Chasing the White Witch (6 page)

T
he
digital alarm clock read 5:22 a.m. when I skulked into Jordan's room. Cyrus was stuck to my heels like gum on my shoe, but rather than try to get rid of him and risk waking my parents, I gave him a severe look, which he may or may not have seen, and let him follow me.

“Jordan,” I whispered, approaching the snoring pile of jumbled covers.

He didn't stir.

“Jordan,” I tried again, this time a bit louder and with a greater sense of urgency. He shifted positions and mumbled something that sounded like
pass the relish
, but he didn't open his eyes.

Frustrated, I leaned in closer and whispered as loudly as I could without breaking into a full-blown scream, “Jordan! Wake up! I need to talk to you!”

This clearly startled him. He sat bolt upright, limbs flying in all directions. Our heads whacked. I heard him swear and Cyrus yelp as I fell backward, tripping over the poor beagle and breaking my fall in Jordan's pile of dirty laundry. A searing pain spread from my skull downward throughout my body.

“Are you nuts, Claire?” Jordan shouted, once he'd shaken enough sleep to realize what was happening. “What the heck are you doing in my room?”

“I-I …” was all I could get out before he cut me off.

“Get outta here!” he thundered. “Right now or I'll …”

“But Jor —”

“Get lost, Claire, or I swear …”

I scrambled out of the stinky pile of grimy socks and sweaty T-shirts and who knew what else, passed Cyrus, who must have been dazed and confused, to Jordan's bedside and hugged his cheesy-smelling feet. “Please, Jordan,” I sobbed. “Please! I need your help. I can't do this without you! Pleeeeaaase!”

He kicked his feet loose from my tight embrace. With what little light there was from the nearly full moon creeping into the room from between the slats in the blinds, I could make out his dark silhouette. He was rubbing his forehead. He grunted a few times and muttered several nasty words under his breath. Finally he addressed me and maybe it was my imagination, but I thought his tone had softened somewhat.

“What exactly is your problem? You've been acting weirder than usual lately.”

I inhaled deeply. I had to choose my words carefully or he'd not only kick me out, he'd tell Mom and Dad for sure. I had already tried to tell him about the curse, but that hadn't gotten me very far so I decided to be a bit cryptic this time. I began cautiously, sniffling in between sentences for dramatic effect.

“I need your help, Jordan. I have to do something really important today and I need you to help me skip school. If you call in sick for me, no one will question it — you sound exactly like Dad on the phone. Paula-Jean will back me up, too, so no one — not the school secretary, not Mrs. Martin, not Mom or Dad — no one will know I'm not where I'm supposed to be.”

Jordan yawned and stretched. I heard his bed creak with movement. He didn't say anything for the longest time — it took Jordan a long time to think about challenging things.

“Skip school, eh?” he said finally. It was almost like the idea intrigued him. “What are you gonna do?”

He hadn't said no yet. It was a good sign.

“Let's just say, the less you know the better …”

Jordan sighed and I couldn't tell if it was out of pain or frustration. “Claire, you're not some secret agent or international spy. No one is going to torture me for answers …”

He did have a point. I'd have to divulge a little more information.

“Okay. I'm just going into the city, is all. I'm going to see a publisher about a book. It's a life-or death-situation. That's all I'm gonna say and it's the truth.”

Once again Jordan fell silent. He rubbed his forehead again and swung his legs round the side of his bed mumbling under his breath. My heart sank. There was no way he was going to help me. Not a chance. It was the stupidest idea I'd ever had. What was I thinking? El Doofus Rat Murphy — help
me
? Ludicrous. More likely he'd tell Mom and Dad and delight in my punishment. Paula-Jean was right; I ought to have my head examined. I reached over and gave Cyrus a gentle pat on the head and a rough scratch behind the ear and then hauled myself to my feet prepared to leave his room empty-handed or worse.

“Never mind —” I began to say, but at the same time Jordan spoke. I stopped dead in my tracks. I swung round to face him. I wasn't quite sure if I'd heard correctly so I added quickly. “What? What did you just say?”

“I said, okay,” Jordan muttered.

I shook my head and then stuck a finger in my ear to make sure it wasn't plugged again. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Jordan was going to help me. He was actually going to help me. My universe was suddenly upside down.

“Grab my cell,” he said, “I'd better call now while Mom and Dad are still asleep. I'll leave a message.”

I nodded vigorously, keeping my mouth shut — I didn't want to risk saying anything that might tip the already rickety ship. I groped around Jordan's desk for his cellphone and locating it, I passed it to him. Still only half believing this was actually happening, I whispered the school's phone number and listened in sheer amazement as he left the message. It was perfect — he sounded very convincing. I wanted to hug him or something, but figured that might tick him off, so I sort of bowed and muttered a sincere thank you as I turned to leave.

“Hey, Claire.”

I froze. My heart leaped into my throat. I knew it was too good to be true. He'd changed his mind. Maybe he was going to yell, “Just kidding!” Or maybe something more sinister — like he was planning to extort money from me. I slowly turned to face my brother, preparing for the worst.

“Here,” he grunted, tossing me his cell. I missed and it whacked my shin. He was assaulting me with his phone now! An all-time low. I scrambled to pick it up and throw it back at him, but luckily before I could get my rubbery hand to co-operate he added, “Better take my cell if you're going into the city alone.”

I was so stunned that a good sneeze could have knocked me over. Just when I thought I had Jordan totally figured out, he goes and does something this nice. Like he actually really cares about me or something. An awkward silence hung like a curtain between us. I suddenly felt incredibly guilty for magically thrashing him the other night. What could I say to him? How could I apologize and thank him at the same time? I was trying to think of how to phrase it, but luckily he spoke first.

“Now get out of here,” he said.

Still in shock, I left his room, holding his cell and shaking my head. Over my shoulder I heard him mutter, “I'm getting a lock put on my door.”

I
was riddled with guilt when my mom kissed me on the cheek, smiled gently, and wished me a good day. Cyrus was sitting at the door, back straight, his snout pointing accusingly at me. I hung my head and kept my eyes trained on the ground, trying to conceal my shame as I nudged him aside. I was absolutely certain that deceit was scribbled all over my face in some bright neon colour.
Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!
My jeans were definitely smouldering.

I hated being dishonest — especially with my parents. They were good parents and they always encouraged me to tell the truth, no matter what the consequences. I could hear my father as clear as day, cautioning me, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive, …” For a second I considered coming clean and telling him the whole story. Trouble was, he wouldn't believe me. I mean what adult in their right mind would? “What an imagination, Claire,” he'd say, patting me on the head. “Now off you go, and try not to curse anybody else at school today.” Maybe he'd even come up with one of his sayings.
Curse me once, shame on you … curse me twice, blah, blah, blah.

No. I couldn't tell my parents. This was my mess and Paula-Jean was right. I needed to clean it up all on my own. Well,
sort of
on my own.

I skulked in the shadows of the park across the street from the huge home until the last car left the driveway. I watched the black Mercedes drive down the street and turn at the lights. When I was certain it wasn't coming back, I made my move.

I rang the doorbell once and waited. When no one answered, I tried again. I waited an entire minute (I know, because I counted. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three …). Then I began pounding on the door. Still, no one answered. I continued to hammer my knuckles against the solid wood door, while my mind raced. Was Hollis even at home? Had they taken her to a hospital? Was she lying in some uncomfortable metal-framed bed, connected to oodles of computers, machines, and wires, clinging to sweet life by a tattered and fraying thread?
Stay away from the light, Hollis! Stay. Away. From. The …

The door opened a crack and a bloodshot eye peeped out.

“What do
you
want?” said the pitch-perfect voice as the door swung open all the way revealing a very tired-looking, very pale Hollis. Her eyes had dark circles around them as though she hadn't slept well in days.

To tell you the truth, I was slightly taken aback. I honestly didn't know what to expect (I mean, I
had
imagined the green crusty blotches and hobbit-feet and all, but I hadn't been serious about that). So when I saw Hollis standing in front of me looking sick and fragile, the reality of my curse really hit home. This was beyond my expertise, I decided. This was going to take more than a giant bowl of yogurt and a few handfuls of chopped garlic. Good thing I had a plan.

I stood for a second wondering how to explain to Hollis what I'd done. How could I phrase it so that she didn't think I was some kind of raving lunatic? Check. She already
did
think I was a raving lunatic — so I gave up and decided to just come clean and let the chips fall where they may.

I'd actually wanted to begin by saying
I cursed you
, but figures, my tongue got all tangled, and what came out was simply, “Curse you.”

I winced as Hollis's perky little nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Look, Claire,” she huffed. “I'm sick. I don't have time to listen to your insults —” She began to close the door.

“I know you're sick,” I interrupted, pushing the door back open. “
I'm
the reason you're sick. I meant to say
I cursed you
, and —”

“Go away, Claire!” she said. “I'm not kidding. I'm not feeling well and I'm not in the mood for your ridiculous stories. Besides, shouldn't you be at school annoying Mrs. Martin and the rest of the class?” She tried closing the door again, but she was weak and I was stronger. I held it open.

“Please listen to me, Hollis. I know you hate me — I don't know
why
you hate me — but I know you do and I'm not here about that or anything crazy — well, it is sort of crazy, but that's beside the point. I bought this little book at the grocery store ...” I grappled in my pocket, pulled out my green book and practically shoved it in her face. “See? It's a book of spells and I cursed you because you asked Paula-Jean to be your partner and I got stuck with Jason. Now you're sick and it's all my fault and I'd fix it if I could. I swear, Hollis. But I don't know how. You have to believe me, because I have a plan and I'm going to make you better — you'll see. You just have to believe me.”

She glowered at me for a second, like she thought I was purposely trying to antagonize her, but then I added, “Please.”

Maybe it was the sincerity of that last word or maybe it was the tears pooling in my eyes. Or maybe she was just too weak to argue. At any rate, she released the door. She looked me up and down. “Come on in,” she said finally. She turned and walked calmly toward the living room. I shut the door and scurried after her.

Hollis's house was as perfect as she was. Polished marble and hardwood floors, huge baseboards and crown mouldings, heavy brocade drapes, and nothing — not one thing — looked out of place. Even the books that were strewn across the coffee table looked like they'd actually been arranged to look strewn.
Wow
, I thought to myself.
It's like this house is some kind of show home. Barely looks lived in
. My mother would be pea-green with envy. She was always going on about how hard she worked to keep our house tidy and how between Jordan, Cyrus, and me, the house constantly looked like a tornado had ripped through it.

Hollis sat down on the edge of the sofa, like she was worried she might crinkle the fabric. She looked at me with her sea-foam eyes. She was wearing pink silk pajamas — with a matching headband, for crying out loud! It killed me — even sick as a dog, Hollis still managed to look stunning.

I lowered myself into a chair opposite her and cleared my throat. “Listen,” I said, “I know this is asking a lot — even for me — but I swear it's the truth. I was really angry. I didn't know what I was doing.”

Okay. That was only partially true. I did know what I was doing when I cursed Hollis, but I didn't fully understand the consequences of my actions, I rationalized. I certainly wasn't aware that Hollis would get this ill and that the curse would bounce back on me.

“This book is magic,” I said holding it up again for her to see. “It really is. It cured my zit and beat up my brother. If you don't believe me, just go ask Paula-Jean. But, er, don't blame her — I did all the hexing — she was an innocent by-hexer.”

Hollis rolled her eyes and sighed. She didn't believe a word I was saying. I decided to try showing her the spell. I opened the book and passed it to her. “Read it,” I said.

Hollis took the book in her right hand. For the first time, I noticed her left hand hung limp by her side. I watched her eyes move down the page. Her face remained expressionless. She handed the book back to me.

“You see,” I said. “It's the curse. I cursed you. But guess what? The curse bounced back and cursed me, too!” I grinned at her and nodded. I thought she'd be happy about that, but her eyes narrowed. “Seriously,” I added. “I've had trouble controlling my body — even my tongue!”

Hollis began to laugh and the tiniest spark lit her eyes.

“What's so funny?” I asked, almost chuckling myself.

“You are, Claire,” she said. “You
always
have trouble controlling your tongue.”

The smile plummeted from my lips. Hollis was feeling better all right. Better enough to start insulting me again.

“I'm not here to argue with you,” I said.

“Then why
are
you here?” she asked.

“To help you, of course,” I said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “To de-hex you!”

Hollis leaned back into the sofa. She looked away for a second and when she looked back she was crying. Her voice trembled and I couldn't tell if it was with anger or fear.

“You didn't curse me,” she said. “There's something really wrong with me. I get these awful headaches and I get dizzy and now my left side is numb. The doctors haven't been able to find out what's wrong with me yet. I'm scheduled for more tests tomorrow. So, as much as I'd love to blame you, Claire …”

“Blame me! Blame me!” I shouted. I got off the chair and rushed to her side on the sofa. “Hollis, please believe me! I did this to you! I really did!”

She swiped at her eyes and glared at me.

I decided to try a different approach. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Fine. I didn't curse you. You got sick all on your own. But … what if I did? What if I really caused whatever is wrong with you? Wouldn't you want to just try and let me de-hex you? I mean, what have you got to lose?”

“Besides my sanity?” she said dryly.

I frowned.

“Nothing, I guess.” Her voice was quiet. Resigned.

“So let me do this,” I said quickly, before she had time to change her mind. “Let me just de-hex you. I just know everything is going to be fine. You'll see.”

She stared at me for the longest time. Her expression remained skeptical, but there was something in her eyes that said she hoped I was right.

“Fine,” she said. “Go ahead. De-hex me.”

“Great!” I shouted. “Perfect! You're not going to regret this!” I stood up and my knee bumped into one of the coffee-table books, knocking the lot of them onto the floor.

Hollis rolled her eyes. “I already do,” she growled.

I scrambled to pick up the books and rearrange them, when Hollis added, “So how exactly are you going to de-hex me?”

I'd managed to pick up all the books, but they slipped from my grasp and dropped to the floor again. “Well, now, see, that's a bit of a problem …”

“Problem?” Hollis asked, sounding confused. She reached down with her right hand and began picking up one book at a time, placing each delicately back into its perfect spot.

“Um, yeah,” I said. “I don't really know how to de-hex you …”

Hollis froze.
“What?”
she said, her voice brimming with disbelief.

“Don't worry,” I added reassuringly. “The White Witch knows. And we're going to find her. So go put on some of your fancy designer sweats — I'm taking you into the city.”

Luckily the curse hadn't dulled my reflexes too much and I managed to duck the big, fat book that Hollis chucked at me.