Rhymes With Witches

by Lauren Myracle

“Have you been listening to anything I’ve said? They’re all the same, year after year after year. They may not start out that way, but then they do something. Something big. And they become.”

  “Become?” I repeated.

  “I don’t know how, no one does, but there’s more going on than everyone thinks.” Rae stopped brushing. She lowered her voice. “Something bad happened a long time ago. Really bad.”

  “And that would be?”

  She tilted her head. “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘She sold her soul to the devil’?”

  Oh good god. “Rae,” I said, “I’m not a little kid straight out of the pumpkin patch. I stopped being scared of ghost stories years ago.”

  Rae’s expression didn’t change. Her face was long, and there was nothing in her manner that suggested she was kidding. Despite myself I got a chill.

  “The school covered it up, but everyone knows,” she said.

  “Not me,” I said.

  Rae gazed at me. “There was a girl. Her name was Sandy. She cared too much what people thought of her, because she was super needy. She really, really, really wanted to be popular.”

  Yeah, well, who doesn’t? I thought. Although the term “needy” made me shift uncomfortably.

  “She joined with three others,” Rae went on. “One from each grade.”

  “They were losers, too,” Alicia put in. “Right, Rae?”

  Rae plowed on. “But Sandy was the one who did it.”

  “Did what?” I asked. I plucked at my jeans, then made myself stop. I told my body to relax.

  “They went to an empty storage room in Hamilton Hall,” Rae said. “One of those rooms where no one ever goes—”

  “Up on the third floor,” Alicia contributed.

  “—and performed a ritual in the dead of night.” Rae leaned forward. “They offered a sacrifice, and the sacrifice was accepted.”

  “What … was it?” I said. I couldn’t believe I was asking.

  “They awakened some weird creepy power—and I’m not making this up,” Rae said. “That shit is out there, like when you feel someone watching you, only when you turn around there’s no one there. Or like when you do the Ouija board, and it really does work.”

  “That happened at Lisette’s slumber party, in seventh grade,” Alicia said. “You remember, Jane. It said that a boy whose name started with a C was going to ask Lisette out, and one week later she was going steady with Casper Langdon.”

  Rae silenced Alicia with a look of disdain. To me, she said, “I’m telling you, it’s out there. Shit that no one sees.”

  My heart was doing something I didn’t like. I swallowed and repeated my question. “What did they sacrifice?”

  Rae pressed her oversized lips in a line. “A cat.”

  “A cat?” My tension broke, and a laugh, or something like it, squeezed out of me. For a second there … all that bullshit about deserted schools and the dead of night … but Rae’s whole story was ridiculous. Next she’d be telling me that’s why the feral cats had taken over the school. As payback, or because they were spooks, or because they now had to haunt the place where the first had been slain. Demon cats. Devil cats. Ooooo-oooo.

  Rae got angry. “They slit its throat. Or rather, Sandy did. You think that’s funny?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And then she died.”

  “Well, duh, that’s what happens when your throat gets slit.” I felt buoyant. My lungs had lost their tightness.

  “Not the cat,” Rae said sharply. “Sandy.”

  Nuh-uh, she wasn’t getting me again. “Oh, please.”

  “And her soul … it fed the power. Made it grow stronger.”

  “You are so full of it,” I said.

  “And that’s what created the Bitches.” Rae got to her feet. “That’s why you like them, because you have no choice.”

  “Why wasn’t it in the papers?” I asked. “Why wasn’t the school shut down?”

  She looked at me in a way that was supposed to make me think she felt sorry for me. She huffed out of the room, taking Alicia’s brush with her.

  “It’s not funny, Jane,” Alicia said angrily. “It’s, like, witchcraft. Real witchcraft.”

  “Only it’s not witchcraft, it’s Bitchcraft,” I said. I giggled at my wit, but Alicia didn’t crack a smile.

  “You need to stay clear of them,” she said.

  I leaned back on my elbows and crossed one foot over the other. I let my head drop back so that the ends of my hair grazed the carpet. “Thanks, Alicia. I’ll take it under advisement.”

  Later that night, I phoned Phil.

  “Janie!” he said, his voice all happy. “Hey!”

  “Mom said you called last night. Sorry I didn’t call back.” Which was true, in a general sort of way, but I wasn’t worried because I knew Phil wouldn’t hold a grudge. “So what’s up?”

  “Not much,” he said. “Just wanted to tell you how hot you looked in that blue dress you wore.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said. This was the kind of thing Phil did, throw out a compliment in a joking way so that it didn’t have to mean anything. Because “hot” was such a stud-boy word, and Phil was so not a stud.

  “I mean it,” he said. “I wanted to tell you at school, only I didn’t want the other guys to notice and start slobbering all over you.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. These days Phil and I were more out-of-school friends, anyway. Partly because our classes didn’t overlap, but also because when we were in school, Phil had other stuff to worry about, like guys dumping his lunch and giving him flats. Phil was kind of scrawny, and he liked science more than sports, which made him an obvious target. Plus, he’d never developed that cynical veneer that Crestview guys thought was all important. Phil was an eager beaver in a school that didn’t give a damn.

  I sat on my bed and kicked off my shoes. I lay back and stared at the ceiling, at the frosted-glass light fixture that had been there since the dawn of time. Dead bugs made dark splotches in its center. “So want to hear something weird?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m going to a party Friday night. With the Bitches. Isn’t that insane?”

  “Whoa,” Phil said. “Hold on there, filly.”

  “I know. It’s crazy. Unless it’s a joke—do you think it’s a joke?”

  Because that was the angle Alicia had taken, after I failed to be suitably cowed by the Bitchcraft theory. I’d told her about Kyle’s party, and she’d shifted tactics, saying, “But what if it’s one of those ‘ugly’ parties, where whoever brings the ugliest date wins?” She bit at a cuticle. “You’re not seriously going to go, are you?”

  Phil’s voice pulled me back. “I hope you’re planning on filling me in, because I have zero clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Right. Sorry.” I rolled onto my side, switching the phone to my unsquished ear. I told him everything except for Rae’s mumbo-jumbo, then said, “But why would they pick me? That’s the part that makes no sense. Unless I’m their ugly date. Am I? Am I their ugly date?”

  “Geez, Janie, are you blind?” Phil said. “You’re so beautiful, you make my teeth ache.”

  “Be serious. I’m, like, socially retarded. Especially compared to Keisha and Bitsy and Mary Bryan.”

  He fell silent. He was probably getting a hard-on thinking about them, which was surprisingly depressing. Even though I knew Phil was a boy, and all boys liked the Bitches, I was used to him liking only me.

  “Keisha and Bitsy are way beyond hot,” he finally said, “and I’d be lying if I said I’d throw them out of my bed. And Mary Bryan’s an absolute sweetheart. She’s got French at the same time as I have geometry, and our rooms are right across from each other. Sometimes I catch myself just … watching for her, you know?”

  I nodded. For some dumb reason I was afraid I was going to cry.

  “But none of them holds a candle to you, Janie. Want to know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a
good person,” he said. “Because you try to do the right thing.”

  “I do? Like when?”

  “Come on, don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  I wanted to ask again, because I really wanted to know. But even with Phil, I couldn’t be that pathetic.

  “I should go,” I said. “I should make myself go to bed.”

  “Yeah, me too. See you tomorrow?”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll be the one rescuing kitty cats and saving the world.”

  “Super Janie,” he said. “You could wear a T-shirt with a big red J.”

  “A leotard, like Wonder Woman. With huge red undies.”

  He laughed, and I pressed the off button on my phone.

  In bed, as shadows played on my walls, my thoughts spiraled back to Rae’s story about four girls who would do anything to be popular. Silly, stupid story—yet in the dark, even stupid stories misbehaved.

  I remembered something Mom told me once, about two girls in her hometown. They’d snuck to a cemetery late at night, because they’d heard that if you stuck a knife into a fresh-laid grave, its ghost would rise from the dead. One of the girls knelt on the grave and plunged the knife deep. She tried to stand up, but she couldn’t, and she screamed that the ghost had grabbed her. The other girl fled, and when she returned with her parents, she found her friend collapsed over the grave, no longer breathing. She’d stabbed her nightgown when she’d stabbed the grave, pinning herself to the ground. Her panic overcame her, which meant she’d basically died of fright.

  Although, come on. As I replayed the story in my head, I realized that it couldn’t have really happened. What teenager has ever died of fright? It was just a story Mom passed on after hearing it from a friend, from someone whose brother’s cousin’s fiancé had actually known the two girls. Or whatever. It was a story Mom told me for fun, to make goose bumps prick my arms.

  But stories couldn’t hurt you.

  I imagined four girls giggling as they made their way to Crestview’s empty storage room, the beams of their flashlights skittering off the walls.

  And then, at some point, the giggling would have stopped.

  I dreamed of cats, of sharp claws tapping through darkened halls.

  Wednesday was a waste. Thursday was a bigger waste. In the daylight hours Rae’s story faded to just a whisper, but the fact of the Bitches remained, making me hyperaware of everything I did. How I held myself, how I talked, how I laughed. And all because of the remote possibility that one of the Bitches might be around to notice.

  “Could you give it a rest?” Alicia said during study hall. She’d been leaning forward, obsessing out loud about her latest cheerleading drama, but now she flung herself back in her chair. “They’re not here, Jane.”

  “Who’s not here?” I asked. When she didn’t buy it, I said, “I was listening. I was. You said that for the tryout, you have to be able to do a split or you’re eliminated.”

  “I said you don’t have to do a split. You can just squat if you have to, which you would have known if you weren’t so busy acting dramatic.” She widened her eyes and gave a fake gasp. She drew her hand to her chest. “A split?” she mimicked. “You have to do a split?!”

  I felt myself blush. I glanced around, praying the Bitches really weren’t here.

  “God,” Alicia said. “You’re embarrassing yourself and you don’t even know it.”

  I twisted the metal wire of my spiral notebook, because I did know it. Other people acted natural in group situations, no problem. But not me. Especially when there was a chance someone might see.

  Alicia gathered her books and shoved them into her backpack. “Stupid me, I thought you actually cared about my boring, pathetic life.”

  “I do,” I protested.

  “Uh-huh.” She glared. “Well, all I can say is that if you do become popular, you have to take me with you. Swear?”

  I groaned. “I thought you said to stay clear of them. I thought you said they were evil.” I made spooky fingers, which she swatted away.

  “I did, and they are,” she said. “Do you swear?”

  This was so like Alicia, to warn me away from something—saying it was for my own good—and then want that very thing if there was a chance it might really come through. Would I take Alicia, if given the opportunity? Would she take me if the situation were reversed? It sounded so stupid, you have to take me with you. As if it were a prison break.

  “Oh my god,” Alicia said, and I realized I’d taken too long with my answer.

  “I swear, I swear,” I said.

  “I’m leaving. You’ve given me a headache.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Yeah?” she said. “You should be.”

  Didn’t see the Bitches in the hall. Didn’t see the Bitches in the bathroom. Didn’t see the Bitches in the library, where I ate lunch in order to avoid pissy Alicia.

  I did, however, see Camilla Jones. Camilla was a freshman, like me and Alicia, although she often forgot to act like it. She read battered textbooks on post-modernism, for example, and she used words like “socio-economic” even when teachers weren’t around. Today she wore a dusty rose leotard and a wrap-around skirt, and she’d secured her bun with serviceable brown bobby pins. She always wore her hair in a bun, because she was really serious about ballet. Ballet and weird literature theory shit, those were Camilla’s things.

  Looking at Camilla, what occurred to me was, Huh. She’s not obsessed with the Bitches. This was a new thought, and I tested it in my mind to see if it held up. At lunch, Camilla usually sat with the drama kids, although she invariably kept her nose buried in one of her books. Did she get all twittery when the Bitches entered the cafeteria? I didn’t think so. I didn’t think Camilla got twittery, period. And I couldn’t remember her ever complimenting one of the Bitches or getting tongue-tied around them or gazing at them surreptitiously from across the room.

  No. I was sure she didn’t. Which meant that Rae was a big juicy freak, as of course I’d known all along.

  I crumpled my granola bar wrapper and stood up. I walked over to Camilla’s carrel.

  “Hey,” I said. I didn’t really know why.

  She lifted her head. She seemed surprised that anyone was talking to her.

  “Um … what are you reading?” I asked.

  She flipped her book so I could see. It was called Artifacts of Popular Culture.

  “Huh. Is it any good?”

  “It’s all right,” she said. She paused, then added, “Did you know that Barbie dolls can grasp wine glasses, but not pens?”

  “Pens? You mean, like to write with?”

  “And Astronaut Barbie’s spacesuit is pink, with puffed sleeves.”

  Her disgust was apparent, so instead of saying, “Well, that’s to make her look cute,” I kind of laughed and said, “Yeah, that’s definitely what I’d wear if I were an astronaut. Well … see you!”

  I left, and my brain spun back to the Bitches. Maybe Camilla was impervious to their charms, but I wasn’t, especially after they’d lavished me with one-on-one attention. Why had they treated me that way only to leave me in the cold?

  See? I told myself. It was a joke. They were stringing you along for their own amusement, and now they’re done. What were you thinking—that your life was honestly going to change?

  Then I came back with, But who said anything about hanging out together at school? Not Keisha. Not Bitsy. Not Mary Bryan. Maybe the hanging-out part comes later, after you pass the test.

  And then my stomach got spazzy and I had a panic attack right there in the hall. Kyle’s party was only a day away, and what if the Bitches didn’t arrive to pick me up? What if they did?

  During my humanities elective on early religions, as Lurl the Pearl tried to explain parthenogenesis to Bob Foskin for the hundredth time, I claimed a vacant research computer and spread out my notes so that it would look like I was working on the day’s assignment. The Camilla factor had punched a hole in Rae’s “powers from beyond” the
ory, but I thought I’d Google the Bitches and see what came up. Even though I knew it would be nothing.

  “Nossir,” Bob Foskin complained from his desk at the front of the room. “Just ain’t no way a chick can make a baby on her own, goddess or no goddess.”

  “Fertility. Creation. Rebirth,” Lurl the Pearl droned in her gravelly voice. “There are mysteries in the world that aren’t meant to be understood.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that,” Bob said. “What I do know is that every mare needs a stallion, if you catch my drift.”

  A few kids tittered, but I tuned them out. I jiggled the computer’s mouse, and the “Lady and the Beast” screen saver disappeared. When I got to Google, I typed in “Sandy,” “Crestview Academy,” and after a moment of thought, “died.” No hits, of course. I tried “Crestview” and “witchcraft,” but again got no hits. I cleared the search line and typed in “bitches,” just for the hell of it. The list I got filled zillions of pages. First came the obligatory “female dog” stuff, and then the entries got more interesting. Tokyo Bitches, IQ Bitches, Cricket-playing Bitches. I found one site called Mature Bitches, which must have slipped past the school’s blocking software, because when I pulled it up, I was bombarded with porn pop-ups. If I ever needed a perverted granny, I knew where to go.

  Something brushed my leg, and I jumped. A cat—small and dark with clumpy fur. The feral cats were always prowling around in here, probably because Lurl the Pearl was the sole teacher who didn’t seem to mind. And usually I didn’t either. Usually I felt sorry for them, because they were so mangy and bedraggled. Other students complained—a girl named Alice was allergic and brought in a note from her doctor—but Lurl the Pearl didn’t do anything about it. “Focus, please,” she’d said, blankly surveying both the class and the cats.

  The cat nudged me again and let out a squeaky mew. Usually I didn’t mind—but today I didn’t want to touch it. Rae’s story had done that if nothing else. But I didn’t want to not touch it, either, just because of Rae’s malarkey. I gave the cat a quick scratch, then wiped my hand on my jeans and scrolled further down the list on my computer. Chess Bitches, Vegan Bitches, Snarky Bitches … hmm. The description for Snarky Bitches read, “For girls/women who are Bitches, plain and simple.” I double clicked on the address. The screen blipped, and a hot pink site logo popped up.