick it back on the ruined poster.

  But Paige just scowls. “Go away.”

  And when the queen of sixth grade tells you to go away, you do.

  After school, I sit in my parents’ restaurant working on my essay for the Highland Park Zoo intern contest. Every year, the zoo picks one middle school kid to help at the petting zoo. It’s a job a zillion kids want, so you have to write about why they should choose you.

  And they should choose me. I already know I want to be a veterinarian. One time, my hermit crab had a cracked claw, and I fixed it with Krazy Glue. That should impress the zoo people.

  But what if that’s not enough? I try to think. It’s hard to concentrate in a restaurant kitchen when the cook is shouting at the waitress, and she’s shouting right back. Mom and Dad have amazing lung power.

  Dad yells, “Push the asparagus!”

  Mom yells, “Where’s the pilaf?”

  Dad yells, “Xander! Xander! Get in here!”

  Mom yells, “He’s late! Again!”

  I cover my ears with my hair to block out some of the noise. Big mistake. Heavy chunks of glitter fall onto my notebook.

  Darn it, I’ve shampooed my hair three times. And instead of washing out, the glitter glue just got stickier and grosser. When I’m done with my essay, I’m planning to write a letter to the people at Tru-Shampoo. They’ve solved split ends and flyaway hair, so now it’s time to do something about glue.

  I flick the glitter chunks away with a fingernail and try to concentrate.

  “Look, Lacey! Look!” A five-year-old hand plops onto the page in front of me, fingers wiggling to show off new glitter nail polish. Unbelievable! Why does everyone have the glitter gene except me?

  My little sister, Madison, looks at me with her big blue eyes. By the time Madison came along, my parents were better at having kids. Madison’s like me—only, she’s version 2.0. Her eyes are bluer, her hair is wavier, her name is simpler. I’m Lacey Unger-Ware; she’s just Madison Ware. My parents had seven years to rethink the hyphen. But if they wanted to be fair, they should have at least named her Tupper.

  Madison waves her glittery fingernails in front of my face again. “Don’t you love them?”

  “They’re gorgeous.”

  But Madison’s too little to get sarcasm. “I know!” Then she stares at my h
air. “Sparkly!” She can’t resist patting it. “Sticky, too!”

  I am so going to write to Tru-Shampoo.

  Madison pats my hair some more, trying to decide if sparkly beats sticky. Sparkly wins, and Madison beams. “You look like Sugarplum Barbie!” She raises her hands above her head and pirouettes around the table. She’s so adorable I almost forget I’m annoyed with her.

  Madison twirls around Mom, who is passing with a big tray of plates. I expect a crash, but Mom just smiles and does a little dance turn, getting out of the way.

  Dad takes a break from whatever he’s frying and does a little spin himself, finishing with a triple-flip spatula toss. Madison applauds, and he takes a silly half-bow.

  I would never, ever, admit it to Mom and Dad, but it’s nice here in the kitchen. It’s warm, and the food smells good, and we’re all together. One loud family.

  “LACEY!” Dad shouts from across the room. I know what this means, so I look down and start writing really fast in my notebook.

  “LACEY UNGER-WARE! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!”

  Sure I can hear him. People in Canada can hear him! I crouch way down over my essay.

  Dad plunks a couple of takeout boxes in front of me. I look up with a blank expression, like I’ve never seen a takeout box in my life.

  Dad says, “Xander’s late again.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The customer’s only two blocks away. And they prepaid.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Be sure to wear the T-shirt.”

  “Dad! No!”

  “It’s good advertising for the restaurant.”

  “No!”

  “Please! We’re swamped. I really need you to pitch in.”

  I’m about to explain how this essay is going to affect my entire future. First, I’ll be the zoo intern, then I’ll get in to a good college, then I’ll be a famous veterinarian who works with polar bears. Or maybe pandas. Or maybe some other kind of bear that I’ll discover in the Amazon. And it all depends on this one life-or-death essay.

  That argument would probably work with Dad, who may be loud but is a big softy underneath. But he looks so hopeful that I just can’t bring myself to mention the bears and my future.

  I pick up the boxes, sigh loudly, and head out the door.

  “Don’t forget the T-shirt!” Dad calls after me.

  It’s dusk when I carry the takeout boxes out of the restaurant and check the delivery address: 1422 Eastlake Street.

  I can’t believe Dad made me wear this T-shirt. You’re probably thinking, How bad can it be? First, it’s lime green—you can see it from space. Some scientist guy in China is looking at his satellite feed right now and saying, “My eyes! My eyes! You’re hurting my eyes!”

  And what kind of crazy people name a restaurant the Hungry Moose? Right. My parents. The same ones who named me Lacey Unger-Ware.

  Finally, there’s the picture on the T-shirt. It’s supposed to be a moose, but it looks more like a cross-eyed Great Dane. My mom drew it, and she’s such a nice person that everybody pretended it was good. But it’s not. I mean, really, really not.

  I just hope I don’t see anyone I know.

  Eastlake Street has a lot of big houses where doctors and lawyers live. And you should see the lawns. Green. Just green. No dandelions or bleached-out dog-pee patches like in my neighborhood.

  At house number 1422, there’s a ginormous moth circling the porch light, and I wonder about this for a second. On a street this nice, you’d think there’d be a rule against bugs.

  As I ring the doorbell, I’m thinking about how much I want to get back to the restaurant and take this T-shirt off. The door opens.…

  Oh no.

  Oh no!

  OH NO!

  It’s Paige Harrington.

  I can’t help blushing. My burning red face must really clash with my lime-green T-shirt, because Paige stares at me as if I were a clown from planet Dork. Maybe I’ll be lucky, and she won’t recognize me. “Underwear Girl?” she says, surprised. I’m never lucky.

  “Uh…hi!” I stammer. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

  Paige can’t take her eyes off my hair. “Is that glitter?”

  “Uh…yes.”

  “Nice.”

  Unlike Madison, I do get sarcasm.

  Paige grabs the boxes out of my hands and closes the door without another word.

  I don’t know how it’s possible, but I blush even harder. I can’t make up my mind if I’m more mad or humiliated. Maybe I’m madiliated.

  As I bolt down the steps, there’s a buzz of little wings. That stupid moth! It’s decided that I’m more interesting than the porch light, and it circles around my head, making this weird, excited GLURRR! noise.

  I wave it away with my hand, but it keeps dive-bombing my hair. GLURRR! GLURRR! GLURRR!

  I hurry down the sidewalk, hoping that if I move away from the light, the moth will leave me alone. It doesn’t. GLURRR!

  I scurry up Eastlake Street. GLURRR!

  I start to run. GLURRRRR! This moth just won’t give up. I’m usually not scared of bugs, but this is spooky. I run even faster.

  Suddenly, it’s quiet. Yay! It’s gone! Then…

  GLURRRRRRRRR!!!!

  I feel like I’m trapped in one of those scary movies my mom won’t let me watch, where the sound is coming from…

  …inside the house!

  GGGGGGGLURRRRRRRRRRRRR!

  The moth is in my hair. Yuck!

  I reach up to pull it out and then stop myself. Which is worse? A wiggling live moth or a squished and guts-oozing dead one?

  A guts-oozing dead moth. No question.

  Ten minutes later, I stand in my bedroom holding up strand after strand of glittery, gluey hair. The moth is in there someplace; I can hear it GLUURRRING.

  My big orange cat, Julius, crouches on the dresser, his butt shaking the way it does when he’s about to pounce. Once, he attacked Madison’s Ballerina Barbie, and Barbie lost a foot.

  “Don’t even think about it!” I say as I push him off the dresser. He stalks away, his feelings hurt.

  Where’s the moth? I keep searching. Wait, there it is! Ew! Ew! It’s huge! I grab scissors to cut it out—and the moth SCREAMS.

  And I scream, too, louder than I’ve ever screamed, maybe louder than anyone has ever screamed.

  Because it’s not a moth. Moths don’t have faces!

  I snip off the hair and the whatever-it-is falls to the floor.

  Ew! It’s squirming! It’s horrible! But then I see a flash of brilliant color, like butterfly wings.

  I crouch down to get a better look. Along with the wings and the face, I see a little dress made of shiny fabric. OMG! It’s a little woman! Am I dreaming?

  I reach out my hand to touch her—and she bites me, hard. OW! I am definitely not dreaming!

  The tiny woman struggles to free her wings from the sticky glitter glue and my cut-off hair. But she doesn’t look like you’d expect a fairy to look. Her face has too much makeup, her lipstick is smeary, and her red hair has white roots. In fact, she looks a lot like Dad’s aunt Ginny after a hard week in Vegas.

  “You’re a monster!” she says in a raspy little voice. Wow! She even sounds like Aunt Ginny. I wonder if she’s been trying to quit smoking for the past thirty years, too? My mouth drops open.

  “And close your mouth. No one wants to look at that.”

  Some of the glitter in my hair catches the light, and she covers her eyes as if it’s blinding her. “Glur! Cover it up! Cover it up!”

  “My hair?”

  “No. The glur! The shiny glur!”

  I ask, “The glitter, you mean?”

  “Yes! Glitter! Glur! Cover it up! Cover it up!”

  I stuff my hair under a baseball cap as the little woman peers out from between her fingers. She says, “You’re a very bad girl. Setting a glitter trap!”

  “A glitter trap?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me. All that glur and glue! I
t’s a glitter trap! What else could it be?”

  What is her problem? “You think I did this to my hair on purpose?” I say. “It’s not my fault that Paige Harrington is a glitter maniac!”

  The little woman’s eyes open wide. “Oh, dear lord. Paige Harrington! I’m supposed to be with her right now!” She pulls at the sticky hair. “Get me loose! Get me loose!”

  “What are you, exactly?”

  “I’m a fairy godmother, you ninny! Isn’t that obvious? Help me! GET ME LOOSE!”

  Now I’m getting mad. “No!”

  “Don’t make me hurt you!”

  “You’re the size of my finger! How are you going to hurt me?”

  “With this magic wand. You’re going to be sorry you ever met Katarina Sycorax!” She reaches into her sleeve, pulls out a pin-size wand, and aims it at herself: “Hair that binds now unwinds!” The tip of the wand glows brightly, and the hair that’s stuck to her dissolves into a million pieces.

  Then she fixes me with her beady little eyes and says, “Your turn.”

  There’s a moment when time freezes. I know she’s only three inches tall, but she’s really mad, and she’s got a magic wand, and I don’t want to dissolve into a million pieces. I hold up my hands and say, “Don’t shoot! Don’t zap! Uh…don’t wand!”

  She chants, “Girl who annoyed me, shall now a flea be!”

  Oh no. Oh no! OH NO! I don’t want to be a flea! The tip of the wand glows again, even brighter than before. But just as she swings it…

  …Julius pounces and swallows her up in one gulp. He sits there with a smug expression on his face, as if a fairy is the best cat treat ever.

  OMG! He ate her! What am I going to do?

  Then I hear the sound of the front door opening, and Mom calls, “Lacey? Are you here?”

  I pick up Julius. “Spit her out!”

  Julius clamps his mouth shut, so I use my fingers to pry it open. I see his sharp teeth and rough pink tongue, but no little woman with butterfly wings. Sure, she wasn’t sweet and kind like fairies are supposed to be, but that didn’t mean I wanted her to get eaten by a cat.

  Mom walks into my bedroom with Madison right behind her. Mom says, “There you are! Why didn’t you come back to the restaurant?”