Witch Ways (18 page)

Behind me, I heard heavy footsteps.

I peered into the dark woods, seeing nothing but white mist, I ran, praying for a straight, unimpeded path.

The ground became uneven and rocky and I recognized a dry riverbed. Stumbling, careful not to twist an ankle, I tried to ignore the screaming cut on my thigh. I heard someone behind me, so close I imagined his or her breath on the back of my neck. Scrambling out of the riverbed and up the bank, I knew any moment I’d pass the Hendersons’ shed, a reasonable hiding spot. I sprinted up the incline leading to the pasture and saw a roofline poking out of the fog. As I raced toward it, my foot caught on something and I pitched forward.

Hands caught me as I fell. I smelled beer and sweat as someone lifted me off the ground from behind, pressing my back against a man’s chest. I kicked and screamed.

“Go ahead and scream, who you think is going to save you?” The man had a surprisingly high voice and a strange accent.

I threw my hands behind me, in an attempt to pull his hair or gouge his eyes. “Let me go!”

He chuckled in response, kicked his knee between my flailing legs, and held me viselike with one arm, while the other ripped the front of my sweatshirt and fumbled at the buttons on my shirt. I screamed louder and bucked my head back, making contact with his chin.

And then it happened again—the tingling in my hands, the warmth at my fingertips—sparks and the smell of burning flesh.

“What the hell?” The man dropped me.

I landed face first and kissed dirt. Spitting, I lunged for my stick and scrambled to my feet.

A rock torpedoed past my head.

“What the-” my attacker began to say before he tumbled forward.

I whacked him on the head with the stick as he fell. As he lay prone at my feet, I hit him again and again until the stick broke. The tall, thin, man lay face down on the ground. Weeds poked up around his torso and between his sprawled legs. His dark hair was matted above his exposed ear and a trickle of blood ran across his temple. He didn’t move. He wore a loose Levis jacket and I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. The thudding in my chest accelerated.

“Geez, Evie, did you kill him?” Josh, holding a rock and wearing only a pair of sweatpants, crept out from behind his shed.

I opened my mouth, but all I could manage was a strangled snivel.

The man groaned and then moved his shoulders. Josh grabbed my wrist and yanked me forward. With a grip like a metal cuff, he pulled me through the pasture. The tall grass slapped my jeans with heavy dew. Josh propelled me over the fence separating his property from mine, and finally pulled me to a stop. He leaned back against the house and closed his eyes.

My knees gave way and I sank to the ground. My shoulders began to shake and I sobbed.

Josh opened his eyes wide, horrified. His long arms dangled at his sides. “Don’t Evie,” he begged. “Oh, geez, don’t cry.”

I gulped. “You saved me, Josh . . .”

“No, I didn’t. I don’t think I even hit him.” Josh shook his head. “Stop it, Evie. You’re safe now.”

“But who was he? Why was he hiding in the woods? Do you think he was looking for me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are we just going to leave him there?” I shuddered and glanced at Josh from under my bangs.

“I’ll tell my parents what happened, and they’ll call the police. You’ll probably have to make a statement.”

My thoughts skittered back to the burns on his hands. No one could know. “Can you not say anything about me?”

“But Evie . . .”

Panic thundered in my head. I grabbed Josh’s hand. “Please—don’t mention me to your parents, or especially the police.”

Doubt flickered in Josh’s eyes. “But why?”

“Just please, Josh. I’ll have to go and live with my dad, or my mom, and . . . just please.”

“But what if this guy attacks someone else? What if that someone else is you, Gabby, or Bree?”

I put my head on my arms and sobbed. Through my tears, I saw Josh’s feet shuffle in the dirt beside me.

“Fine, I’ll tell them I found him drunk and passed out. You don’t need to worry . . . or cry.”

I nodded and dried my tears. “I owe you.” I tried to think of a way I could pay him back. I looked up into his face and then managed to stand. “I mean it, Josh. I’ll do anything.”

“You already owe me.”

“I’ll owe you more.”

Josh kicked a rock and kept his eyes focused on the toe of his shoe. “I honestly don’t think I hit him . . . I don’t know why he fell.”

I thought about the sparks from my fingertips, and the smell of burning flesh. Part of me wanted to go back and look at his hands. Would his skin be charred? But a larger part of me wanted to hide in my room, and burrow in my quilts, with a pillow covering my head.

We walked in silence to the back porch. I rubbed the tears on my face and turned to Josh. “Thanks,” I said. “Even if you didn’t hit him, you still saved me.”

Josh looked up at the newly risen moon shooting rays of light through the alders and maples bordering our yards. “You owe me.” His smile helped ease my pain and confusion.

That night, I looked up incendiary on the Internet. I couldn’t find it ever used as a word to describe a person. I thought about calling Birdie. I looked at the clock. Ten p.m.—7:30 a.m. in India.

I called Mom. To my surprise, she picked up on the first ring.

I skipped the greeting and went right to my questions. “Tell me about you and your mom.”

“Well, hello, pansy—how are you?” My mom’s voice was full of laughter.

“I’m seriously . . .” I couldn’t even think of the right word to describe how I felt. I paused before launching into my story. I told her about my sparking fingertips and circled back to the burning of the science room.

“Sweetie, I told you. It’s the power of suggestion. Why I remember once when I went to the doctor for a healthy check-up and he said he didn’t like the way my lungs sounded and sent me to get an X-ray. As I was waiting, I swear I had trouble breathing. By the time they took my X-rays, I was wheezing like a hundred year old smoker! But do you know what happened?”

“Did sparks fly from your fingertips? Did you burn down the doctor’s office?”

“No. The X-rays and my lungs were clear. Immediately, I felt better. Stopped wheezing. Came home and went running. Your mind has that kind of power.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” Although, I did feel better.

“I’m sure it is. Someone told you sparks fly from your fingers and when you were scared and felt threatened, you made it real . . . but not really. Did you stop to look if the man had red marks on his hands?”

“No. But it wasn’t just the guy in the woods!” I told her about Dylan and the love elixir. “He never even looked at me before, but the next morning he was waiting for me at school. Today he and Birdie were talking about when I marry him!
Marry Him!
Mom!
”

Silence, and then the Mom lecture I knew would follow, did.

“You will not rush into marriage. That will not happen. You are too smart, too bright . . .”

“Birdie said Mrs. Fox is a witch, too.”

“Tabitha Fox?”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes. She was a few years older than me—and when you’re in high school, a few years are like an ocean apart. But I knew about Tabitha, Lauren, and her friends.”

“Wait! Are you telling me Lauren Silver was a witch, too?”

Mom chuckled. “Well, that all depends on how you define the term, doesn’t it?”

“Not funny. None of this is funny.”

“I promise you’ll think it is in a few years.” She paused. “Now, I need you to do something. It won’t be easy, but you know you have to do it. If you can’t do it alone, take Mitch with you. He loves you.”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too. That’s why you need to put on your shoes, march over to the Hendersons’ and tell them—and the police—what really happened tonight.”

“But what if the guy says I burned him?”

“Not going to happen, because it never did happen. It was just in your head. But let’s imagine it did, and he’s stupid enough to say something about it. Who’s going to believe him? Your side of the story is the only one anyone is going to believe, especially if Josh is there to back you up. Now, go. And call me back as soon as you’re done. I want to hear how it went.”

Ten minutes later, a sleepy Uncle Mitch and I stood on the Hendersons’ doorstep.

Bree pulled open the door. “What are you doing here?” She glared at us.

I swallowed. “Is Josh here?”

Mr. Henderson wandered past the door, caught sight of us and joined us outside on the porch, closing the door on a curious Bree.

Uncle Mitch put his hand on my shoulder. “Evie has something to tell you.”

I sniffed.

“Go ahead, Evie,” Uncle Mitch urged.

“Did Josh tell you what happened tonight in the woods?”

Mr. Henderson nodded at me, confusion in his expression—which meant that Josh had kept his word.

“There’s more to the story. I was there. That man grabbed me.” I really didn’t want Mr. Henderson and Uncle Mitch to see my bra, but I knew they needed to know what happened, so I opened my sweatshirt to show him my ripped blouse.

Mr. Henderson sunk into one of the three rocking chairs on the porch. “This changes things. When Josh and I went back looking for the man, we couldn’t find him.” Mr. Henderson looked up at me. “We have to tell the police. Do you think you could describe him?” He motioned for me to sit beside him.

Uncle Mitch remained standing, radiating a protective anger.

“I’m not sure. He fell face first, so I never got a good look at his face.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” Mr. Henderson asked.

“I was scared. And I didn’t want anyone to think it was somehow my fault.”

“Your fault?” Uncle Mitch exploded. “How could it have been your fault?”

I thought about how I repeatedly beat him with my stick, and tears filled my eyes.

“Obviously, the entire incident was extremely traumatic,” Uncle Mitch said. “She hesitated, but she’s here now to tell what really happened, and she wants to cooperate with the police so they can find this man.”

I nodded.

Mr. Henderson stood, pulled open the door and bellowed out Josh’s name.

Moments later, Josh stood on the porch. He had put on an UConn sweatshirt, but he still wore the sweat pants.

“We’re going to go and tell the police what happened tonight,” Mr. Henderson said. “Grab my keys. We’ll take the van.”

The next morning my phone buzzed with a text from Bree.

“What were you doing in the woods with Josh?”

I looked at my clock. Six o’clock in the morning, two hours before school started. I groaned, rolled over, closed my eyes, and considered turning off my phone. Last night had been a really long night. I hoped Bree would go back to sleep.

The phone buzzed again with a long string of question marks.

Giving up, I sat up and replied.

“Nothing.”

“Does Dylan know about the nothing?”

I thought about this and came to a decision that had nothing to do with Bree. She might think that it would, but I knew my heart.

“I don’t care if he does. I don’t like Dylan.”

The response was immediate.

“YOU DON’T LIKE DYLAN FOX?!”

“No.”

“How can you NOT like Dylan Fox?”

I thought about writing because his mother is a witch and thinks I am, too, and frankly, I’m not interested in being a witch, because only creepy and wacky people want to be witches. But instead I typed out,
“Chemistry. Our pheromones don’t speak the same language.”

“Dang. Does this have anything to do with my brother?”

“NO!”
I tossed the phone down and climbed from the bed, nearly stepping first on Scratch and then Amber.

Bree wasn’t the only one who had a hard time believing I wasn’t interested in Dylan Fox.

When I got to school, I found him leaning against my locker.

“What happened to you yesterday?”

Somehow, he made Despaign’s dismal gray uniforms sexy. And he smelled good—a mixture of soap and something earthy.

I needed him to move so I could put my bag away and get my science book, but with his shoulder resting on my locker and a small frown on his face, he looked like he had no intention of going anywhere anytime soon.

I steeled myself for a confrontational conversation. Leaning forward so we couldn’t be overheard, I said, “All the witch talk was spooking me out.”

He laughed so hard he shifted off my locker, and rocked back on his heels.

I swooped in, ignoring him, and rolled through my combination. He was still laughing after I’d deposited my bag and picked up my science notebook. Hugging my books to my chest, I stalked away as the first bell rang.

He caught up to me, and took my arm. “Hey wait, you’re serious.”

“Yeah. I’m not a fan of the occult.” I glanced up and down the crowded hall, making sure no one was listening. The other students rushed by, hurrying to beat the tardy bell. I pulled my arm out of his grasp.

He leaned down so our noses nearly touched, and his eyes met mine. “You better get used to it fast.”

“Why? So I can watch horror movies? So I can collect bat wings and frog legs and cast spells? No thanks.”

He pulled away from me as if I’d slapped him. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“No—and you know what? I don’t want to get it.” I turned away, headed for the science lab—a place where logic reigned and equations had indisputable outcomes.

Dylan skipped ahead of me and blocked my path. Walking backward, he faced me. “We can talk about this at lunch.”

“No. I think you should stay on your side of the cafeteria, in the senior stratosphere, and I’ll hang in the sophomore splash zone where people are more normal.”

“You think I’m not normal?” I could tell he wanted to laugh. “And you think you are?”

I pushed his chest, making him skitter backward and bump into a cluster of freshmen girls. While they twittered and giggled and he apologized, I ducked into the science room and chose a desk in the far corner minutes before the tardy bell rang.