Read The Sleepover for Free Online Page B

towering pyramid built out of Mountain Dew cans, and wipe my sticky hands on my pajama pants.
    Wow. Just . . . wow.
    I reach Paige and jostle her shoulder. She still has the sweatshirt over her eyes and an arm draped across that, holding it in place. “C’mon, Paige. Wake. Up. Now!”
    She swats at me from under the covers, but I catch herwrist and tug, dragging her out of the sleeping bag. The sweatshirt falls aside, and I stare into her face.
    Paige looks back, opens her mouth . . . and screams.
    Which wakes Veronica. And makes me scream.
    â€œEeeeeeeeeep!” we all shriek.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” My voice is high-pitched, like I’ve inhaled helium. I turn to Veronica—wait, is she wearing footie pajamas? No time to think about that right this second—who blinks at me once before her mouth drops open. Oh God. I get a bad taste in my mouth that doesn’t have anything to do with morning breath. Why are they looking at me like I grew a second nose overnight? My hands fly to my face, and I dart frantic looks back and forth between the two of them. Why aren’t they saying anything?
    â€œWhat? What is it? Do I have a giant zit, because that happens sometimes and I can’t—”
    â€œIt’s not that.” Paige’s forehead goes all crinkly. “It’s . . . Oh man, I don’t know how to . . .”
    â€œYou’re missing an eyebrow,” Veronica blurts.
    Say what ?
    My fingertips move from my cheeks to my eyes, and I begin feeling above them. I brush distinctive fuzz, and there’s a reassuring, soft scritching sound as I explore the ridge above my right eye. But then I move my fingers to the same spot above my left eye and . . . it’s disturbingly smooth, like the skin of an apple.
    No. No, no, no, no, no, no !
    This cannot be happening.
    I kick aside a pillow and step over Paige in a race to the bathroom, not even stopping to get grossed out over something gooey I step in. I grab the door handle and push down, but it doesn’t budge. I jiggle it a few times and am just lifting my fist to pound when it opens inward, throwing me off-balance.
    Max, in plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a matching top, blinks at me; then, after a beat or two, grins. “Classic,” he says, laughing as he slides past me.
    Ugh! I feel like screaming again, but I bite it back and slam the door shut behind me. Then I creep to the sink, prop my hands on the sides, and lean in close to the mirror.
    Oh. Heavenly. Heckweasels!
    I have one eyebrow. ONE! I stare and stare, but no amount of blinking shows me anything different than a one-eyebrowed freak. This cannot be happening. Can. Not. My life is ruined. It takes a few moments of gaping into the mirror for my brain to start moving again and, when it does, it’s completely full of questions I have zip—zero—answers for.
    At the top of the list: how long does it take for eyebrows to grow, anyway? Surely, longer than a few hours, which is all I have before my mom comes to pick me up and take me to handbell practice at church. Could a hat hide it? Makeup?I mean, obviously I’m not allowed to wear makeup, but maybe Paige can work some magic so my parents won’t notice.
    Oh God, but then there’s school! There is no way I can go to school on Monday with one eyebrow—and it’s not like I’ll have Paige at my house in the morning to help even if she could find a way to hide it with makeup. Plus our school has a no-hats-indoors policy, so that won’t work.
    â€œMegs?” Paige taps gently on the other side of the door. “Are you okay? Can I do anything?”
    â€œI’m fine. I just need to . . . process.”
    I go back to thinking as hard as I can.
    A headband? I’ve seen some high school girls wearing a thin ribbon around their foreheads in some hippie-bohemian kind of look. Would anyone buy it if I