Witch Ways (8 page)

“I don’t know what things were like at Hartly, but here, if you want to play, you’re on the team. We have such a skeleton squad that we’re always afraid of forfeiting because we won’t have enough players.”

Ryan bumped me with his shoulder, letting me know we had to get on. I followed him to a seat near the back.

“I have to get off on McCloud today,” I told him. “I’m going to voice lessons.”

“Voice lessons and tennis lessons,” he said. “You’re learning all kinds of stuff.”

But when I got off at McCloud, it became obvious what I really needed to learn was my way around Woodinville. Even though I had lived there for most of my life, I didn’t recognize this side of town.

I looked down at the address written on the slip of paper in my hand. I tried to keep it sheltered from the rain so the ink wouldn’t run into a blue mess. After double- checking the name of the street, I tucked it into my pocket. When I’d looked at the online map this morning, getting to Mrs. Olson’s house seemed easy enough. Of course, everything looks easier when you’re warm, dry, wearing jammies, and contentedly eating a blueberry muffin. Everything is so much worse when you’re wearing your new gray, wool, school uniform and it’s raining. Wet wool smells a lot like Scratch in the bathtub—and can I just say that skirts are dumb? And wearing a skirt in Connecticut in the fall is only slightly less dumb than wearing one in the winter.

The rain ran in small streams and soaked my shoes and socks, making me feel like I wore sponges on my feet. Right then, something happened that I thought never would. I actually missed Hartly’s saddle shoes. Yeah. It was that bad. The Faith Despaign Mary Janes had the saddle shoes beat in the fashion department, but style couldn’t keep my feet dry. I tucked my chin into the collar of my coat and trudged to the next street sign. French and McCloud. Where was Elm?

On a map, one street looks pretty much like another, but when you’re on foot you notice things—small things like cracks in the sidewalk, and graffiti on a shed, and big things like steep, take-your-breath-away hills. Shabby old houses lined the street. Behind the houses were railroad tracks.

I didn’t remember noticing railroad tracks on the map. I knew the tracks couldn’t lead me to Mrs. Olson’s house, but if I followed them, I’d make it to the station near the library. Mrs. Caddy, the librarian, would let me use a phone.

None of this would have happened, of course, if Uncle Mitch had let me bring my phone. Being without a phone was not only socially unacceptable, it was also dangerous. This, I decided, was a truly creepy part of town, probably full of rapists and drug dealers, and here I was, walking the streets. Because I had nothing of value to steal—like, you know, a phone—thugs would have to kill me. If I had a phone, they might be happy to just take that and leave me alone. But since I didn’t have a phone . . .

“You lost?” a ragged voice asked.

I wheeled around and spotted a tall woman standing on a porch shrouded by a blue plastic tarp.

She laughed, and her voice rattled, as if she had a cold. She wore gold platform shoes with three-inch heels, black fishnet stockings, cut off jean shorts, and a bright orange parka. She pointed the end of her glowing cigarette at me. “Need a ride somewhere?”

“Uh. No.”

“You sure?”

I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket and checked the address. “Do you know where Hickory Street is?”

She shook her head and her dangly earrings swung back and forth. “But I got a map. Want to come in, get out of the rain?”

No. I did not.

I looked up and down the deserted street and considered the railroad tracks. I could try following them, but which way? And what if they crossed a trestle? And what if a train came while I was mid-trestle? Being caught on the railroad tracks was a lot more dangerous than walking without a phone.

The woman flicked her cigarette into the bushes where it sizzled and steamed. “I’ll go and get it.” She disappeared into the house, leaving the door open.

“That’s . . . nice of you,” I called out to her before crossing the spotty crab grass. I went to stand on her front porch to wait. It felt good to be out of the rain. Heat radiated from the open door. I edged closer, catching a look inside at the matted gray carpet and lumpy furniture. It reeked of overflowing ashtrays, cats and beer. I stepped away.

The woman reappeared, carrying a small map tucked beneath her arm while she lit up another cigarette. “You’re lost,” she told me. “The closest Elm is a long way away. You got someone who can give you a ride?” She studied at me with swimmy red eyes. “I’d offer you one, but the best I can offer is a bike.”

A bike? In a skirt? In the rain?

Uncle Mitch had a class. Wednesday was Mrs. Mateo’s day off. I decided to call Mrs. Henderson. Even if she couldn’t pick me up, maybe one of Bree’s older brothers or sisters could. A shirtless Josh flashed in my mind.

“Maybe you don’t want to go home. Maybe you’re running away.” The woman pointed her cigarette at me. “I’m guessing your life is in the toilet, and you’re thinking about flushing it all away. Listen to me, sister, it’s not worth it.”

I shook my head. “No . . . I’m just . . . trying to get to Mrs. Olson’s for a voice lesson.”

The woman straightened and light filled her eyes. “Are you an actor?”

“No . . . not really. Although, I’m filling in for my friend. She’s Dorothy in the
Wizard of Oz
at the Thornhill Theatre. I’m just a Munchkin. Or at least I was until Bree, my friend, broke her leg.” I was babbling. I had to stop, and I had to leave. Now.

The woman croaked a laugh. “Lucky break for you, huh?”

I swallowed. “I was okay being a Munchkin.” I swallowed again. “Did you say you have a phone?”

She flicked the ash off her cigarette, gave me a slow smile and turned back into her house.

I watched the rain beat into the grass, flattening it.

Moments later, the woman returned holding a blue, plastic cell phone.

I punched in Bree’s number, while the woman leaned against the house, watching me with her red swollen eyes.

“What’s your name, sister?”

“Evie,” I told her.

She jerked a thumb at her chest. “I’m Lauren Silver. I’m an actor, too.”

“Wow. I’m not really an actor. I want to get on the school newspaper.”

“I was almost big. Played on Broadway for years.
Paint Your Wagon
.
Mousetrap
.”

Bree picked up on the first ring.

“Bree, it’s me,” I said before she could say anything. “I’m lost. I was trying to get—”

“Who is this?” Lincoln. Why did he have Bree’s phone?

“It’s Evie. Go get Bree!”

“Hi, Evie. Bree’s at the doctor with my mom. Josh is home, want to talk to him?”

“Oh! Yes, please hurry.”

Closing my eyes, I felt waves of cold, wet frustration. Leaning back against the house, I decided to change out of the soggy flats and into Court’s tennis shoes and pulled them from my bag. If I had to walk home, I could at least do it in dry shoes. In the background, the Henderson dogs barked while Lincoln handed Josh the phone.

“It’s Evie,” Lincoln said.

“Evie?”

I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear. “Josh! I’m lost.”

“Where are you?”

“That’s part of being lost . . .” I looked at the woman. “Where am I?”

“67 Old Barn Road,” Lauren said.

I repeated the address. “Can you Google it and come and get me?”

I bit my fingernail waiting while he hesitated.

“I’ll have to bring the jeep.”

Discouragement settled in as I thought about the jeep’s bi-polar personality. I imagined Josh stuck in the middle of an intersection with cars and trucks pointing at him and blasting their horns. “Really?”

“It’s the only thing here that’s even sort of running. Oh, wait. The dirt bike.”

I looked out at the rain and the dark clouds. “The dirt bike?”

“We could wait for my mom to come home with the van, but she and Bree just left.”

I didn’t say anything for so long, Josh asked, “Evie?”

“I owe you, Josh.”

“Yeah. You will.”

“How long will it take for you to get here?”

“Google says fourteen minutes.”

“Fourteen minutes?”

He must have heard the desperation in my voice, because he said, “I’ll leave right now.”

Lightning zigzagged through a dark cloud. Seconds later, thunder boomed so loudly it rattled Lauren’s porch. I ducked inside, afraid the porch would fall and squash me. I shivered, more from fear than cold.

Unopened mail, fliers, and coupons lay scattered on the floor. Cigarette burns pocked the carpet and the brown velveteen sofa and chair. A black cat sat curled on the back of the sofa. He watched me with amber-colored eyes.

Lauren sat down and patted the cushion next to her. “I want to hear about this play you’re in.”

“
The Wizard of Oz
?”

Lauren nodded and studied me through slit eyelids. “I bet you’re more than Munchkin material.”

I didn’t know what to say, and I shifted my weight from foot to foot.

“I could give you some lessons, you know.”

“Oh. Thank you, but, well, I don’t really have time for any more lessons. I’m already taking voice, tennis, and cooking lessons.”
Cooking lessons?
Where had that come from? Maybe because I was hungry? Or was I thinking about the books of spells Birdie had sent. I looked out the window. The rain had eased up, the clouds looked a little less angry, and I prayed Josh wasn’t getting too soaked . . . or mad.

“Maybe I should come by the Thornhill Theater. I could give some tips.”

“Oh, um, maybe Mrs. Starks would like that, but I don’t know . . .”

“Those where the golden days—or the Silver days.” Lauren laughed at her own pun. Lifting her finger, she motioned for me to stay put while she disappeared from the room. Moments later, she returned, her arms full of old-fashioned scrapbooks, which she spread out over the coffee table. She settled down on the sofa, flipped open a scrapbook and began to tell me stories of the theater and the actors and actresses who had performed there.

While Lauren Silver talked and talked, I bounced on the balls of my feet, caught between wanting to bolt out the door and not wanting to seem rude, because, after all, she had invited me in out of the rain and let me use her phone.

“And this was Hugh.” Lauren gave a great sigh. “We were so in love.” Wiping an invisible tear from her eye, she sent me a wavering smile. “Ever been in love, Miss Evie?”

“No. I’m only fifteen.”

“Juliet was only fourteen when she fell for Romeo.” Lauren perked up. “Oh! We did
Romeo and Juliet
! It’s my favorite of the Shakespearean plays. See, here’s Hugh playing Romeo. Isn’t he handsome?”

I glanced down at the tall, dark, and handsome guy and then at Lauren’s age-ravaged face. It was hard to believe someone like Hugh would ever be interested in someone like Lauren.

Outside, I heard the dirt bike’s roar. I bolted. “Thanks, Miss Lauren . . .” I couldn’t remember her last name. “Thanks for everything. I think my ride’s here.” Flinging open the door, I ran down the steps, across the lawn and to the street where Josh straddled the dirt bike.

He shook his head when he saw me. “What are you doing here?” he asked through tight lips. “Your dad and uncle will—”

“Never know,” I finished his sentence, straddled the bike and took the helmet Josh had tucked under his arm. After adjusting the strap, I put my arms around his waist. He felt warm, safe, and I resisted the urge to lean against him. My skirt hitched up around my bare legs, and I braced my feet on the buddy-pegs.

Lauren came out to the porch to wave good-bye.

I raised my hand as Josh gunned the bike.

We didn’t talk all the way home.

Josh pulled up in front of my house. It had stopped raining blocks ago, and the worried crease on Josh’s forehead had disappeared.

“Thanks!” I called over the bike’s roar.

“You owe me!”

“You already said that.”

He gave me a lopsided grin and nodded. “See ya,” he called over his shoulder.

Using my key, I let myself into the empty house. I dropped my bag in the entry and peeled off my soaking wet coat. Now it smelled of smoke, Lauren’s house, and wet dog. I took it into the mudroom so it could drip on the tile floor. In the kitchen, I made some hot chocolate. While I waited for the milk to warm, I ran upstairs to towel off my hair and change into a pair of sweats.

I opened my laptop and saw I had a message from Mom. I carried it back down to the kitchen so I could read while the milk and chocolate steeped.

I opened the message as I slowly thawed out and relaxed.

Hi Pansy,

I will try to answer your questions.

One: Birdie—she’s a witch. What does that even mean? It means she belongs to a coven of women who, because of their deep-seated insecurities, feel they need powers beyond their own abilities to cope in the everyday world.

Two: Is Faith Despaign Academy a witch school? In my day, many sane and wonderful teachers taught at Faith Despaign, but because of its background, it drew a fair amount of crazies as well.

Three: Birdie sent me a bunch of books with witch spells. I don’t know what to do with them. Please throw the books away. They are a crutch—a coping mechanism—for people who feel powerless.

Four: Why didn’t you tell me about her? I was a giant disappointment to Birdie, and even now as an adult, I would be lying if I said her disapproval doesn’t still sting. I didn’t want you subjected to her stupidity.

Five: So, she thinks she’s a witch. Is that really a reason to hate her? I don’t hate Birdie. I don’t believe she hates me, either. But we do have fundamental differences that make nearly every conversation and interaction painful. Over time, I found it easier to avoid her.

On the stove, my milk had turned frothy, and I went to rescue it. Once removed from the burner, the bubbles began to pop and shrink, but a skin remained on top. I hated milk skin. A memory of my mom flashed in my mind. We were in the kitchen of our Covington house, my mom standing at the stove, music on the radio, my dad standing behind her, his arms around her waist, and his face in her hair.