Chasing the White Witch (4 page)

"Y
ou
gotta get rid of that thing,” said Paula-Jean. She sat on the edge of my bed and pointed a trembling finger at my precious little green book. “I'm telling you, Claire, there's something wrong here. Very wrong.”

“Wrong?”
I shouted. My voice rose an entire octave. “What's
wrong
with a little magic? What's
wrong
with a little power?”

I turned the book over in my hands. It was the answer to my prayers. A magic book that could cure zits. That could put Jordan (and anyone else who crossed me) in their place. And that was only the beginning. The tip of the iceberg. Who knew what the book was really capable of? I flipped through the pages. Rheumatism Remedy. Rain-Making Ritual.
Luuuuvvvv Potionnnn
… No way was I getting rid of this treasure. Not a chance. I hugged it close to my chest and stared at her defiantly.

Paula-Jean didn't say anything for the longest time. When she finally spoke, her voice was cautious. “Look, Claire … it's like Mrs. Martin said in Social Studies the other day. Too much power in any one person's hands can be … well …
dangerous
…” She had been staring at the carpet and when she looked up and our eyes met, I swear I saw a hint of fear flickering there.

That really set me off. She was supposed to be my best friend, after all — my caring, non-judgmental, best friend — so where did she get off sounding all high-and-mighty, looking at me like I was some kind of maniacal monster? Besides, my father had the monopoly on cryptic sayings.

“I don't believe you! How can you say such a rotten thing?” I yelled. “How could you think I'd do anything really terrible? All I did was cure my zit …”

“And thrash Jordan …”

“
Indirectly
thrash Jordan,” I corrected her. “I never actually laid a finger on him. And why shouldn't I get back at him? Do I need to remind you that I'm the victim here?”

She looked me up and down with her big brown eyes and suddenly I didn't feel like much of a victim. That made me all the more angry. I stood up and turned my back on her. I walked to the window and pretended to look out at the empty yard, the bleak sky, and the bare branches. All the while I kept thinking that Paula-Jean should be happy for me. That she should be supportive. That she should be standing by my side, rejoicing in my new-found magical abilities. We were a team. Like Batman and Robin. Like Holmes and Watson. Like peanut butter and banana.

“You think I'm a horrible person, don't you?” I mumbled.

It was less of a question and more of an opportunity for her to redeem herself. I wanted her to say,
Oh no, Claire, you are the sweetest, most kind and generous person in the whole world
.

But she didn't.

“It's not that,” she began. “It's just that … you're … well … you're impulsive, and …”

“Impulsive? Who? Moi?”
I practically leapt over my bed and thrust the book in her face. “This book came to me for a reason,” I said smugly. “I didn't find it.
It
found
me
.” I narrowed my eyes. “I suppose you'd rather see it in someone else's hands? Someone like Hollis Van Horn?”

“I didn't say that,” she countered.

“Aha!” I yelled. “But you were thinking it!”

Paula-Jean rolled her eyes. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Oh, so now I'm not only impulsive, I'm ridiculous, too!”

She sighed. “Enough, Claire. I'm not gonna sit here and argue with you. Keep your stupid book if you want. But don't come crying to me when something goes wrong.”

Paula-Jean picked up her sleeping bag. She stood staring at me for a moment, waiting for me to stop her. But I didn't say a word. I just stood there scowling. She shook her head and began gathering up the rest of her things. I didn't move a muscle to help her. I just watched as she headed down the stairs, stepped into her shoes, got her jacket, and quietly closed the door behind her.

I spent the rest of the day sulking in my bedroom and hoping Paula-Jean would call to apologize, but she didn't. I came downstairs to say hello to my grandparents and my Uncle Rob and Aunt Theresa who had arrived for Thanksgiving dinner — but only because my mother forced me to.

My body ached all over. Even my taste buds were sore. When it was finally time to sit down to Mom's magnificent turkey dinner with all the trimmings, I wasn't even hungry. I just sat there staring at my plate, while Mom, Dad, Grandma Bea, Grandpa Joe, Uncle Rob, Aunt Theresa, Jordan (who looked like he'd gotten over his
twinge and itch
pretty quickly), and even Cyrus enjoyed the delicious food and good company.

By early evening, I was as miserable and achy as ever. Cyrus had hidden the dwarf winterberry euonymus branch somewhere and I couldn't find it. I needed to compost it to complete the spell, which I was sure was why I was still aching. And then, to top it all off, that night, when I went up to brush my teeth and get ready for bed, I was devastated to discover that my face was plagued with
four
new pimples!

I closed my eyes and took a deep cleansing breath. Lucky for me (and no thanks to Paula-Jean), I was still in possession of my little green book and there was plenty of garlic in the wire basket and loads of cheese in the fridge.

I
t
was Tuesday morning — time to head back to school. The sky was a woolly grey mantle leaking cold drizzle into the morning air. I pulled my jacket hood over my head and dropped my chin to shield my face from the damp, chilly breeze. When I looked up, I saw Paula-Jean standing at our usual spot on the street corner. If she hadn't already been there, waiting for me, I'd have continued on my way alone.

We walked to school side by side, barely saying two words to each other. As we passed Mrs. Walker's house, Paula-Jean cast a sidelong glance my way. Though I kept my focus on the sleek cement, out of the corner of my eye, I could see a very lopsided dwarf winterberry euonymus and battered pink fruit strewn about the front lawn. I knew what Paula-Jean was thinking, but no way was I going to open my mouth and give her another opportunity to assault my good character.

At school, Paula-Jean and I hung sullenly around our lockers, waiting for the bell to ring. Suddenly, a nearby door swung open, almost smacking me square in the face.

Hollis Van Horn flounced into the hallway and breezed past Paula-Jean and I without so much as a ceremonial glance. It was like we were totally invisible. She got about three steps past us when she stopped mid-stride. She sniffed the air and then turned and glared at me. She didn't say a single word — she didn't have to. I could feel the weight of her disapproval.

Beside me, Paula-Jean shifted side to side nervously. I couldn't believe her. If she were any kind of friend whatsoever, she'd have had the decency to tell me I was olfactorily offensive — that I reeked of garlic and cheese. I was going to say something to her, but I caught myself, remembering that we weren't speaking. All I could do was glare defiantly at Hollis and then watch helplessly as she wrinkled her perfect little nose. She swung round and ran up to her group of gangly gargoyles who almost immediately burst into laughter.

In class, I took my seat near Mrs. Martin's desk. I got out the writing assignment I'd managed to hastily complete Saturday morning before I'd gone to the Supersave with my mom and Jordan. I smoothed out the paper that had gotten a tad wrinkled under the weight of my lunch bag. I was always forgetting to fold things neatly like Mrs. Martin suggested and tuck them into my agenda or binder so they wouldn't crease. Luckily, new progressive rules dictated that teachers weren't allowed to deduct marks for wrinkles anymore.

Just as Mrs. Martin was about to collect our essays, Hollis fluttered across the floor and began whispering to her. My proximity to the teacher's desk allowed for maximum eavesdroppage.

“Um, Mrs. Martin,” said Hollis, “I couldn't get my essay done because I'm in the Miss Teen Turnip Pageant next weekend at the Boxgrove County Fair and on Friday I discovered that my lucky pageant shoes had a horrible scuff. My mother insisted we spend the entire weekend searching for a new pair.” She dangled a pretty pink slip of paper (that I'm absolutely certain was scented — yuk!) between her long, French-manicured claws. A note. No teacher could go against
the note.

“No problem, Hollis,” said Mrs. Martin, smiling warmly. “Just hand it in tomorrow.”

I thought I was going to heave on the spot.

But I didn't.

“Ahem,” I said.

Mrs. Martin and Hollis turned toward me at the same time.

I cleared my throat a second time and raised my eyebrows.

“Is there something you want to say, Claire?” asked Mrs. Martin.

I suppose the funny thing about Hollis and me was, though I could count a hundred reasons why I disliked her (graceful, gorgeous, popular being the top three), I could never figure out what I'd ever done to make her dislike me so much. I never did a thing to her. Not a single, solitary thing.

“Um, well, Mrs. Martin,” I began. “Didn't you say on Friday that anyone who didn't complete their homework wouldn't be allowed to take part in Fall Fun Day?”

Mrs. Martin looked at me, paused, and then frowned. “Why, yes,” she said. “Yes, I did say that. How kind of you to remind me.” She turned toward Hollis and added carefully, “I'm afraid, Hollis, that you'll have to sit out of tomorrow's Fall Fun Day.”

Hollis's smile faded. She nodded at Mrs. Martin and then turned to take her seat. As she past me, she flashed me a look so cold it made me shiver. I took a deep breath and braced myself. She was going to get even with me. No doubt about it. The only question was
when
. And
how
…

Language class droned on and on. I was so tired from my weekend adventures that I nearly fell asleep. I perked up just as Health class began. Mrs. Martin explained that we were to begin a project on substance abuse. As luck would have it, we were allowed to work in pairs.

I loved working in pairs because I had Paula-Jean and she had me. Ever since kindergarten, we always teamed up for stuff. I really felt sorry for some kids, like Jason Jenkins. He was always left standing on his own. Jason's problem was that he was a fanatic when it came to assignments. He'd do life-sized, 3-D models, write fifty pages, research dozens of books, and, worst of all, force his partners to do the same. Keeping up with Jason was impossible, so no matter how hard you worked, your end of the project always paled in comparison and you ended up with a lousy mark. No one wanted to be partners with Jason. No one.

“Okay,” said Mrs. Martin. “Choose your partner and then sit down with them to start to work on your pre-writing organizer.”

She'd barely finished her last word, when chaos erupted. Everyone darted this way and that. I, however, stood firmly in my place, secure in the knowledge that Paula-Jean would be arriving shortly and we'd sit together at my desk to work. I yawned and stretched, mildly amused at the frenetic scene, when suddenly I realized something was off. Paula-Jean hadn't arrived. I scanned the class and caught sight of her still sitting at her desk.

Then it all unfolded before my eyes like some warped slow-motion movie. I watched in horror, as Hollis moved swiftly and deliberately toward Paula-Jean. I stood up and lurched forward, but it was too late. Hollis had already passed, casting a narrow-eyed glance at me before smiling warmly at Paula-Jean. Her puckered pink lips were moving. I knew exactly what she was saying. But it was like I was in some sort of horrific nightmare where the classroom stretched longer and longer and I couldn't make it to them in time.

“Sure,” Paula-Jean was saying just as I arrived at her desk.

“Perfect,” said Hollis. “Just perfect.”

The two sat down side by side, leaving me standing, hovering over them like a stray balloon, the expression of utter disbelief frozen on my face.

I don't know how long I was standing there in suspended animation, but when I finally came to my senses and turned around, everyone was sitting.

The entire class.

Everyone.

Except me.

Me and Jason Jenkins, who was walking toward me, grinning and eyeing me like I was a huge hunk of chocolate cake.

Hollis had gotten even with me all right. And what's worse, Paula-Jean had hung me out to dry.

The day couldn't have ended quickly enough. I just managed to hold it together until home time when I threw all my books and lunch bag and junk into my backpack and practically flew down the street.

“Claire!” pleaded Paula-Jean, scrambling to catch up with me. “Please, Claire!”

I stormed straight ahead, refusing to even look at her. I left her standing at the corner, calling after me. I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of a single word, but then, in a moment of sheer fury, I spun round and hollered as loud as I could.

“Paula-Jean Fanelli, you're as loyal as a sea cucumber!”

I didn't even wait for her reaction. I did an about-face and sprinted the rest of the way home. I made it into my house, slammed the door, and leaned back onto it just as the tears began to fall.

L
ooking
back now, I suppose I should have stopped, cooled off, and thought things through. But like Paula-Jean said, I was impulsive by nature. And I was angry. And hurt. And I had a little green book of magic spells just itching to be used. Put it all together and it was a pretty lethal combination. So, to tell you the truth, things could have ended up a whole lot worse than they did.

I dropped my backpack in the hall, ran up to my room, threw myself on my bed, and bawled into my pillow until I was practically dehydrated. I don't know if I was angrier at Hollis or Paula-Jean. Tough to say. All I know is that I felt like the world was a grey, moth-eaten blanket that had just flopped on top of my head.

I was so consumed with anger and hurt that I didn't even think about the book until Cyrus came prancing into my room carrying, of all things, the slightly chewed, very goobery dwarf winterberry euonymus branch. He placed it at my feet like it was some kind of mystic message. I bolted up straight in my bed. An evil grin lit my tear-stained face. Oh, I was going to get even with Hollis for stealing my best friend and making my life miserable, all right. I was going to make her pay.

I swiped the remaining tears from my eyes and sprang from my bed. I stomped past Cyrus and rummaged through my sock drawer, locating my little book in the spot where I'd hidden it. I stared at the cover for a few seconds delighting in the idea of how much power I was holding in my all too eager hands. Then I gently turned the pages, one by one, until I found exactly what I was looking for.

Binding Hex

By the light of the waxing moon, hold a piece of cord. Tie seven knots and pull them tight while chanting three times:

Shut the mouth,

Seal the eyes,

Clasp the limbs,

Tie the ties

Block the ears,

Twist the toe,

Hold the heart,

Bind my foe.

No longer canst thou cause me harm,

By notion, word or deed,

Until thought, word or deed with kindness be done,

With knots, I shall bind thee.

That night, I lay in bed counting the minutes until midnight. The
witching hour
had worked for me so far, so I figured, why mess with a good thing? Luckily, the moon was once again on my side — it was waxing its little way into the night sky.

I'd pulled a lace off my old running shoe and was twisting it round and round my finger under my covers. At the stroke of midnight I began the curse, making sure to tie each knot carefully and chant the words as best I could remember them. When I was done, I held the lace up to my face. A sliver of moonlight snuck through the blinds setting all seven knots aglow.

“There. That ought to do it.” I stifled a giggle. “Hollis Van Horn, consider yourself officially hexed!”

Cyrus nudged open my bedroom door. He lumbered his old, overweight body toward me, but before he lay down beside my bed, he poked my shoulder with his wet snout. He let out a low gurgle. I don't know if it was my guilty conscience, but it really sounded like he was telling me off.

“But she deserves it, Cyrus,” I whined. “She went too far. She stole Paula-Jean from me. Paula-Jean!”

Cyrus grunted, and then instead of sinking to his usual spot beside me, he turned and waddled back out of my room. I imagined him shaking his little head,
tsk
,
tsk
,
tsk
, as he left.

“Dumb dog,” I hissed. I flipped over and yanked the covers over my head. Hollis Van Horn brought this on herself, I rationalized. She totally asked for it.

I must have slept soundly, because the next thing I knew, it was morning. I rubbed my eyes and stretched, swung my legs around the side of the bed, and sat up. I yawned deeply. I ruffled through my sheets and covers, but for some strange reason I couldn't locate my knotted shoelace. I pulled the covers completely off my bed and shook them violently. Nothing.

Huh
, I thought.
That's weird
. Maybe it was the fact that I'd slept soundly for the first time in several days, but I felt refreshed, almost lighthearted. It didn't seem to matter that I'd lost my shoelace. I shrugged, figuring it would turn up. And no biggie if it didn't.

That morning, I totally expected Paula-Jean to be waiting for me at the corner. When I saw that she wasn't there, I dragged my feet, walking as slowly as I possibly could while still maintaining forward motion. I figured she must be late and since I didn't want to be caught actually standing around waiting for her, I went super slow, even stopping several times to scrutinize an anthill, reorganize my backpack, and fix the ponytail restraining my frizzy mop. When I reached the corner, I looked up and down the street. No Paula-Jean. Refusing to believe she'd gone on without me — an utterly absurd idea — I decided she must be sick or something. I actually began to worry about her — poor thing, must have pneumonia or worse — so imagine my shock when I stepped into the schoolyard and saw Paula-Jean not only standing there, but hanging around with the gargoyles! I was so focused on Paula-Jean and her complete and absolute betrayal that I failed to notice that Hollis was nowhere to be found. I glared at Paula-Jean as I clumped past her, and though I'm sure she must have seen me out of the corner of her eye, she didn't even have the decency to look at me and give me the satisfaction of allowing my scowl to bother her. What nerve!

It was only when Mrs. Martin was calling out attendance that I noticed for the first time that Hollis's seat was empty.

“Has anyone seen Hollis this morning?” asked Mrs. Martin.

I almost laughed out loud when her friends all chimed in.

“Nope,” said Tiffany.

“Not me,” said Tenisha.

“I think she's sick,” said Cheyenne.

Okay. I know this sounds cruel, but I was happy about it. I really was. I'd cursed Hollis and here she was away from school, sick. A plethora of vile images flitted through my brain, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relishing every single one. I imagined Hollis sneezing and coughing — her nose as purple and swollen as a rutabaga. Then I pictured her itching and aching, crying out in desperate agony. Maybe her beautiful blond hair had turned granny-grey. Or maybe her pretty little feet had gone all warty and hobbit-like. Or maybe she was covered in green blotches or crusty scabs. I let my imagination run maliciously wild.

I felt so great that I hardly even minded when I had to move to sit beside Jason Jenkins to work on our health project. I almost thanked him when he handed me the thousand-page textbook titled
The History and Health Hazards of the Tobacco Industry From the 1500s to the Present Day
that he wanted me to read for research. It was like I was a pink balloon, floating high in the air, and nothing could drag me down.

Nothing, that is, except Paula-Jean. She sure popped my balloon and sent me plummeting back to reality when Mrs. Walker offered her the opportunity to join another group and she went and picked Tenisha Brown instead of me! Tenisha of all people! Tenisha was Hollis's best friend! I gritted my teeth and counted to seven thousand. I wouldn't let Paula-Jean get to me. No way. I was going to enjoy my Hollis-free day even if it was the last thing I did.

That afternoon was Fall Fun Day. There were tons of great events like Catch the Cucumber, Dodging Doughnuts, and Chuck the Chicken. My favourite events, of course, were the races. I was the fastest girl in my grade, so I was always guaranteed a ribbon or two.

It bothered me that I was on my own and that Paula-Jean was suddenly all BFF with Tenisha and Tiffany and Cheyenne, but when it came to the races, it didn't matter. I was going to clean house.

I stood at the starting line of the hundred-metre. The sky was a perfect shade of powder-blue. Though the air was crisp, the afternoon sunshine gave an illusion of warmth. I took a deep breath and the musky scent of fall leaves and damp earth filled my nostrils.

“Runners, take your mark,” announced Mrs. Walker, who was marshalling the races. “Get set. GO!” She fired a fake pistol into the air and before the sound had time to travel from the gun to my ears, I was halfway across the field, my little legs scurrying toward the finish line like my feet were on fire.

Then it happened.

All of a sudden, I felt myself going down. My feet stuck together like they were caught in a net. My hands flew forward to brace myself for the fall. I hit the ground hard and skidded to a halt, my hands and cheek sliding across the grass and dirt. I looked up just as the other girls flew past me and when the last one was gone, my feet broke apart as though someone had just cut the invisible wire attaching them.

Though I was devastated at not winning the ribbon, I tried to make light of the incident, chalking it up to a weird cramping of the foot or perhaps some obstacle in my path. But when the exact same thing happened during the two-hundred-metre and the four-hundred-metre, I decided that something was definitely wrong.

I gave up on racing and tried catching the cucumber, but my fingers seized up at the last second and the darn vegetable smacked me on the shin. Next I lined up to chuck the rubber chicken. Feeling fairly confident, I wound up for the throw, but somehow the chicken slipped through my fingers, flying backward out of my grasp, and striking the principal, Mr. Liew, right in the face. Everyone burst into fits of laughter. Everyone except Mr. Liew and me, that is. I couldn't control my own body and it was starting to make me a bit nervous.

Aside from the fact that I didn't get one single ribbon, I was also suddenly the laughingstock of the whole school. When Paula-Jean passed me to pick up a rubber chicken, I wondered whether she would make some kind of snide comment, but she didn't. Without so much as a sideways glance, she just chucked her chicken at the bucket. I purposely stepped right in her path while she was heading to the back of the line and caught her eye for a fraction of a second before she sidestepped me. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I thought I saw something resembling regret there — or was it pity? Either way, I opened my mouth to say something to her, but my tongue twisted up and all that came out was, “Blah.”

Paula-Jean kept walking as though she hadn't heard.