Chasing the White Witch (2 page)

"W
hat
the heck are you doing?” demanded Jordan. He examined me with a look of carefully balanced amusement and suspicion. “And what is that disgusting smell?”

I froze. I was caught red-handed — or white-lumpy-handed, anyway. I could tell by the evil glint in Jordan's eye this wasn't going to end well. I had to think fast.

“I, er … I, um … midnight snack,” I announced firmly.

Jordan's eyes narrowed. They volleyed from my face to the enormous bowl and back again. He wasn't buying it. I'd have to be more convincing. I raised my chin and one eyebrow (luckily I had eyebrows again), and without taking my eyes off him, I scooped up a handful of lumpy paste and pressed it into my mouth. “
Mmm
,” I said, forcing myself to swallow. “Want some?” I held out the bowl to him.

Jordan blinked twice and shoved it away. “You're so weird, Claire.” He reached down and gave Cyrus a scratch behind the ear. “Next time, try using a spoon, you slob.” He turned and left the kitchen.

As soon as I heard the stairs groan under his weight, I snatched a dishtowel and wiped my hands. I tore open the fridge, grabbed a carton of orange juice, and gulped down its entire contents to try and get rid of the nasty taste. My stomach bubbled. Clearly, the orange juice was not making friends with the yogurt and cheese. I took a few long drawn breaths to let my insides settle. My tongue was burning from the garlic. I tried scrubbing it with the dish sponge, but that only made it worse.

Cyrus was staring at me the whole time. He had this irritating way of making me feel like a total idiot.

“What?” I demanded.

You belong in a yard sale
, his amber eyes seemed to say.

I turned my back on him. What did he know about my problems? He was just a dumb old dog. It wasn't like
he
had to worry about other animals whispering about
him
behind his back if he got fleas or kennel-cough. I, on the other hand, had Little Miss Perfect and her gang of gossiping gargoyles to deal with. I was tired of all of them picking on me. Especially Hollis.

And as if her bullying wasn't bad enough, Hollis had this little giggle and this way of pursing her lips and tilting her head that everyone, including the teachers, found irresistible. She got away with tons of junk.

Just last week she'd managed to wriggle her way out of schoolyard cleanup by claiming she had a
slight migraine
. So while the rest of us seventh-grade suckers trudged through the mucky yard gathering disgusting old wrappers, slimy banana peels, pop cans, and other unidentifiable trash, she was probably lying in the office with an ice pack on her forehead, humming to herself, and thinking up new ways to destroy my life. Just the thought of it made my blood sizzle.

I gathered up my bowl, switched off the light, and side-stepped Cyrus, the judgmental beagle. I headed upstairs to the solitude of the bathroom to continue my magical remedy. By Monday morning, my pimple would be ancient history and Hollis and the rest of the girls would have to find some other target for their poisonous arrows.

“Don't bother following,” I called over my shoulder.

Cyrus ignored me as usual, trotting up the stairs and right into the bathroom alongside me. I sighed and repeated my best I-know-you-can't-see-me-but-I'm-frowning-at-you-anyway scowl before poking my head out the door to make sure Jordan wasn't lurking nearby. Satisfied the coast was clear, I shut the door.

I switched on the lights and stood staring at myself in the mirror for the longest time. A thought began to swell in my mind. I pounced on it and tried to squelch it, but it slipped free and ran rampant through my brain:
Why can't I look more like Hollis Van Horn?
Those sea-foam eyes. That long hair with alternating honey and gold highlights. Those perfect teeth. That perfect smile. That perfect nose.

I sighed and opened a drawer. I took out a hair band and forced the mud-coloured frizz off my blotchy face. Digging into my pajama pocket, I withdrew the little white book and laid it open on the counter next to the sink. I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. “Here goes nothing,” I said, scooping up a handful of the reeking remedy. I began smearing the paste all over my face, all the while chanting:

I feel the magic deep within me,

By the power and energy of three times three.

Blisters, boils, bubbles be gone,

Cleanse my pores, cleanse 'til dawn!

I began tentatively, pronouncing each syllable with great care until I'd completed the entire verse once. The second time, the words began to flow, picking up speed, filling the contours of my mouth before spilling from my lips. By the third time, the rhyme spewed out of me with absolute confidence, gushing forth from somewhere deep within, as if I were somehow born to speak it. As far as my face was concerned, I began to feel something. Was it magic? Was it power? Or was it just the weight of the cheese? I didn't care. Something told me this was going to work. I could feel it in my bones. I could smell the garlicky stench of victory in the air around me.

I looked down at Cyrus. He looked up at me. I blinked. He blinked. I waited for him to snorfle, or sneeze, or growl, but he didn't. I took it to be a good sign.

I grabbed a towel from the rack to cover my pillow — sleeping with this gloop on my face was going to be the real challenge. But I was up for it. I felt like I could march out of the bathroom and conquer the universe, even if I did look like a giant blancmange.

S
unlight
crept through a crack in the blinds and tickled my eyelashes. I yawned and stretched. My mind was soupy — oozing back and forth between dream and reality. I rolled out of bed and slogged toward the door.

It was Sunday morning. The turkey would be half-thawed and Mom would be frantically scouring and scrubbing the house for tomorrow's Thanksgiving feast. My best friend Paula-Jean, who I call Peej for short, would arrive in the afternoon for a sleepover. Mom said if I helped her clean, Paula-Jean and I could eat junk all day, do each other's makeup and nails, and stay up late watching
Clothes You Shouldn't Be Caught Dead In.
Mom even bought us a few teen trash mags to keep us occupied.

I had one foot into the hall when I suddenly remembered my face. My hands flew up just as Jordan came sauntering out of his room. Crusty flakes of dried yogurt and cheese flew everywhere as I desperately tried to hide my head.

Jordan stopped. He sized me up and down and shook his head. “I thought I told you to use a spoon.” He swaggered down the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “And take a shower or something, Claire. You stink.”

I stood there contemplating what was worse — the fact that Jordan had actually seen me like this, or the fact that he thought cheese and garlic crusted all over my face was somehow normal for me.

Oh well, I wasn't about to let Jordan ruin my morning. It was time to wash the guck off my face and bask in the glow of my clear complexion.

I raced into the bathroom and splashed warm water on my face, dissolving any remaining trace of cheesy oatmeal. I grabbed a towel, dried myself, and gazed into the mirror.

Huh?
What was this? I couldn't believe my eyes. I rubbed them, but it was no illusion. How could this happen? How could this be? My pimple was not only still there, the wretched thing was bigger and redder than ever!

Half my body sunk into despair while the other half bristled with rage. The effect nearly knocked me off balance. I dropped to the floor cradling my head in my hands. Why didn't it work? Where did I go wrong? Are the healing properties of Limburger that much greater than those of blue cheese? Or was I just a failure at magic like I was at everything else?

I was about to lock myself in the bathroom for all eternity when I caught sight of the little green book lying casually next to the sink, exactly where I'd left it the night before. I wasted five bucks, a good night's sleep, and a hunk of Dad's precious blue cheese on the darn thing. I snatched the book from the counter and whipped it across the bathroom. It smacked against the wall and fluttered to the ground. I scrambled toward it. I was going to rip it — no, shred— no, flush it into oblivion, when I glimpsed the chapter introduction that I'd so recklessly skipped:

Remedies

Before any attempt to cure the physical being, one must be pure of mind and spirit. Therefore, take note of the following emotional ailments and cleanse thy character first:

Boils from anger,

Itch from greed,

Aches from envy,

Chills from ill deed,

Cuts from laziness,

Pains from pride,

Bloating from gluttony,

Wrinkles from snide,

Disease from resentment,

Dandruff from scorn,

Odour from neglect,

Fever from oaths unsworn.

What was this?
Cleanse thy character?
What the heck was that supposed to mean? Was this why my potion had flopped? I was supposed to
cleanse my character
first? Who knew? And how does one go about cleansing one's character, anyway? Soap? Detergent? Surely something biodegradable and ammonia-free. I read the words over and over. By about the tenth time, a spark of comprehension flashed in my brain.

Boils from anger.
I supposed, in the grand scheme of life, a pimple could be considered a type of boil. And I had to admit, I was pretty much bursting with anger these past few days. I was annoyed at Jordan. I was fuming at Hollis. I was even irritated with poor Cyrus. I had to face the facts: I was one irate individual.

Okay. So first I had to cleanse my character. I got it. Trouble was, I flipped through page after page, but the stupid book offered no instructions as to how to rid oneself of anger. All I could find was the puzzling poem, which ironically, had the effect of making me even angrier.

I went back to my bedroom, threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, shoved the book into my pocket, and stomped downstairs. I plunked myself into a chair in the kitchen and sat, arms crossed, glaring at the wall.

“Morning, Smiley,” said my dad, strolling into the kitchen.

I glanced at him, grunted, and returned my gaze to a tiny brown fleck on the wall that may or may not have been the remnants of a bran flake I sneezed out last week.

My dad sighed. He pulled up a chair and put a hand on my arm. “Claire-bear, if you scrunched up your face any tighter it would disappear into itself.” He smiled at me — the kind of smile that lets you know you're loved even if you are destined for a yard sale. And though I was clenching it pretty tightly, I could feel some of my anger slip away.

“Dad?” I asked. “How does a person get un-angry?”

“Un-angry, eh? Depends. Who or what are you mad at?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Pretty much everyone and everything.”

My father leaned back in his chair. He tilted his head as if he were thinking really hard. He scratched the dark stubble that had grown on his chin and cheeks overnight. I knew what was coming. I braced myself.

“I'm not sure how you get rid of anger,” he said finally. “I guess you could try meditation. Or aromatherapy …”

Was it just my imagination, or was Dad leaning slightly away from me? I sniffed the air and decided that anger wasn't the only thing clinging desperately to my person.

“All I know for sure is,” he continued, “
If you kick a stone, you'll hurt your foot
.”

And there it was. He'd lulled me into a false sense of security and then
wham!
hit me with one of his impossible sayings.

I stared at him through hooded eyes. “Thanks, Dad. Makes sense. Can't possibly see how that relates to my situation, though.”

Dad smiled again. He stood up and patted me on the back. “I have faith in you, Claire. You're a pretty smart girl. You'll figure it out.”

"N
eon
green is so you,” I said holding Paula-Jean's index finger steady and letting the polish glide over her chipped nail.

“You think?” she said, holding her hand up and letting it catch the light. She tucked an unruly curl behind her ear with the opposite hand. “Because I don't feel like a very neon-greeny kind of person.”

I frowned and yanked her hand back down onto my bed. “That's your problem, Peej. I know you better than you know yourself. You are definitely neon green. Exactly like Star Morningstar.” I pointed to a picture in one of the magazines of a pop singer with long purple hair and neon-green lipstick and nails. “Trust me.”

Whether she trusted me or not was debatable, but Paula-Jean did know me pretty well. She most likely figured I'd get my way in the end, so she surrendered her hand and let me paint away.

Before Paula-Jean arrived, I'd spent an hour helping Mom clean the house, an hour meditating in my room, an hour soaking in the tub using Mom's eucalyptus and lavender bath oil, and an hour watching the comedy channel. All the while, I mulled over Dad's weird saying until I was pretty sure I had it figured out: anger hurts no one except the person who's angry. With that in mind, I tried really hard to cleanse myself of all my frustrations. I was definitely no longer what you'd call
infuriated
or
irate
, but I admit I was still a bit grumpy. Then Paula-Jean came and that too changed.

Paula-Jean always had this way of making me feel like I didn't have a care in the world. She listened to all my troubles — really listened. And she wasn't the least bit judgmental. She told the funniest stories and always made me laugh. She was the best friend anyone could hope for. I hadn't told her about my magical midnight adventure yet, but I was working my way up to it.

As we sat there chatting about everything and nothing, I could feel my remaining worries and frustrations melt away. I even gave Jordan a friendly wave when he passed by in the hall and Cyrus, who was lying next to my bed, a loving pat on the head — being careful, of course, not to mess up my nails. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The smell of garlic was history and for the first time in a long while I was at peace with the world.

“So, what do you think I should do about this zit?” I asked, as we lay at opposite ends of my bed, fanning our nails. “If I don't get rid of it before Monday, Hollis and the others will terrorize me for sure.”

Paula-Jean looked right at me. She squinted. “What zit?”

I tilted my head and rolled my eyes. It wasn't like Paula-Jean to make light of something this serious.

“Very funny, Peej,” I said pointing to the tip of my nose. “This zit. The one competing with Mount Everest.”

Paula-Jean leaned forward and wrinkled her nose. She examined me thoroughly before shaking her head. “I don't see anything, Claire.”

My spine straightened. Something was off. Paula-Jean was nothing if not honest. My hand flew up to my face in reflex. I touched my nose with my fingertip. There was no bump. No swelling. Nothing.
Nada
. My stomach somersaulted.
Could it possibly be?

I sprang from my bed, hurdling Cyrus, and raced to my dresser. I looked in the mirror and nearly fell backward. My pimple had disappeared! Not just shrinking. Not just beginning to fade. But gone! Completely, totally, unmistakably
gone
!

Thoughts flipped around my brain like they were auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. Had the remedy really worked? Had I rid myself from enough anger? Had I cleansed my character enough to allow the garlic and cheese to take full effect? At some point between meditation and aromatherapy before Paula-Jean's arrival, my pimple had vanished. There was no other reasonable conclusion. It was magic, plain and simple.

I dug out the little green book from the pocket of my jeans and held it gingerly in my trembling hands. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Although part of me had really wanted to believe the book had magical powers, the other part of me thought it was just a cheap ploy to rip off desperate fools such as myself. I gazed up at the flawless complexion staring back at me in the mirror and then back down at the book. My mouth went chalk-dry. My knees wobbled.

This book was real. It was magic. And it was all mine.

“What are you doing?” asked Paula-Jean. “What's that in your hand?”

For a second I'd forgotten all about her. How would I explain everything to Paula-Jean? Would she believe me? Or would she think I'd completely lost it? I decided there was only one way to find out. I took a deep breath and explained.

Paula-Jean sat silently listening to the whole story. Her big, brown eyes grew into saucers when I told her that my golf-ball-sized pimple had up and disappeared leaving no evidence of its existence and all because I'd glooped some home-made concoction onto my face, chanted a few simple words, and managed to get rid of my anger.

“Like magic …” she sighed.

I nodded. “Like magic …”

She stared down at the book, as if she wanted to touch it, but was somehow afraid. I stared down at it, too, finding myself curious as to what else my little treasure was capable of. I looked up at her just as a sliver of a grin snaked across my lips. She drew back and shook her head.

“No,” she said waving her hands in front of her face. “Nuh-uh. I'm not getting involved in any weird magic stuff, Claire.”

“Come on, Peej,” I said. “Just one teensy-weensy spell.”

“No way,” she insisted. “If that book is really magic, you have no idea what you could be getting yourself into. What if something went wrong? What then?”

I dangled the book at her like it was some sort of giant hairy spider. She squeaked and dove for cover under my duvet.

“Don't be such a chicken, Peej,” I scoffed. Then I let the book fall open to a random page. I lifted it up and let the words hover in front of me. “What could possibly go wrong?”