Greta was squinting at the Pants. "Are those yours?" she asked.
Bridget nodded.
"Would you like me to wash 'em for you? A little bleach would clean that whole mess right off them."
Bridget looked aghast. "No! No, thank you" she cradled them protectively. "I like them how they are."
Greta clucked and shook her head. "To each, her own," she muttered.
You have no magic in you, Bridget thought.

Auteur: Ann Brashares