Witch Ways (4 page)

Sighing, I climbed the stairs, wondering how Birdie knew I had a navy sweater dress. Maybe she had magic all-seeing powers. Once in my room, I reached into the far corner of my closet and pulled it out. I tried to remember the last time I wore it—church with Maria? I slipped it over my head, and since it looked cute with my boots, I left them on, briefly wondering if Birdie would argue.

“You’ll find your place soon enough,” Birdie said. “No need to hurry. Now, come along. We don’t have all day.”

This seemed contradictory, but I followed her out the door and to her car.

“Let’s leave the top down, shall we?” Birdie asked after we settled in.

I had a thousand questions I wanted to ask, but because of the wind blowing in my hair and the roar of the traffic around us, I kept my questions bottled up, promising myself I’d have another opportunity.

I watched the familiar landscape pass by, but after a few minutes we turned down a road I had never even known existed. Woods, dark and deep, lined the way. The trees’ canopy hung low, and sunlight streamed through the branches and red and gold leaves. I wondered how it would look in the dead of winter when the black branches reached for the sky.
A witches’ forest,
I thought.

Twisting my hair around my hand, I tried to keep a hold of it, worried that by the time I reached the school, it would be wild and untamable.

Birdie didn’t seem to mind the wind tossing her silver curls about her face.

After a few quiet miles with nothing to see but woods and brambles, we turned off the road and stopped before a large wrought iron gate. Without any sort of remote that I could see, the gates rolled open. Birdie beamed at me. I tried to return it, but I was pretty sure her excitement far outweighed mine. We rounded a hill, and the school came into view.

It sat in a small valley, surrounded by hills covered in autumn’s trees. A stone mansion with white window casings and trim, it looked just a bit larger than the Hendersons’ sprawling house and a couple of hundred years older.

“This house is one of the oldest in Connecticut,” Birdie told me after she cut the car’s engine. “The stone walls are nearly two feet thick. It’s been a fort, a church, a private home, and now it’s a school.” She chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Don’t you find it ironic this once was used as a church?”

“Why would that be ironic? The pilgrims came here to escape religious persecution. This was probably one of the largest houses around. Why not meet here?”

Birdie gave me a disappointed look, slowly shook her head and climbed from the car. Slamming the door shut, she turned to me. “Your mother taught you nothing.”

I got out and placed my hands on my hips. “If you want to know the truth, I was raised by my dad and my uncle. Right now, my mom is in India, but before that, she was in a country with a name I can’t pronounce and that no one has ever heard of . . . except for the people and yaks that live there, of course. I see her sometimes. She calls when she’s someplace with cell service. So, yeah, my mom hasn’t taught me much. I wanted to ask her what she remembers about this place, if she liked going here. But all the stuff I really need to know, I learned from my dad and Uncle Mitch.”

“Well! That explains so much!” Birdie slowly turned around, as if wondering what to do or where to go next. Finally, she sat on a stone bench and patted a spot beside her.

I sank slowly to her designated spot, wondering what was coming next.

“You must have a thousand questions for me.”

I bit my lip, afraid of my questions and even more afraid of the answers. Deciding to confront the elephant in the room, I blurted, “I didn’t burn down the science room.”

“Of course, you did.”

I shook my head. “No. I would never do that!”

“Not intentionally, but you still did it.” She heaved a big sigh. “This is really your mother’s fault. You have powers and you need to learn how to control them.”

“What about my mom? Do you think she has powers, too?”

Birdie made a noise that sounded a lot like Scratch grunting. “Your mother . . . such a disappointment.”

“So she doesn’t have powers.”

Birdie shook her head. “Of course she does. She just refuses to acknowledge them.” She caught my chin in her fingers and stared into my eyes. “But you listen to me. Like your mother, you can choose to ignore your powers, but doing so will only make you frustrated and bitter.” She dropped her hand and we stared at each other.

The silence stretched between us until I asked, “Is Faith Despaign a witch school?”

Birdie’s looked at the school and her expression softened as if she were caressing the stone building with her attention. “As I’m sure you are aware, we witches have a long and painful history. Even in this supposedly enlightened era, we must be ever vigilant and protect our powers from idle curiosity and those who would harm us with their jealousy.”

“Harm you?”

“The world is an evil place.”

“And . . . are . . . you a good witch?”

Birdie’s lips twitched. “Sometimes.” She pulled herself to her feet and smiled down at me. “Here’s the thing, my pet. No one is ever black or white. A true villain, just like a true hero, is a hard thing to find. People are people and witches are witches—both for good and for bad. We all make mistakes. Sometimes we try to do a good deed and it backfires. Sometimes when we set out to place a curse, it creates a blessing, and vice-a-versa.” She shrugged and gave up trying to hide her smile. “Sometimes a science room—or two—goes up in flames.”

I stayed rooted to the bench, more unsure and indecisive than ever.

“I’m here to help you.” Birdie put her finger to her lips. “Most of the students and many of the teachers here are not witches. That’s just the way of the world. We have always been a minority.”

I didn’t know if I believed Birdie, but I did know one thing. I didn’t want to ever burn anything ever again. Not even a candle.

“Come.” Birdie turned and marched down the drive and up the stone steps.

I trailed after her. I wanted to stop and read the historic marker on the porch pillar, but Birdie opened the door, and I had to hurry after her. Going to a new school was horrible, but getting lost would be a hundred times worse.

Passing through the massive wooden doors, we paused in the foyer. A circular stairway loomed in front of us. I looked up, counting the stories—three, maybe five. A fireplace tall enough to stand in to our left, curtained French doors on our right, and a hall sneaking away directly in front of us. Portraits of past headmistresses lined the walls. It wasn’t hard to imagine a pointy black hat or a green hairy wart on any of them.

“Where is everyone?” Birdie asked.

“I don’t know, class? This
is
a school.”

“Don’t be cheeky. Especially not with Mrs. Craig.”

“Mrs. Craig?”

“The headmistress.”

“Headmistress? I thought they only had those in Britain.”

Birdie turned her beady eyes on me. “What did you call the headmaster at Hartly?”

“Dr. Roberts. That was his name.” Just then, an amazing thing happened. Something I thought never ever would. I missed Dr. Roberts and his plastic hair and too-perfect teeth, maybe because he was the most un-witchlike person I knew.

“Forget about him.”

Could Birdie read my mind? Or was she just guessing what I was thinking?

Birdie strode to the double French doors and pushed them open. “Regina?”

A large boned woman with a mop of curly white-gold hair sat behind a massive desk. Light streamed in through stained glass windows, casting a warm glow in the small room. Shelves jammed with books, jars of odds and ends, boxes, and containers lined the walls. Regina looked up, her expression open and friendly. When she saw Birdie, she hastily climbed to her orthopedic shoe-clad feet.

“Mrs. La Faye!” She extended her hand. “We’re so pleased to have your granddaughter joining us.”

Birdie clasped Mrs. Craig’s hand briefly, before pushing me to stand before the woman.

“This is Evelynn Marston. Her education has been sadly lacking.”

“I’m a straight-A student,” I said.

Birdie continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Although, she is an incendiary.”

Was I? That word made me sound like I was a case of dynamite or a bucket of lighter fluid, which, in either case, was definitely not a compliment. “How would you like it if I called you a gas can?”

“Spunky little thing, isn’t she?” Mrs. Craig smiled at me, even though she spoke as if I wasn’t in the room.

I curled my hands into tight fists while my heart pounded in my ears. I fought to rein in my temper.

“I have her transcripts here,” Mrs. Craig said, resting her hand on a pile of papers sitting on her desk. “But they can only tell us so much.”

“Agreed,” Birdie said with a sigh. “So many things have to be discovered for oneself.”

Mrs. Craig nodded, as if Birdie had said something remarkable and profound. Turning to me, she asked, “And what do you like to do, Miss Evelynn?”

“Do?” Dr. Roberts had never asked me that before, nor had any of my previous teachers. I was supposed to do whatever they told me to do. That’s what going to school was all about, wasn’t it? The teachers told me information and later asked me to regurgitate it onto tests.

“What’s your passion, child?”

I disliked questions without answers, and I really hated being called a child.

“Well,” Mrs. Craig broke the awkward silence, “we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

I wondered how she could be so sure. Because even with all the things Birdie had told me, even with all her pretend clairvoyance, I still preferred to believe in Uncle Mitch’s science, or even in Maria’s religion, than in Birdie’s witchcraft.

“Follow me.” Mrs. Craig stood. She reminded me of the scrawny cows at the diary outside of town—all loose limbs and knobby knees. Of course, I couldn’t see Mrs. Craig’s knees, since her shapeless dress hung to the middle of her calves, but I was pretty sure all that gray wool hid a pair of knees as big and round as grapefruits. She headed for the door. “Everyone is outside today for a pep rally. There’s a game tonight!”

Birdie and I followed her down the hall, through the doors, and down the steps.

“You have a football team?”

This place looked so prehistoric, it was hard to imagine them having sports teams. We crossed a wide lawn, taking a path down a hill. There, past a thicket of trees, stood a large stadium.

“Do you like sports, dear?” Mrs. Craig asked raising her voice to be heard above the growing din of the cheering and stomping students.

“Right now, I’m pretty busy with play practice.” I paused. “I’m in the Wizard of Oz.”

Birdie and Mrs. Craig exchanged glances.

“It’s a community theater production. My best friend’s mom is the producer.”

“And what role do you play, dear?”

“I’m a Munchkin.”

“Of course, you are,” Birdie said, shaking her head. “This is all your mom’s fault,” she added beneath her breath.

I thought about telling Birdie what Mrs. Henderson told the cast—there are no starring roles. She had even read us a Bible scripture to back up her point. I wished I could remember how it went. Something like, there are many people in the cast, but one play. And the woodsman cannot say to the Munchkin, “I don’t need you”; or the witch to Toto, “I don’t need you.” Because there was one play made up of lots of people and everyone needed everyone else.

Mrs. Craig paused by the stadium’s gate. “This will probably seem overwhelming to you now—everyone gathered together this way. But in reality, we are a small, friendly school, specializing in the arts.” She winked at me. “With your love of fire and drama, you’ll fit right in.”

Inside the stadium, cheering thundered around us as the high school band pounded out a song I didn’t recognize.

“Freshman on your left,” Mrs. Craig yelled above the clamor, pointing across the field. “Sophomores, your class, on your right.” She turned, and faced the crowd directly behind me. “Juniors and seniors to the right and left respectively.”

I turned, and there, right in front of me in the senior section, about five rows up, sat Dylan. He watched me with a warm, steady stare.

I flushed and looked away, no longer caring that Birdie had called me an incendiary, or that the bovine Mrs. Craig was the headmistress. As long as Dylan looked at me like that—I was going to like it here.

Not much else mattered.

The next morning, I bounced on the balls of my toes, waiting for Uncle Mitch. I wore the same dress I’d worn yesterday, since it was the only thing I owned that wouldn’t stick out. Last night, with the help of my dad’s credit card and the internet, I purchased a navy blazer, five white button-down shirts, three gray pleated skirts, three pairs of navy tights, and five pairs of gray pants. I really hoped I liked it there, because I was about to have a closet full of dreariness. But thoughts of seeing Dylan made it all worthwhile.

I suffered a few guilty twinges when I thought about Bree. She’d liked him first, and in best friend code, that was the same as a double-dib. But I wasn’t going to go out with him. After all, he was a senior and I was a sophomore, and sure, Faith Despaign was different from Hartly, but it probably wasn’t
that
different. I couldn’t think of any universe where a hot senior guy hooked up with a bookish, beige sort of sophomore.

“Nervous?”

Uncle Mitch jingled his keys, breaking my Dylan-induced trance.

I shook myself to try and get back into the real world. “Yeah.” I swallowed.

Today my friends would go to Mr. Harnett’s for homeroom, Mr. Beck’s for biology, and to the cafeteria—the same cafeteria where the same ladies had been serving me lunch since I was five. My breath caught in my throat.

“Maybe if I’m good they’ll let me go back to Hartly?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Evie,” Uncle Mitch headed for the door, “you know it wasn’t a matter of being good or bad. It was your grandmother. I think she’s been waiting for an opportunity to get you where she wants you.”

My steps faltered as I thought about Birdie and her witchy-ness. “You don’t think she burned down the science room, do you?”