Witch Ways (17 page)

“It’s so funny he was the most successful of all of us.” Mrs. Fox sighed, closed the scrapbook, and rested her hands upon it. “Lauren and I drifted apart over the years. I know you must look at her and see a woman destroyed by alcohol and drugs, but I remember her as this bright, vivacious, talented young woman. I guess I want to remind everyone of who she really was.”

“Not so scandalous, Mom,” Dylan said.

“Maybe not, but . . . I’ve always wondered what happened to Hugh. It’s like he just vanished.”

“He never came back?” I asked.

“Never—not even to visit.” She grinned sheepishly. “He was older than me, and I guess I had something of a crush on him.” Pointing her finger at Dylan, she said, “Do NOT tell your dad! It was all a long time ago, and I was just a kid—your age, in fact. But I watched for him. I know Lauren did, too.”

Mrs. Fox smiled sadly and scooted the scrapbooks in front of me. “You’re welcome to borrow these. And if you decide you don’t want to write about Lauren and the Thornhill Theater, I’ll understand.”

“No, this is . . . this will make a great article.”

“Good. I’m glad you think so.”

Once we got in the car, Dylan turned to me. “So, I’ve been thinking about the ball.”

“You have?” I clicked my seatbelt and threw Bree a glance.

She didn’t look at me, but stared out the window with a stony expression on her face.

“I think we should go in couple costumes.” Dylan put the car in gear and steered it down the drive and onto Leroy Street.

In the back seat, Bree made a small choking sound.

“Yeah, like Batman and Cat Woman,” Dylan said, grinning.

“I’m not wearing a cat suit,” I told him. “How about Napoleon and Marie Antoinette?”

“I’m not short,” Dylan said.

“Let me look through my grandmother’s attic. I bet I can find something.”

“Want to go there now?” Dylan asked.

Bree made another noise, and Dylan glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Sounds boring, Bree?”

“We can find something for you, too,” I said.

“I’m not going.” Bree caught Dylan’s eye in the mirror. “Can you take me home?”

I tried not to think about Bree all the way to Birdie’s house, but although Dylan was a good distraction, I still worried that Bree might not ever forgive me. And maybe I wouldn’t forgive her for hating me because Dylan liked me and not her. And then we’d be sucked into this horrible unforgivable vortex.

“It’s really weird to think that the Friendly Giant could ever have been my mom’s crush,” Dylan said.

“And that Lauren was a beauty queen.”

“Maybe he’ll come to her memorial service!”

“Who?”

“The Friendly Giant, of course.”

I tried to look interested. “Is there a memorial service for Lauren? Wouldn’t it have already happened?”

He shot me a look. “We could pick up The
Woodinville Observer
and find out. It should have her obituary in it.”

“Let’s see if Birdie has one before we buy one.”

“It’s only a quarter, you know.”

“I know.”

“Do you think your grandmother will mind our just dropping in on her?”

“I have no idea.”

He gave me a curious look.

“I don’t know her very well.”

“How’s that?”

I explained to him I didn’t even know I had a grandmother until a few weeks ago.

“Why is that?”

I laughed, wondering what he would think. Should I tell him—or would he think I was as crazy as Birdie? “Turns out, she’s a witch and she thinks I am, too.”

Dylan looked at me with a somber expression. “Why is that so funny?”

“Come on, she thinks she’s a witch.”

“So, we all believe we’re something. Who do you think you are?”

His response caught me completely off guard. “I’m just me. Who are you?”

He grinned. “I’m the guy who likes you.”

I didn’t know what to say.

He picked up my hand and kissed my palm. Heat rose up my arm. He gently put my hand back in my lap, but didn’t let go of it. “That surprises you?”

I still didn’t know what to say. No one had ever kissed my hand before.

“I really like how you think you are just you—and you have no idea who you really are.”

“I’m only fifteen. Do you know who you really are?”

“I have a pretty good idea. I know what I want to be.”

“Mmm, maybe when I reach the wise age of seventeen I’ll have a better grasp of things.” But somehow I doubted it. “What do you want to be?”

“The guy who gets to be with you.”

“You must want more than that.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll be an attorney like my mom, or go to work for my dad’s investment firm. Or maybe I’ll go into medicine like my Uncle Pete. Or maybe I’ll collect ancient artifacts like Indiana Jones. But right now, the important things on my list are graduating from high school, getting into a good college, and being with you.”

His words caused so much tingling, I almost missed the turn down Birdie’s long fern-infested driveway.

Dylan whistled when he saw her topsy-turvy house.

“Do you like it?”

“What’s not to like?”

“It’s kind of . . . I don’t know, off balance, maybe? I guess I need to grow to like it because someday it will be mine.” I paused, rethinking the conversation with Birdie. “At least that’s what she said.”

“Then it’ll be okay if we go inside if she’s not here?”

I shook my head without even thinking about it. “I won’t do that.”

“Are you sure? Not even for a really great costume?”

“Not even.”

He looked disappointed until Birdie stepped out onto the porch. “Aw, the witch!”

“Do not call her that!”

“Why not? You think she’ll be offended?”

“I really don’t know what to think.”

Dylan choked back a laugh. “If you don’t decide, someone else will make your decisions for you.”

“Where’d you hear that? Dr. Phil?”

He looked smug.

Birdie, in a flowy dress, saw us and waved, resembling a brightly colored bird flapping her wings. When she was a baby, did her parents know, or guess, she would grow up to fit her name? And that made me think about her parents, and if she had brothers and sisters, and aunts and uncles. Did any of them think they were witches, too? For all I knew, I was from a long line of witches, warlocks—and if witches and warlocks, then why not throw in vampires, werewolves, and fairies?

Dylan looked at me. “Something wrong? Worried she won’t like me?”

“No . . . I wasn’t thinking about you.”

“I wish you would.”

Dylan put the car in park and climbed out before I could respond, or even think about what he meant.

With her arms outstretched wide, Birdie climbed off the porch. She wrapped me in a lavender smelling hug first, then turned to Dylan.

“I know you,” she said, taking him in her embrace. “You’re Tabitha Fox’s son.”

“That’s right,” Dylan said, returning her hug.

She pulled away and observed him from the top of his bronze-colored head to the tips of his boots. “You’re a beautiful creature. Your parents must be very proud of you. Come inside, friends,” Birdie said, leading the way. “I’ve made us some treats.”

“Did you tell her we were coming?” Dylan whispered in my ear as we trailed behind Birdie.

I shook my head. “She likes to pretend she’s omniscient. I think it’s all a part of her witch’s persona.”

“Good persona.”

“You just like her because she called you beautiful,” I said as we climbed the porch steps.

“And she made us treats!”

We followed Birdie into the house. It looked as immaculate and bare as it had on my first visit.

“Did Evelynn tell you that someday this will all belong to her?” Birdie asked Dylan.

He shot me a quick questioning glance.

I shrugged in return.

“Yes, she did.”

“Then you realize if you play your hand correctly, that this then may also one day belong to you.”

“Birdie!” I wanted to die a thousand deaths. “I’m fifteen!”

“Almost sixteen, love.”

I planted my feet on the tapestry rug, refusing to move. “If my dad or uncle knew you were discussing my marriage, they would die.”

“An exaggeration, wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Fox?” Birdie said.

He grinned. “Yeah, but she’s right. There’s a great big long list of things we have to do before we can marry.”

“I should hope so.”

We needed to leave. Immediately—or at least as soon as we found our costumes.

“For example, we have to find something to wear to the ball,” Dylan said.

Birdie clapped her hands. “A ball! How wonderful. I have just the thing.” She waved her fingers at a plate of cookies on a side table in the entryway. “Snag a cookie or two and follow me.”

Dylan took a napkin and a couple of gingersnap cookies. Since I was beginning to have my doubts about Birdie, I passed on the cookies, afraid she might have placed some horrible spell on them and I’d wake up in the morning married to Dylan and trapped in her house. Pregnant. Barefoot. Growing herbs in the garden by day and casting spells in the moonlight. No wonder my mom had escaped to the far corners of the Earth.

“Don’t be such a Donna-Downer,” Birdie said over her shoulder to me. “You’ll be wonderfully happy here.”

“Evie tells me you’re a witch,” Dylan said as he followed Birdie up the stairs.

I elbowed him as hard as I could.

“No need to be violent, Evelynn,” Birdie reprimanded. To Dylan, she said, “Yes, just like your mother.”

“Your mother?” I halted, thought about bolting out the door, and tried to process my shock. Mrs. Fox, gorgeous, smart, successful Mrs. Fox—thought she was a witch?

“Don’t act so surprised, dear. We have quite a large and thriving coven here.”

Wait. Why wasn’t Dylan shocked and appalled that my grandmother had just called his mom a witch?

I gripped the banister, holding on tightly as my world shifted. “You think your mom is a witch, too?”

Dylan didn’t even turn around.

“Come along, Evie,” Birdie said.

“No. I don’t think so. I want to go home.”
Where people are sane,
I thought.

Birdie turned and faced me. “Why are you so skeptical, child? What exactly are you afraid of?”

I sat on the steps and put my head in my hands. Maybe if I really was a witch, then I really did burn down the science room. The enormity of the realization hit me and made me feel sick. No. It couldn’t be true. There were no such things as witches. And spontaneous human combustion was hooey and malarkey.

Dylan took my elbow and lifted me to my feet. “Are you okay? I can take you home, if you like.”

Dylan said he liked me, and he wanted us to be together. He hadn’t even flinched when Birdie said the M word, marriage, which was different, but not so different from Uncle Mitch’s M word, malarkey. Was that because of the love elixir I’d made in the waxing moonlight? Maybe it hadn’t worked for Bree, because she wasn’t a witch, but it had worked for me, because I was.

With my eyes closed, I swayed and my knees turned weak.

“Oh dear, I think this has all been too much for her.” Birdie sounded far away.

I stiffened my spine and found my voice. “You said there’s a large coven. Are there . . . do I know other witches?”

“Now, love, you must know that for centuries—actually since the beginning of time—witches have been maligned and tormented. Why, it’s in our very natures to be discreet and protective of each other.” She blinked. “We have a code we’re sworn to uphold. I can’t violate the confidentiality of the coven.”

“B-b-but you told me about Mrs. Fox,” I stuttered.

Birdie’s looked back and forth between Dylan and me. “Surely, since his family will soon be
your
family—”

I held up my hand, not wanting to hear another word. “Stop! Just stop! I like Dylan, but I am not thinking of marrying anyone!” I turned and stumbled down the stairs as fast as I could.

I heard Dylan start after me, but Birdie stopped him.

“Let her go. She’ll come around in time.”

“Are you sure,” Dylan asked. “Her mother . . .”

“Was a fool,” Birdie finished his sentence.

I knew I was at least five miles from town. Fingering my phone, I thought of calling Bree, but then remembered she was mad at me. None of my friends from Faith Despaign were driving yet, and I hadn’t talked to my friends from Hartly in weeks. Calling them now just because I needed something would look lame.

I decided to walk, but since I didn’t want Dylan to find me, I took what I thought would be a short cut through the woods.

After a few miles, when the daylight faded and mist blew in, I broke into a run. Branches snagged my sweater, and ferns and blackberry bushes scratched my legs. Looking over my shoulder, watching and listening for Dylan, I tripped over something in my path. Pain slammed across my forehead and I fell.

I blinked and my eyelashes brushed against rotting leaves and twigs. Pain forced me into a tight ball. My head throbbed. I touched it gingerly and found leaves stuck in my hair. I pulled them away—even in the semidarkness I knew they were stained and sticky with blood.

A dense, cottony fog hung in the trees and blocked the light. Something skittered in a nearby thicket, and a twig snapped. I sat up, ignored the pain, and listened intently. How long had had I been on the ground? Long enough for my muscles to cramp with cold.

A skin-prickling sensation indicated that I wasn’t alone.

Animals. Maybe a red fox, a raccoon, a skunk, or a possum—harmless night creatures. Still, panic caught in my throat and I scooted on my bottom and leaned against a pine tree. Someone, no something, I thought, hid in the dark, watching me. Bracing myself against the tree, I stood and managed to brush off my jeans. They had a new hole, a tear up the inseam, and my thigh had a corresponding scratch.

I limped away with wet noodle legs and unfocused eyes. Another twig broke. I swallowed and patted my sweatshirt for some sort of weapon and found a tube of kiwi kiss lip gloss. I chose a stick off the ground and swung it as I walked in what I hoped was the direction of home. My head thudded with every footfall, but I held it high, careful not to demonstrate weakness or fear. Another twig snapped. I broke into a jog.