Witch Ways (2 page)

I scrounged through my bag, looking for my phone. Then I remembered. Sticking out my hand, I said, “I want to call my mom.”

Uncle Mitch glanced at me before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone.

“Aw, come on! I can’t even have my phone for two minutes?”

“By orders of your dad, you’re grounded.” He slapped his phone into my palm.

“Ugh.” I started to press Mom’s number, and then froze.

“What’s the matter?” Concern touched Uncle Mitch’s voice.

I shook my head, blinked back tears and stared out the window. How could I ask my mom if she sparked, too?

I sat on my bed with a book propped up in front of me. I’d read
Beyond the Fortuneteller’s Tent
a hundred times. It was my go-to book—a paper and ink equivalent of comfort food—but today Emory Ravenswood held no, or at least less than usual, charm. The words on the page swam before my eyes and refused to form into nice, understandable sentences. I flipped ahead to my favorite chapter where Emory takes Petra to the gypsy camp.

My eyes landed on the words
“Tell me, my lady Petra, if you were given the choice to shun the captivity of walls and ceilings and roam the earth, unburdened by possessions as the spirits directed, would you choose to stay at home?”

I had no choice. I had to stay at home, without a phone, computer, or car. I rolled onto my back and held the book to my face, trying not to worry about where I was going to go to school on Monday, and even if I was going to graduate. Would Uncle Mitch let me take the GED? If so, I could start going to a community college next semester—but that didn’t start until January. What would I do until then?

Get a job?

Knowing that if I quit school in tenth grade, my dad would throw a hissy fit and my uncle would dance right along beside him, I tried to refocus on my book.

Soon before she died, Grammy Jean said there comes a time when you have to decide to turn the page or close the book. If I could choose—and going back to Hartly wasn’t an option, which looked to be the case—where would I go? Easy—public school.

I heard a knock at the window.

I put down my book and went to let Bree inside. We’d been climbing in and out of each other’s windows ever since my parents’ divorce eight years ago, when my dad and I moved in with Uncle Mitch. I lifted the sash.

Getting from the huge branch of the maple tree and into my room was never painless. Bree leaned forward, balanced her belly on the sill, and fell into the room head first, with a bang.

“Ev—ie?” Mrs. Mateo called from the kitchen. Our housekeeper always managed to make the second syllable of my name an octave higher than the first, making me think she had missed her calling as an opera singer.

“I’m okay, Mrs. Mateo,” I said. “I just dropped my . . . stuff.”

“Brilliant,” Bree whispered, as she climbed off the floor. “You’d be great at improv.”

“I know, right?”

“How long is your imprisonment?”

Bree tried to brush off the twigs and leaves clinging to her favorite jeans and Imagine Dragons T-shirt—probably the same clothes she had worn to school. You could wear whatever you wanted at Norfolk High. Which was a good thing, because Bree would probably rather burn down a science room every day than have to wear saddle shoes.

“I don’t know. My dad is coming to discuss the situation.” I made air quotes around the word
situation
.

“Wow. Is he bringing Maria—or anyone?” She climbed up on the bed beside me.

I knew for Bree,
anyone
was code for Marcus, my stepbrother. Maria was a Brazilian beauty, and Marcus had her dark, almost black eyes, red lips, thick lashes and curly hair. They also shared chiseled jawlines, a tendency toward self-absorption, and strong moral values—more obnoxious than charming.

I shook my head. “Just Dad. He’ll be here soon.”

Bree’s lips twisted. “Why is there a situation? Wasn’t it an accident? I mean, no one can really believe you intentionally set the science room on fire, can they?”

I shrugged.

“And it’s not as if they found gasoline or anything,” Bree said.

“It is—or it was—a science lab. There were plenty of things to catch on fire and explode.”

Bree tried not to laugh.

“It’s not funny,” I said. “I feel badly for the snakes and rats.”

“Yeah—all those poor rich kids . . . and the lab animals, too, of course.”

“No one was hurt—except Lizzy, the iguana.” I did feel badly about her. Although, I hadn’t intentionally killed her.

“Yeah, but now you might get to go to Norfolk High!”

I flopped down on my back and looked at the ceiling. “I hope so, but I kind of doubt it. Dr. Roberts talked about Faith Despaign. Seems my grandmother is a trustee.”

“Wait!” Bree straightened her back.
“What?”

“I have a
grandmother
, and no one even told me!”

Bree stared at me, open-mouthed. “But Faith Despaign?”

“Did you hear me tell you I have a
secret
grandmother?”

“That’s weird, but your whole family is a little weird. I mean, I love you, and I love Uncle Mitch, and I really want Marcus to love me, then we can truly be sisters. But your mom is so out there, and then your dad married Maria, who is like her complete opposite.”

“I know.” I sighed, thinking about my stepmother. Often when I was with her, I felt like she was watching, waiting, and praying for the opportunity to crack open her Bible and call me to repentance. Fortunately, arson didn’t violate any of the Ten Commandments. In fact, God seemed to like using fire Himself—Moses and the burning bush being a classic case in point. Although, I knew my dad and stepmother wouldn’t see things that way.

“I don’t know how or why my dad shifted from my mom to Maria. It’s like there’s a missing piece of that puzzle.”

“You have a grandmother. Do you know anything about her?”

I shook my head. “She’s coming, too. Uncle Mitch isn’t happy. He really hates it when he’s ejected from his science cave.”

“But Faith Despaign!”

“What about it? Do you even know anyone who goes there?”

“Yeah. Dylan Fox.”

She said his name as if I should know who he was—as if he were someone to be revered, like Prince Harry.

“So?”

“So—I would love to go to Faith Despaign, just so I could breathe the same air as Dylan Fox.”

“Who is he?”

“A friend of Josh’s.”

She bounced off the bed, went to the window and pulled back the curtain to watch her house. “In fact, he went to the comic book store with Josh this morning. I wanted to go, but they wouldn’t take me. Even after I swore I was a huge Spider-Man fan.”

“They didn’t believe you?” I rolled off the bed and went to stand beside her. I loved that I could see Bree’s house from my room.

The Hendersons lived in a giant Victorian, which must have been added onto a hundred times. It had jutting gables and a crazy-wampum roofline. The original house had been built sometime before 1820, like ours, because both houses had plaques from the Woodinville Historical Society stating they had been there when the town was incorporated. But that was where the similarity ended.

Our boxy colonial had perfectly symmetrical windows and a boring roofline. The Hendersons’ house had a turret, a widow’s walk, and a mishmash of dormer windows. Our house was white with black shutters and a cranberry colored front door. Theirs boasted about ten different shades of blue with splashes of white. Our house was quiet. Bree’s house rang with the noise of eight kids, two parents, three dogs, five cats, and a couple of rabbits. To be fair, the rabbits didn’t live inside the house with everyone else. They had their own cages in the backyard. They were the only creatures in the Henderson household that didn’t have to share a bathroom.

“They asked me a trick question.”

“Like what?”

“The name of Peter Parker’s uncle.”

“How’s that a trick question?”

Bree shushed me when a red convertible BMW pulled into their drive. “They’re back,” she said. Car doors slammed, and Josh, and a tall, lean guy with bronze-colored hair climbed out. Actually, Dylan Fox was hotter than Prince Harry, although not as hot as Bree’s brother—but I couldn’t tell Bree that.

Bree grabbed my arm and squeezed.

“Hey, I thought you liked Marcus.”

Bree sighed. “I do love Marcus, but he’s in Virginia, and I’m here. And so is
he
.” She nodded at Dylan. “You got to love the one you’re with. Someday, I’m going to marry Marcus, but until then . . . Mr. Fox.”

And as if he could hear her, Dylan Fox turned and looked directly up at my window. Our eyes met briefly.

Giggling, Bree tugged on my hand as she dropped to the floor. I landed next to her with a thud.

“Ev—ie?” said Mrs. Mateo.

“I’m okay, Mrs. Mateo,” I said.

Bree sat up and inched toward the window.

I followed.

Dylan was in the exact same spot, staring in our direction.

Laughing, Bree put her hand on the top of my head to push me down. “How can we get him to pay attention to me?”

“Why not stand up and wave? Wouldn’t that be better than scrunching and hiding?”

Rolling her eyes, Bree frowned at me, looking exactly like her mother when Bree forgot to take out the trash. “You can’t be so obvious.”

“What if you fell out of the window? Maybe he could run over and catch you.”

She blinked at me. “You’re joking, right?”

“He’d have to sprint really fast to get here in time.”

“I’m serious. How can I make him pay attention to me?”

“Just think how romantic it would be. You’d flutter down, calling for help like a damsel in distress—”

I stopped midsentence when I heard the familiar hum of the opening garage door. “My dad. You have to go.”

Bree nodded and squeezed my hand. Standing, she threw one leg over the sill.

Moments later, I heard branches and twigs snapping. I ran to the window in time to see Bree’s arms and hands flailing.

“Bree!”

She looked up at me, her mouth a perfect
O
as she tumbled backward. She landed on the grass.

Josh and Dylan sprinted across the lawn, followed by the Hendersons’ three dogs: Joker, the German shepherd; Penguin, the ancient black-and-white Boston terrier; and Riddler—a puzzle-piece assortment of breeds.

“Gabby! Go get Mom!” Josh called over his shoulder to his little sister before vaulting over the hedge separating our yards. He landed with a one-footed thud.

Feeling a little like Rapunzel, I leaned out my window. “Bree? Are you okay?”

She moaned without opening her eyes. She lay flat on her back, her arms spread wide. If not for her left leg sticking out at an odd angle, it looked as though she were napping.

Her brother and Dylan stared down at her as if she were a strange fish washed ashore. Josh looked up and frowned at me. Dylan smiled at me.

“Hi,” he mouthed.

I waved. Heat crawled up my neck, and I hoped he couldn’t see me blush. We stared at each other until the front door opened and shut with a bang.

Dad.

He stomped up the stairs and entered my room. Dad was the
GQ
version of Uncle Mitch, handsome—but in a way that indicated he knew it and cared, as opposed to Uncle Mitch, who wore his good looks without intention or effort. He joined me at the window, concern for Bree overriding, for the moment, our mutual frustration with each other.

Mr. and Mrs. Henderson came running from their house—Mrs. Henderson in a pair of denim overalls, and Mr. Henderson in the slacks and white button down shirt he wore every day to his furniture store. Gabby, Bree’s little sister, followed, and tried to rein in the dogs fussing over Bree.

“This day just keeps getting better,” my dad mumbled, turning his attention from the Henderson family crisis to the giant baby blue Cadillac approaching the house. He looked at me—with about as much enthusiasm as he would if the city were overrun with rats—and said, “Your grandmother is here.”

“Don’t you think you should have told me about her before now?”

He grunted and turned away.

“No! You don’t get to be mad at me! I’m mad at you!”

He didn’t respond, but pounded down the stairs to the living room.

I ran after him, wanting to confront him before the mysterious grandmother arrived, but stopped short when I saw her standing on the tapestry rug in the almost never used living room. She was small, trembling, fuzzy-haired, and bright-eyed. Despite the warm autumn air, she wore a long crimson velvet skirt, a brown wool blazer, and a pink feather boa. She extended her arms to me.

“There you are, Beautiful!” She pulled me in for a warm, lavender-scented hug. She felt fragile and brittle in my embrace, and the boa tickled my nose. “You must be very brave, dear,” she whispered in my ear.

Her words fanned my neck, and a chill went down my back.

Pulling away, she held both of my hands. “You look just like your mother did at your age.”

“Sophia has strawberry-blonde hair,” my dad said. He stood in the center of the room, frowning at us, and looking, for once, awkward.

“And Evelynn’s hair is the color of honey,” my grandmother quipped, without looking at him, “both delicious and edible.”

Uncle Mitch—who must have shown up some time during the hug—snorted.

My grandmother threw him a nasty look over her shoulder. “What’s that, Mitchel?”

She said Mitchel, but for some reason, it sounded like Michelle. I had never noticed how similar the two names sounded until just that moment.

Uncle Mitch bit his lip and looked away.

“Shall we all sit down so we can discuss my granddaughter’s education?”

Officially the house belonged to my dad and uncle, and yet this tiny woman acted like she owned the place. She had the two grown men, both successful and well-respected, shuffling to their seats. What was it about her? She had to weigh less than a hundred pounds. She looked about as old and as harmless as Penguin, the Hendersons’ ancient terrier. Sitting on the sofa, she smiled at me and patted the cushion beside her.

“Now, my dear, why don’t you tell us where you would like to go to school?”