The Pearl Inside of Anything

4:00 p.m.

I didn't know that when my own personal fairy godfriend showed up, she'd be wearing jeans, a black and white striped T-shirt and more eyeliner than Joan Jett.

The thing about little miracles is, they can happen on the worst of days. And they can be very hard to recognize in the moment. In the moment, they can just be weird. You don't expect them while you're waiting for the elevator at the Villa Renzo after suffering through the sheer injustice of Study Hall and almost an hour of straining to hide your acne from the sort-of New Guy at Templeton.

And miracles seem to depend a lot on timing to matter at all. I mean, if you're starving in Germany and it's the end of World War II and chocolate drops from the sky, that is a miracle. But if you're on a diet and it starts raining Hershey's, that is a whole different story.

I don't have a lot of experience with miracles, if I did, you can be sure I would not be sharing a bedroom with my little brother. But today, this afternoon, when Patrick and I get back to the Villa Renzo, a miracle happened. I'm absolutely sure.

You also don't really expect your fairy godfriend to come chasing after you. Don't they usually just arrive somewhere you already are? But Angie-from-Downstairs pretty much tackled me in the elevator. I wanted to shrink and disappear. My hair had been covering my face all day, and I'd pulled it back in a scrunchie on the way home for a little relief. You know it's bad when your little brother looks at your face and flinches. I had gotten through the whole day without anyone but Patrick seeing my breakout, only to get busted a few floors from my door.

We sort of know (and have to pretend we don't) what everybody is up to in the building, or Dad does anyway. Who drops what in the toilet on a regular basis, who is jamming the washing machine with rugby shirts and hockey gear, who cooks fish every night of the week. But Angie is new. We don't get new people very often. It's actually not easy to get a place in Villa Renzo, but Angie wanted this one apartment that nobody else did because it has a windowless second bedroom. That's the one that's hard to rent so I remember when she came along because Dad said she was all thrilled because now she could have her own darkroom. We figured photography was her thing. But other than that, until today we didn't know if she lives with a giant plastic doll collection like Mrs. Ottenson in 2B, collects cat figurines or likes to sell ice cream cones from her porch patio. My Dad says he has heard of tenants in other buildings doing that and Patrick and I keep hoping but it hasn't happened yet.

You can't get away with much at the Villa Renzo of the noisy, smelly or tax-evading variety. Dad runs a pretty tight ship. He has to, we live in a neighborhood that is mostly giant houses and people with money. He says the idea of an apartment building in their neighborhood is "like a bee on their butt-cheeks". We all have to be on our best behaviour and not aggravate the social situation or one of these days we'll be back in the trailer park when the city turns Villa Renzo into history and there's one more family mansion in its place.

Anyway, that was pretty much all I knew about Angie, until she leaped into the elevator, this afternoon, grabbed my elbow and blurted out:

"THAT is the most fantastic streak of acne I have EVER seen!"

Fantastic is not exactly the word I would have used. For a second, I don't quite register what Angie's said exactly, because she's all enthusiastic and excited. Who gets excited about acne?

So I am struck dumb.

"No, seriously, I really mean it. You just have to let me photograph it. I mean, it's amazing, really contrasting with your skin tone, it totally stands out on your face ..."

"Photograph it?" I am mortified. "Photograph it?" Why anyone would want a record of this epidermal outrage is a mystery to me. I sure don't. I pull back from Angie, but she's still got a grip on my elbow. Note to self: start taking the stairs. I reach over klutzily and press the third floor button. "Uh, second?" I hint to Angie. The sooner I can get away from her, the better. No sense dragging this out.