By Meg Cabot
The single factor Jean Honeychurch hates greater than her uninteresting identify (not Jean Marie, or Jeanette, simply . . . Jean) is her all-too-appropriate nickname, Jinx. Misfor-tune turns out to stick with her in every single place she goes—which is why she's extremely joyful to be relocating in together with her aunt and uncle in ny urban. probably whilst she's midway around the kingdom, Jinx can eventually outrun her undesirable success. Or a minimum of get away the havoc she's triggered again in her small fatherland. yet hassle has certainly Jinx to big apple. And it really is inflicting mammoth difficulties for her cousin Tory, who's now not satisfied to have the relatives black sheep round. appealing, glamorous Tory is hiding a deadly secret—one that she's convinced Jinx goes to bare. Jinx is starting to comprehend it is not just undesirable good fortune she's been working from. it really is anything way more sinister . . . and the curse Jinx has lived less than because the day she was once born may well simply be the one factor which can shop her lifestyles.
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Additional resources for Jinx
I slowed my pace as we approached it. I could see the sign, cut into the shape of a crescent moon, hanging above a black awning. ENCHANTMENTS, it said. What was I going to say when he asked— as he undoubtedly would—why I was going to a store that specialized in…well…witch paraphernalia? Zach was telling me about a documentary he’d seen the night before about a team of plastic surgeons who go to Third World countries to perform free corrective surgery on kids with cleft palates and stuff. Zach is very into documentaries.
To my complete and utter mortification, they’d brought with them two dozen pink roses which they’d presented to me with their thanks for what they perceived that I’d done for Zach. I had tried to be gracious, the way my mom would have wanted me to be. But it was hard. I mean, everyone —not just Tory—thought I’d done this huge, noble thing, thrusting myself in the path of this out-of-control bicyclist. When really, all I’d done was just been my typical luckless self. The whole time Zach and his parents had been there, I’d been unable to keep from wishing that a hole would open up in the Gardiners’ parquet floor and swallow me alive.
Fifty dollars? For scooping Mouche’s box and picking the kids up after school once a week? “I can’t take this. You’re already paying my tuition for school and letting me stay here and everything—” I suspected the Gardiners had done more than this, even. I couldn’t be sure, but I gathered, from things I heard around school, that not just anyone was admitted to Chapman. There was a wait list, one that I had apparently jumped to the head of, due to a “donation” the Gardiners had made on my behalf.