Pish Posh by Ellen Potter

nicer,” Clara said frankly.
    â€œYou think so? Here.” Annabelle handed Clara a pair. “Try these on.”
    Clara held the glasses by one stem, and sneered, “They look like something you’d buy at the drugstore.”
    â€œOh, don’t be such a snob,” Annabelle said. She took them and put them on Clara’s face. Then she put the other pair on herself.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” Annabelle said. She turned and left the room, and Clara could hear her feet clomping down the stairs.
    Clara got up and looked at herself in the mirror. The glasses were horrible—the completely wrong shape for her face, and so cheap looking. I’m not a snob, she thought defensively. It’s just that I know the difference between tasteful and tacky.
    She reached up to remove the glasses when she heard a voice—Annabelle’s voice—very distinctly in her ear: “So ... do you still think your glasses are nicer?”
    Clara turned around, but the room was empty and the door was shut. Was she hearing things?
    â€œI asked you a question, Clara.” Annabelle’s voice was in her ear again. “Do you still think your—”
    The glasses! Clara whipped them off and examined them. Right by the bend at the stem was a cluster of pinprick holes shaped in a circle, like a miniature telephone receiver. On the other stem, in the same spot, was a raised black button with a single hole in the center. Clara raised the button to her lips and whistled loudly into it.
    â€œOw!” She heard Annabelle’s muffled cry from the glasses’ receiving end.
    Placing the glasses back on, Clara heard Annabelle complaining, “—was a crappy thing to do! Are you trying to make me deaf?”
    â€œWhat are these things?” Clara asked.
    â€œThey’re called Spyfocals. My dad gave them to me for my birthday last year. What do you think of them?”
    â€œI think they’re just a fancy version of walkie-talkies. ”
    There was utter silence on the other end. Clearly, Clara had offended Annabelle.
    â€œAnnabelle?” Clara said. No answer. Who would have guessed she’d be so sensitive? Clara thought, shaking her head.
    And then, amazingly, Clara found herself looking into a tiny movie screen—actually two movie screens that combined as one—on the inside lenses of her glasses, She was watching a film of Annabelle’s house. The image kept changing, as if the camera were moving down Annabelle’s hallway, until it stopped in front of Mr. Arbutnot’s office. A fist shot out on the screen and knocked on the door.
    â€œCome in.” Clara could hear Mr. Arbutnot’s voice, and the office door opened. Now Clara realized what she was watching.
    There must be a camera in the glasses, and I’ m watching things through Annabelle’s eyes, she thought.
    On the screen Mr. Arbutnot looked up from his desk and smiled when he saw Annabelle.
    â€œFeeling better?” he asked.
    â€œA little. ”
    â€œYour friend cheered you up, then?”
    â€œWho, Clara? Nah. She’s in no shape to cheer anybody up.”
    â€œReally? What’s the matter with her?”
    â€œWell ... you promise you won’t tell anyone?” Annabelle said.
    â€œOf course not.”
    What is she doing!? Clara thought. She’s going to give away the whole thing!
    â€œFoot fungus. Oh, it’s awful. Turns her toenails brown, and the smell...”
    â€œAnnabelle!” Clara cried.
    â€œIsn’t there something the doctors can do about it?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.
    â€œThey’ve tried everything—antibiotic creams, footbaths. Nothing seems to work. ”
    â€œPoor kid.”
    â€œI helped her paint her toenails red. You know... so the fungus doesn’t show as much.”
    â€œYou’re a good friend, Annabelle.”
    â€œI hate you, Annabelle,” Clara hissed, her face crimson.
    â€œWell, I’m glad