The Jinxing Hour: Teddy's Version

It started with an Eggo waffle.

A perfect toaster waffle. Golden, crisp, flawless.

The last frozen Eggo in the box, rescued from the depths of an icy, neglected freezer drawer—beneath the abandoned bag of tater tots and the mystery Tupperware no one dared open.

A syrupy masterpiece, steaming on a silver platter—aka a well-worn, plastic Toy Story plate. Buzz and Woody—barely visible now—scraped thin by years of utensil scratches and dishwasher cycles.

Across the table, Annie and Grace readied for battle.

Twin tornadoes in glitter scrunchies.

Forks drawn like swords, eyes narrowed.

This wasn’t just breakfast.

This was war.

I watched from the trenches. Waiting. Calculating.

I wasn’t big enough to win in a fight.

But I was fast.

I saw my chance. I lunged.

And in that instant, all three of us shouted—

“MINE!”

Then—silence.

The waffle no longer mattered.

Slowly, I looked up.

Annie and Grace turned toward me in unison, ponytails swishing, grins wide, sinister, identical.

A terrifying, synchronized force.

“JINX!” they yelled.

And just like that—my voice was gone.

I opened my mouth. Snapped it shut.

I knew the rules.

The sacred, unbreakable law of Jinx.

I couldn’t speak until one of them said my name.

Annie and Grace high-fived.

And in that moment, I realized something truly awful.

They had never been more united in their entire lives.

And me?

I had never felt more doomed.

-

I tried everything.

Jumping. Pointing. Choking gestures worthy of an Oscar.

Nothing.

Annie and Grace just leaned back in their chairs, sipping their Hi-C juice boxes, studying me like Hermione Granger testing a new spell.

I needed backup. A lifeline. A miracle.

A brother.

I grabbed the nearest object—a ballpoint pen, stolen from Dad’s junk drawer.

With frantic, dying-man energy, I scrawled:

“SAY MY NAME.”

Right across the side of a Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes box. Tony the Tiger stared back at me—grinning, smug, like he was rooting for my downfall.

Annie gasped as if I had just bent the corner of a first-edition Pikachu.

“Oh, Teddy, Teddy, Teddy…” she sighed, shaking her head. “Everyone knows, writing doesn’t count.”

Grace tapped her lip, pretending to ponder. “You want us to say your name?” she said. “Okay—first, do the Macarena.”

“And then bring us Pop-Tarts. But spin three times first.”

“And hop on one leg.”

I stomped my foot. Hard.

Still—no mercy.

They just cackled. The same infuriating, big sister laugh that made my blood boil and smoke come out of my ears.

I had never wanted to speak more in my life. To unleash a monologue. To tell them, in excruciating detail, how they were both the worst people to ever walk the planet.

But I couldn’t.

I was trapped.

Stranded in the lawless wasteland of sibling Jinx.

-

I had one last hope—Mom.

She was in the kitchen, half on the phone, half unloading grocery bags. Distracted. Somewhere between chaos management and pure autopilot.

This was my moment.

I ran to her, pleading silently. Eyes wide. Hands clasped like a medieval peasant begging for a crumb at the castle gates.

But before I could even try, Grace struck first.

“Oh, Mom?” she said, voice suddenly saccharine. The same tone she used when she wanted to stay up late, skip chores, or get away with murder.

She tilted her head, smiling.

“Teddy’s just doing a silent challenge today. So cool, right?”

I whipped around in dismay.

Mom, still balancing her indestructible Nokia brick between her ear and shoulder, barely looked up. She gave me a quick pat on the head. The kind you give a golden retriever blocking the hallway.

I jumped up and down, waving my arms like an air traffic controller guiding in a 747 emergency landing.

This was a crisis.

Mom didn’t even blink.

“That’s great, honey,” she mouthed, pressing a finger to her lips and gesturing to the phone. A silent warning that I was on my own.

I dropped my head into my hands.

Then, slowly—painfully—I turned to face my sisters.

Annie and Grace sat there, perched like ravenous vultures on the backs of their kitchen chairs, dipping their Dunkaroo cookies into funfetti frosting.

Like they had just pulled off the heist of the century.

I glared daggers at them.

They just grinned, munching away.

Nowhere in the world had two sisters ever held more absolute power.

-

If I thought losing my voice was the worst part of this nightmare, I was seriously mistaken.

Because Annie and Grace weren’t done.

No, no. They were just getting started.

Annie stroked her chin, eyes sparkling with evil genius energy—the same look she had when she figured out how to forge Mom’s signature on late homework.

“You know, Grace,” she said, drunk on power. “If Teddy can’t talk, maybe he should express himself. Visually.”

“Maybe,” Grace shrugged. “A little cooperation, and we might just set him free. Maybe.”

They turned to me, eyes gleaming.

“What if we give him…”

“A makeover?”

I shook my head violently.

No.

No, no, no.

But they were already grabbing supplies.

A Caboodle makeup case snapped open like an enchanted spell book, unleashing glittery horrors within—purple eye shadow, Juicy Tubes gloss, and the dreaded Wet n’ Wild blush palette that had haunted family photo albums for years.

Sticky and fruit-scented lip glosses lined the case, a monstrous collection worthy of its own wing in the Smithsonian's Tween Department.

Grace waved a mascara brush like a wand, while Annie twirled a lip gloss tube like an alchemist preparing a dangerous potion.

This wasn’t a makeover.

This was witchcraft.

And I was their helpless sacrifice.

Annie shoved a hot pink boa around my neck.

Grace yanked a tutu from the dress-up bin.

I tried to run.

I made it about two feet before they tackled me like peak-era John Cena flying off the ropes. It was WWE SmackDown, and I was the main event.

And then—it was over.

They moved at lightning speed.

Pink and purple globs smeared up to my eyebrows. Cheeks attacked with enough blush to scare a clown.

I twisted. Dodged. Blocked their brushes.

I silently begged for mercy.

They had none.

“Oh my god,” Grace gasped theatrically, clutching her chest like a soap opera star.

“He looks… stunning.”

“Fashion show,” Annie squealed.

They grabbed a Polaroid camera.

I tried to duck.

The flash went off anyway.

And just like that, they had the ultimate blackmail material. Forever.

I sat there, dazed, covered in glitter and disgrace. My cheeks burned—not from the blush, but from the sheer injustice of it all.

I was ruined.

A victim of Jinx.

A casualty of sibling war.

-

That’s when I knew.

Drastic measures had to be taken.

I scanned the room, eyes darting for anything—anything—that could level the playing field.

And then I saw it.

Sitting on Annie’s bottom bunk, just slightly open, the cover glistening under the slow, hypnotic glow of the lava lamp—

Her Limited Too diary.

Magenta. Sparkly. Unprotected.

My golden ticket to freedom.

The one thing that could restore balance to the universe.

Slowly, deliberately, I reached for it.

Annie and Grace were still cackling over their bubbling cauldron of little brother spellcraft, the kind of wild, unchecked laughter that hadn’t been heard since the Salem witch trials.

Their first mistake.

Then—the sound of rustling pages.

Silence.

I looked up.

Annie stopped cold—like someone yanked the power cord. Joy gone. Panic flashing in its place.

Grace nearly spit out her Orange Lavaburst. Her juice box launched from her hand and crash-landed next to her Hello Kitty alarm clock.

I bolted.

Annie and Grace were already scrambling after me, feet pounding against the carpet, shrieking like banshees.

I dove for the bathroom—heart racing, hands gripping the diary like it was the last piece of Halloween candy on earth.

By the time I reached the toilet, Annie was on my heels, pale as a marshmallow.

Grace skidded to a stop behind her, out of breath, like she’d just run a mile in jelly sandals.

“Oh my god. He wouldn’t.”

I smirked.

And then—I tilted the diary downward for dramatic effect.

A single page fluttered loose, hovering dangerously close to the toilet water.

Annie screamed. Grace pulled her own hair.

That was all it took.

“TEDDY, STOP!”

They cried in unison, voices high, hopeless.

I let my most evil grin creep across my lips like a cartoon villain.

“You said my name.”

I sprang to my feet, triumphant. Glorious. Free.

And just like that, I dropped the diary onto the counter.

No pages lost. No damage done.

Only conquest.

Annie and Grace collapsed onto the floor—defeated, speechless, destroyed.

Their reign was over.

The empire had fallen.

The wicked witches of suburbia, melting.

I took off down the hallway, shouting every insult I’d been saving like ammo.

“ANNIE WEARS GRANDMA UNDERWEAR! GRACE SMELLS LIKE FEET!”

Because for the first time in forever (or at least sixty soul-crushing minutes)—my voice was finally free.

-

Years later, Annie and Grace were leaving.

Packing up their rooms, stuffing their lives into suitcases and plastic storage bins, labeling things “dorm” and “keep” and “Mom’s problem now.”

Goodbyes lurking in doorways, the kind no one wanted to say aloud.

We were in the attic, sorting through old boxes, dust swirling in the slanted light.

Disney VHS Tapes. Pokémon cards. A Tamagotchi, its battery long dead.

Then—Grace gasped.

She pulled out something small, square, slightly bent at the edges.

I leaned over.

My stomach dropped.

The Polaroid.

Like an old scar flaring up beneath the skin.

There I was—frozen in time.

A masterpiece of humiliation.

My face, caked in more makeup than a Broadway performer on opening night.

A pink tutu strangling my waist, like I’d lost a bet with a ballerina.

Annie took one look and roared.

Grace laughed so hard she fell backward into a pile of pillows.

I snatched the photo, stuffing it deep into my hoodie pocket—like that could erase history itself.

“This should be burned,” I muttered.

Our eyes met. We tried to hold it in. Failed instantly.

And then—we lost it.

We were laughing hysterically. Breathless. Stomach-clutching.

The kind of laughter you don’t even hear—it just takes over, shakes through your body, leaves your face aching.

The kind you only share with best friends.

“Jinx,” we said at the same time.

And just like that, we lost it all over again.

Annie flicked a tear from her eye, still grinning.

The attic held its breath, thick with cobwebs and memories—heavy, golden, like time sealed in amber.

We sat there a moment longer, surrounded by fragments of childhood—the dress-up bin, the old board games, the box of Beanie Babies Mom swore would be worth something one day.

And I knew.

I knew that soon, they would be gone.

That the house would feel a size too big.

That I’d come upstairs and their rooms would be too clean, too quiet—like they’d vanished into thin air—on broomsticks, probably.

But that Polaroid, that absurd little snapshot of a memory, was proof.

We had been here. Together.

Once, we belonged to the same world.

Annie and Grace were excited.

For summer jobs and first kisses.

For new roommates and bad haircuts.

For heartbreak—and maybe even falling in love.

And me?

I was mostly excited to have the house to myself.

My own bathroom. Finally.

No more hair in the sink.

No more tying up the landline with “urgent” calls from Ben about his band breaking up—again.

No more hexes or evil twin sorcery.

Good riddance.

But secretly?

Deep down?

Maybe… I’d kinda miss the magic.