Witch Ways (21 page)

I gave him a sideways glance. With his clenched jaw and hair falling over his forehead, he didn’t look like the kid I’d known almost my whole life. A couple of nicks dotted his chin and I wondered if he’d cut himself shaving. When had he started shaving? When had his voice changed? When had he gotten so big?

I remembered a time shortly after I had just moved here. The Hendersons had invited me to go to Atlantic City with them. Josh, who had probably been about nine, had forgotten his bathing suit and so his dad, who really wanted Josh to learn how to surf, tried to make Josh go in the water wearing only his tighty-whities. After a shouting match and a lot of tears, Josh had spent the day hiding beneath a picnic table, wearing nothing but his tighties. The upside was that the rest of the Hendersons got terrible sunburns, but not Josh.

My lips twitched.

“What’s so funny?” Josh asked.

I bumped his shoulder with mine. “You are.”

“I’m funny?”

“You can be. I mean you’re not right now, and you haven’t been very funny lately, but you used to be.”

Josh stopped walking and looked up at the moon. His shoulders slumped. “Evie, do you like Dylan Fox?”

“Why?”

Josh looked down into my eyes. “He’s really into you.”

I didn’t know what to say. After a moment of silence, I said, “Not my fault.”

“He’s one of my best friends.”

“I won’t hurt him.”

“It’s not that,” Josh said, and he started walking again. “I’ve seen him with a lot of girls. I just . . .” He searched for the right words. “I don’t want you to be like them,” he finally said.

“I’m just me. I don’t know how to be anyone else.”

We reached the gate. Amber watched me from the fence post, her tail twitching.

“You kept the cat,” Josh said.

“It’s more like she decided to keep me,” I told him.

Josh looked at the dark windows. “Are you going to be okay here by yourself? Do you want me to come in?”

“No, I’m sure Uncle Mitch will be home soon.”

“’K.” Josh still looked unsure.

“Thanks for walking me home,” I said.

He nodded.

I went up the steps of the back porch and let myself in. When I got upstairs to my room, I looked out the window and watched Josh walk across the moonlit field.

I sat at the computer trying to focus on my newspaper article. Dylan had said he’d take me to the theater, but ever since our last conversation, he was definitely on my to-be-avoided list. I didn’t want to think about Dylan, and I really didn’t want to think about Josh, either, but that’s where my thoughts kept going.

Our brief conversation as we walked across the field replayed in my mind like the lyrics of a song. I kept wondering if anything, or everything, he’d said had another meaning—like he was trying to tell me something without actually coming out and saying it.

Was he trying to warn me about Dylan, one of his best friends? Bree had said
sisters before misters
—did guys have a similar code? Bros before bras? I tapped my pencil on the desk, trying to drum up my interest in the Thornhill Thespians.

The doorbell rang, making Scratch lift his head and let out a
whoof
. Amber twitched her tail twice in response.

I went to the window to see Dylan’s red BMW parked in the drive. He stood on the back porch—the overhead light shining over him like a halo. If not for the books in his hands, I might not have answered the door.

After a quick glance in the mirror to make sure I didn’t have a hot chocolate and whipped cream mustache, I hurried down the back stairs, through the kitchen and mudroom.

“Hey,” he said after I’d pulled open the door. He wore jeans, a cable knit sweater, and a hesitant smile. “I know you don’t want to see me, but I brought you these.” He held out his mom’s four scrapbooks that I’d left in his car.

I took them. All were leather bound, but each was a different color. They smelled of old paper and a musky perfume. I wondered if it was the perfume Mrs. Fox wore now, or the one she’d worn twenty-five years earlier. “Are you sure your mom still wants me to have them?”

Dylan grinned. “Oh yeah. You’re the girl of my mom’s dreams. And mine, too.” He held up his hand to stop my interruptions. “I get that you’re not there, yet.”

“Stop it, Dylan.” I tapped down my frustration. “I mean it. Our future isn’t written in the stars.”

He looked at his shoes. “I’m sorry . . . I had told myself I wasn’t going to go there. I really just wanted you to have these scrapbooks. I think they’ll help.”

Help with what? As far as I could tell, Dylan was the one who needed help. “You mean with my newspaper article?”

His grin wavered. “That and other things.”

Other things. Right. Weird.

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a pair of shiny black and orange tickets. “And I want you to have these.” He laid them on top of the notebooks.

“What’s this?”

“They’re tickets to the Thornhill Ball. I know you probably don’t want to go with me, but since I want you to be there, I got these for you, and one for Bree, too, so you wouldn’t have to go alone.” His bashful grin returned.

He probably knew Bree would be dying to go, and that if she knew I had tickets nothing would stop her from dragging me along with her. And I also guessed he’d tell her about the tickets.

“We don’t have costumes,” I said, grasping for an excuse.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said over his shoulder as he turned to leave.

Ten minutes later I got a text from Bree.
“WE’RE GOING TO THE BALL!”

Dylan didn’t try to talk to me the next day at school, but he kept looking at me as though he knew something I didn’t.

“What’s with Dylan Fox?” Court asked me at lunchtime.

I answered with a shrug.

“Are you still going with him to the ball at the Thornhill Theater?”

I shook my head and shoveled a spoonful of Jell-O into my mouth, even though I really hated Jell-O. I swallowed the jiggly yellow stuff and lifted another spoonful.

“Are you going to that?” Ryan asked, looking hopeful.

I nodded.

“Hey, me, too,” Ryan said.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“I’m glad you’re going. I thought I was going to have to spend the night hanging out with a bunch of baby-boomers in costumes.”

“Why are you going?” I asked him.

“My dad’s the chief of police. We have to go to community stuff all the time.”

“Wow. I did not know that,” I said. “But why do you have to go?”

“My dad thinks it’s important for our family to be involved,” he made air quotes and dropped his voice an octave to imitate his dad, “and civic-minded.”

“Cool,” I said.

“Will you dance with me?”

I looked around, grinning. “Not right now. No music.”

Ryan laughed. “At the dance, dummy.”

“Okay, I’ll dance with you at the dummy dance.” If Ryan went, maybe I wouldn’t have to spend the whole night with Dylan. Because I felt better about things, I pushed the Jell-O to the side of my plate and dipped my corndog in mustard. “Do you have a costume?”

“Sure. I’m Zorro.”

“Zorro?”

Ryan grinned. “My mom thinks it’s funny. How about you?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

But I had one as soon as I got home.

I found Birdie’s Cadillac parked in our driveway when I got home from school. My heart beat a little faster as I climbed the steps to the back porch and let myself into the mudroom.

Mrs. Mateo met me in the kitchen. “Your grandmother is here,” she said as she handed me a plate of cookies.

“Do you know what she wants?” I whispered.

Mrs. Mateo gave a quick, short shake of her head. “But she has brought dresses. Many dresses.”

I pulled out my phone and shot Bree a text, telling her to come over as soon as she could.

“CAST, REMEMBER?”
Bree sent back.

“DRESSES,”
I replied.

After hastily devouring a cookie and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I went to meet Birdie.

She stood in the center of the room, surrounded by ball gowns draped over the chairs and sofas like fancy dust-covers.

“Ah, there you are,” she said when she saw me. “I’ve brought some things for your perusal.”

“Dresses?” I didn’t know how I felt about Birdie, but I knew exactly how I felt about dresses—especially these. Each was made of shimmery fabric, but they came in a variety of colors and styles. Some had lace, some beads, some puffed in places, and some plunged in others, but they were all worthy of a Disney princess.

“Among other things.” Birdie dipped her head, obviously pleased with my response. She reached into her bag and pulled out a heavy silver pendant. “I also brought this for you to wear.”

It dangled between us, catching light from the window, and sending mini rays of sunbeams around the room.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, feeling a mesmerizing pull. I wanted to cradle it in my hands, but I also knew I shouldn’t take it.

Leaning forward, she placed the pendant around my neck, and I caught a whiff of her lavender scent. “There,” she said, smiling and looking pleased. “Now everyone will know who and what you are.”

“They will?” I asked, picking up the pendant, holding it up and watching the dancing light rays.

“Of course, they will.”

I ran to look at my reflection in the mirror. The pendant would make anything look beautiful. I wondered which dress would best match, and my attention drifted back to the choices draped around the room. “Can I touch them?” I asked, drawn by their beauty.

Birdie laughed. “Child, they’re for you. They’re yours.”

“All of them? I only need one.”

Birdie shook her head, as if disappointed in my stupidity.

“But where will I wear them?”

“Oh, there will be plenty of opportunities.” Birdie folded her arms and watched me closely. “Now, which will you wear to the ball?”

“I, um, don’t know. They’re all so gorgeous. What do you think?”

“I think you should ask that Fox boy what color his tie will be.”

“I’m not going with Dylan Fox,” I told Birdie.

Birdie responded with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t
like
Dylan Fox.” I tried to steel my voice with resolve.

Birdie stifled a laugh. “Well, we shall see.”

“No, we won’t.” If Birdie thought she could buy me with dresses and a beautiful necklace, she was wrong. Sort of. They were really beautiful dresses, and I shouldn’t just accept them, because as Mrs. Mateo always said, nothing is free. Everything comes with a price tag—even, and maybe even especially—gifts.

“Dylan thinks I’m a witch . . . and . . . well, I’m not.”

Birdie stepped over to me and laid her cold hand against my cheek. “Oh my dear girl, this is your problem.”

I shook away from her. “No, this is your problem. I don’t have a problem.”

“Yes, you do. You think you get to choose who you are, but you don’t. None of us have a choice. We simply are who we are.”

I folded my arms and braced my feet. “I am who I am, and I’m good with who I am.”

Birdie snorted. “Then perhaps you’ll be interested in this.”

From beneath the dress I liked the best, she pulled out a tooled leather book that looked a lot like Tabitha Fox’s scrapbooks.

“What’s that?” I felt drawn to it.

She held it out to me, tempting me. “It’s your first book of spells.”

“You already gave me spell books.” I moved closer for a better look, even though a voice of reason whispered
step away
.

“You don’t understand. This is your first book of
your
spells.”

I didn’t understand, but I did. I just didn’t want to understand.

“Whenever a witch casts a spell, it’s recorded.” Birdie flipped the book open. “See—here are yours.”

The words spoke to me.

First:

Goddess of love, blessed divine,

Send me my love in perfect rhyme,

Each to heart, and heart to heart

Together forever, never to part.

Open his eyes that he may see,

I am his and he is mine,

We belong until the end of time.

And then:

Earth, Sky, Hills, and Rain

Bless my love, ease her pain,

Sun, Moon, Stars and all above,

Show thy mercy on the one I love.

Help her sweet relief find,

Return her to health of body and mind.

For love of brother, sister, parent, child,

I call for water, fire, Earth, and air mild,

Powers of all, shed thy grace this moon night,

Restore my love to health, vigor and might.

Make him as he ever was and shall ever be,

That he may serve the world and blessed be.

“Lovely, are they not?” Birdie murmured, as she shut the book. “So simple. So pure.” She gave a small shiver. “I can feel the power.”

I stumbled until my legs hit the sofa, and I fell back onto it and on top of a pink dress made of damask and beaded lace.

“Can I have that?” I asked, staring at the book.

“Of course, my dear. It belongs to you.”

“Then why do you have it?”

“Did you really think the book would just magically appear?”

“Why not? Didn’t it somehow record my spells?” And then a seed of suspicion grew.

“I purchased it, of course, for this specific purpose.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “How did you know I cast those spells?”

She laughed, but it sounded harsh. “You think I wrote these down?”

“It’s a lot more believable than your story.”

“I dare you to try it.”

“Try what? Cast another spell and see if it’s magically transcribed in the book you bought from Staples?”

“I did not buy this book at Staples!”

“Did you buy it from a magic supply store?”

Birdie rolled her eyes. “I can see you insist on being difficult. But I have accomplished what I came to do.”

“You have?”

“Yes, I’ve delivered the dresses, the book, and I’ve introduced you to the primary steps of witchcraft. And now, I must go.”