Madison Kasparkova always thought she understood how Karma works. Do good things and you'll be rewarded, do something bad and Karma will make sure you get what you deserve. But when Maddy’s boyfriendcheats on her, nothing bad comes his way. That’s why Maddystarts the Karma Club,to clean up the messes that the universe has left behind. Sometimes, though, it isn’t wise to meddle with the universe. It turns out Karma often has plans of its own. My phone seems to be ringing louder then usual today. And there's a certain urgency in its tone that makes the incoming call somehow sound more important than most. I stare at it for a moment and then quickly decide to ignore the call. I'm in the middle of studying for a very important European history test and I really don't want to be bothered. The phone rings again. I don't need to look at the caller ID to know that it's Angie who's being so freaking persistent. My friends all have their own ring tones. Angie's happens to be very popular hip-hop song that she insists she started liking way before anyone else did. Personally, I think she doesn't want to admit that she's in any way "mainstream." It would damage that subtle counterculture reputation she's spent so long perfecting. Either way, I think this particular song lost its appeal after about twelve rings. And given the fact that Angie calls me at least sixteen times a day, I am now officially sick of it. I ignore Angie's call again and continue reading about the storming of the Bastille. Whatever is so important can at least wait until King Louis XVI gets his head chopped off. The phone rings a third time. Finally, I groan and pick it up. "What?" Normally, Angie would berate me for my unfriendly greeting, but this afternoon, apparently, she has bigger things to worry about than my tone. "Maddy, get down to Miller's now ." "I can't. I'm studying for my history test," I say, slightly annoyed. "Drop everything and get your butt down here," she practically growls into the phone. "I promise, it's more exciting than the French Revolution." "Yeah, like that's hard," I reply sarcastically. "Just come." And with that she hangs up the phone. Angie has been my best friend since the sixth grade. She probably knows me better than anyone else in my life. For instance, she knows that, right now, I'll sulk around my room for the next few minutes debating about whether or not I really want to give in to her demands. Then I'll eventually close my textbook with a scowl, a slip on shoes, and drive the twelve blocks to Miller's Drug Store, where she works quarter-time as a cashier. I say quarter -time instead of part-time, because although it is a part-time job, she spends only half of the time working and the other half reading magazines from the rack next to the register. I pull into the store parking lot exactly nine minutes later, and I know she'll be patting herself on the back when I walk through the door, incredibly proud of her ability to clock my decision-making process down to the minute. I trudge into the empty store and approach the register, where she's flipping through the new February issue of Contempo Girl, our mutually favorite magazine. Although we have completely different reasons for liking it. I enjoy reading the sections about the new fashion trends, latest celebrity gossip, and relationship advise, while Angie, as far as I can tell, just like reading it so she can have a replenishing supply of people and products to criticize. "What's so important you couldn't just tell me over the phone?" Angie looks up and, without even so much as a hello, shoves the magazine into my hands. I manage to catch it just before it falls to the floor. "Turn to page thirty-five."