The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball by Risa Green

Aunt Kiki’s memorial service last week, but with a light blue tie instead of his gray funereal one. His thick brown hair is slicked back and, if I squint, I can kind of see how my mom thinks that he looks like Mel Gibson. But I have to squint really, really hard.
    Samantha clears her throat. “You know, since you’re getting an award, I could fix your hair for you. We could put it up in a French twist—just a little sexy for evening, but still very professional. And we could put some color on your cheeks, and maybe a little bit of lip gloss?”
    My mom smiles. “Thank you for offering, Samantha, but I’m afraid that I’ll have to pass this time. We’re already late as it is.”
    Samantha has been trying to make over my mom since she first laid eyes on her, but every time she offers, my mom finds an excuse for why she can’t do it. I’ve tried to tell Samantha that she shouldn’t take it personally. But of course Samantha always pouts, just a little.
    When my parents are finally gone (after reminding us three more times to ask the delivery guy for ID), Lindsay rifles though the takeout menus.
    â€œI’m starving ,” she announces. “What about pizza? Or there’s that sandwich place that delivers. They have the best chicken parm hero. Yum.”
    â€œSorry,” Samantha says, plucking the menus out of her hand. “But I wasn’t planning on gaining five pounds tonight. Do you have any idea how many calories are in a chicken parm hero? It’s like a fat suit on a plate.”
    Lindsay giggles. “Well excuse me, Jenny Craig. What did you have in mind? And don’t say salad. I want real food.”
    â€œDo you guys trust me?” Samantha demands, suddenly serious.
    At this, Lindsay and I exchange worried glances. The last time Samantha asked us that question, we ended up hiding in a bush in front of Colin Broder’s house, looking out for the police while Samantha wrapped toilet paper around a tree in his front yard. He was a senior, she was a freshman; he said he would meet her at the movies and he never showed up; she found out the next day that it had all been a joke, and that he had a girlfriend who went to a private school a few towns away. Moral of the story: Samantha does not do well with jokes. At least, not when they’re at her expense.
    â€œUm, no, not really,” I say. But she just rolls her eyes at me and picks up the phone.
    â€œWho are you calling?” Lindsay asks, as Samantha begins to dial.
    â€œAhn’s Market. It’s in Chinatown.” Lindsay and I glance at each other again, and Samantha catches us. “Honestly, you two should be more appreciative, because I’m about to order dim sum that will change your lives forever.”
    ***
    Samantha is right. This dim sum is life-changing. I don’t even know what it is that I’m eating, I just know that I want to it eat every day for the rest of my life. Although that is unlikely, because in addition to being insanely good, it’s also outrageously expensive. The forty dollars that my mom left us didn’t even begin to cover it, so Samantha put it on her mom’s house account and gave the cash to the delivery guy. (And yes, we asked him for ID. Although I can’t really imagine that there are that many serial killers out there impersonating small Asian men in gray flannel pants and moth-eaten green wool cardigans.)
    â€œOkay, Erin,” Lindsay says seriously, once we’ve devoured every last morsel of food. “It’s time to get to work.”
    â€œI know . I have got to figure out what I’m going to say in this essay. And by the way, I am totally open to suggestions. Just throw out any ideas you have…”
    Samantha and Lindsay look at each other and both of them burst out laughing.
    I’m confused. “What?”
    â€œDid you really think that we were going to help you work on your Italy