Once a Witch

by Carolyn Maccullough

  "Look, there's a cab now," Alistair says. He flings up one arm and the cab sheers through a curbside puddle and slides to a halt beside him. Scattered drops of water spark against my ankles. "Tamsin, thank you for everything." He opens the door and indicates that my sister should climb in first.

  Rowena kisses me on each cheek, then draws back and gives me a look. "Mom will be calling you," she murmurs. "She'll be particularly interested in hearing all about this clock and how you found it. As will I." Handing me the umbrella, she steps off the curb, poised again, and tucks herself into the cab.

  Alistair puts one foot in the cab and is about to slide in after her. "I'll come by to discuss my price," I say boldly to his shoulder. He turns, and his teeth gleam in a smile.

  "Oh, I look forward to that. I think we have a few things to discuss." The door slams shut and the cab slicks away, and I'm left contemplating all the puddles on the sidewalk that hold small, blurry streetlight moons.

  THIRTEEN

  "YOUR MOM CALLED," Agatha says as I nudge open our door, my arms full of books. She is sitting at her desk appearing hard at work, a notebook spread open before her and a thick yellow highlighter in her hand. Except the room smells like nail polish remover and I notice that Agatha's toenails, which used to be fluorescent pink, are now bright blue.

  "Umph," I reply as I toss the books across my unmade bed. Most of them make it, but two slide to the floor. "What else is new?" I've been avoiding Mom's calls for a week.

  "Paper?" Agatha asks, eyeing the sprawl.

  "Three," I answer, sinking down in the beanbag chair. I look over at our half-size fridge and give a little jump. My eyes are staring back at me. "Agatha!" I cry and leap up to snatch her sketch off the fridge door.

  "Oh, that," she says, waving her highlighter at me. "Like it?"

  I hold the sketch at arm's length. "You made my nose crooked."

  Agatha looks at me, then examines the sketch. "Oh, yeah. What about that one?" she asks, pointing toward the closet door, which is uncharacteristically closed. I hate to think about all the clothes, shoes, belts, and purses massed up against it, waiting to tumble out the next time we open it. I study the second sketch of me taped to the door. "My eyes are too close together in that one. Yuck—is that how you see me?"

  "Okay, picky, how about that one?"

  "What one?"

  "The one on the mirror. Gabriel liked that one the best."

  "What? Where? He came here?" I whirl as if he might step out from behind the dresser at any moment. "Why didn't he just find me?" I ask my reflection in the mirror. Then I notice that Agatha is staring at me.

  "I think that was the point of him coming by?"

  "Oh, yeah ... I mean ... why didn't he just call my cell phone?"

  "He said that he did. It was off."

  I fumble for my phone and look at its blank face. "Oh, yeah. I turned it off when I went to the library." I flick it back on and watch the screen light up. Three missed calls. Gabriel. HELLCRATER. And another one from HELLCRATER. "So, um ... what did Gabriel want?" It's probably too late to sound casual, but I try.

  There's a crinkling sound as Agatha rips open a bag of Twizzlers with her teeth. "You," she answers through a mouthful of plastic.

  "What?"

  She's grinning as she pokes through the bag of candy. "Kidding. He said he was in the neighborhood. That kind of thing. Wanted to see how you were." Chewing thoughtfully, she adds, "He's really cute. If you're not going to go for him, can I?"

  "What?"

  "I thought you'd say that. Twizzler?" she asks, holding the open bag toward me.

  "Thanks, but I'm not that into red plastic."

  Waving a thin red rope at me, she says, "Puritan."

  After Agatha heads out to her pre-calcstudy group, I straighten every single magazine in the room, aligning the edges perfectly. Then I pull out Agatha's Swiffer wipes and dust our desks, our night tables, and the dresser we share. I untangle all the necklaces in my jewelry box, stack my rings and bracelets and anklets in neat shining piles, and then begin to whip through my stack of SAT flash cards.

  When the words begin to blur in my brain, I finally pick up the phone and dial home, taking about a minute between each digit.

  My mother answers before the first ring has even gone halfway through. "Hello!" she commands, and I nearly drop the phone.

  Then I take a breath, probably my last one, and say, "Mom, hey—Agatha said you called? And I know you've been calling my cell. I've just been so crazy busy here with papers and tests and SAT stuff and, well, I just sort of forgot to tell you that—"

  "Oh, Tamsin," she murmurs.

  I wrap the phone cord around my finger tighter and tighter until all the blood drains from the tip. "I can explain," I say numbly. "I'm not sure what Rowena said, but—"

  "How was the wedding dress shopping?"

  The cord springs free from my hand. "Um ... it was okay. You know, Rowena tried on a bunch of dresses and looked bridelike and then..." Suddenly, I wonder if this is even about Alistair at all. Hoping my mother is distracted by the wedding drama, I add hastily, "You know, maybe she isn't sold on the white-dress thing after all. I mean, she didn't buy anything."

  "She's insisting on going into the city again this week. On Friday." My mother says city but really it sounds more like den of iniquity.

  "Oh, well..." Idly I begin counting the books in a pile on my desk. I'm up to nine when a horrifying thought occurs to me. "Do I have to go shopping with her? Again?"

  There is a damp and heavy silence on the other end.

  I stare at Agatha's side of the room, at the pile of clean laundry that I just folded and left on her bed. "Mom? What's going on?"

  "Your sister seems ... off lately."

  "Well ... popular wisdom has it that people go a little crazy before getting married."

  "Yes, I know. But ... for the past few days she's been ... different."

  "Different how?"

  My mother sniffles a little and I frown at the phone. "Mom, are you—"

  "Just ... just keep an eye on her in the city, will you?"

  "Sure, fine, no problem." We hang up, but I have the distinct feeling that my mother is not reassured.

  And neither am I.

  Why didn't Rowena tell my mother what I had done?

  "As you will see from this next slide, Pollock's essential form and structure remained. But the size of his canvas—this slide doesn't actually do it justice, but the size—"

  My phone buzzes against my hip and I jolt awake. Although I'm pretty sure the vibration can't be heard all the way at the front of the room, Mr. McDobbins pauses for a moment of throat clearing. He usually does this whenever students walk in late, they whisper too loudly, or someone's cell phone goes off in the dead quiet that he requires for his lectures. It's easier to bore us all to tears that way.

  Glancing down, I see the word HELLCRATER light up the screen. I frown, click my phone off, and try to pay attention.

  "Pollock's career as an artist didn't really take off until—"

  I just spoke to my mother yesterday. If she's calling again that means something dire has happened. My grandmother! I push back my chair and of course it screeches across the linoleum floor.

  Light spills from the slide projector, giving McDob-bins's face a lurid glow. "Ahem," he says finally after an agonizing pause while I try to gather my books and papers. A pen clatters to the floor, as loud as an exploding bomb in the now tomblike silence. I watch it disappear under this oblivious girl's chair. Damn. It was my favorite, even though I know it's stupid to have favorite pens.

  Somehow, I manage to shuffle toward the door, and thankfully, when my hand is on the tarnished knob, McDob-bins resumes speaking. The door closes off whatever other fascinating information he was about to impart on Pollock—no doubt taken straight from page 188 of the textbook under "Biographical Information on Jackson Pollock." I had been skimming that section last night while Agatha drank a shot of vodka for courage a
nd then began cutting her hair. When the piercing yowls of distress from her side of the room became too much, I had to pry the scissors from her hand, and I pretty much gave up on my reading after that.

  Now I half crouch, finish stuffing all my books into my bag, and stop just before exiting the building. A soft and steady rain is pattering down. As usual I have no umbrella. Leaning in the doorway, I watch as three girls dash by and come to a halt at the crosswalk, which is now submerged in slick gray water. Their squeals travel through the thin-paned glass door and one girl, her face pulled into an expression of acute distress, holds up her foot, revealing red sequined flip-flops.

  A flicker of movement catches my eye. Across the street, a man and a woman have paused in a doorway to a building, taking shelter under the arched stone awning. I watch the girl's bright head incline upward toward her companion. He bends over her and seems to whisper something in her ear. For three seconds they are frozen in this tableau and I can't help but study them like a painting: the girl's golden hair, her pale face, her whole body turned into his, while he, wrapped in a dark raincoat, stands like a slash of poisonous ink against the white marble archway. Then he turns his head, the sheen of his glasses winking briefly at me just as he moves out into the rain, striding briskly away. The girl stares after him, then slumps suddenly against the door frame, one hand drifting to her throat. She seems about to faint.

  Bursting through the door of my building, I scream out, "Rowena!"

  FOURTEEN

  PUDDLES HAVE SWAMPED the sidewalk, but I plunge straight through them. The rain is slashing down now, and I temporarily lose sight of my sister as a city bus roars past, tossing up a slap of water that instantly soaks my jeans. In those few frantic seconds, my mind is churning. Rowena and Alistair? Rowena and Alistair? How? Why? When I reach the other side of the street, miraculously she is still there. "Rowena," I say again, and at last her head turns and she stares at me.

  "Oh," she says vaguely.

  "Oh?"

  She is wearing the same black dress that she wore the night of her engagement party and heels, which I can't imagine are very useful for navigating puddles. She is paler than usual but her eyes are shining, and I have to admit that whatever the circumstances, my sister looks beautiful.

  "What are you doing here?" I blurt out, trying to wedge myself into the shallow protection of the doorway while rain falls against the right side of my face. "What's going on? And why were you with Alistair? That was Professor Callum I saw you with, right?" I take a deep breath and try to slow down, try to ignore the fact that my sister is looking at me as though she's never seen me before. "Mom said you were coming here to go dress shopping again. But she said Friday. It's only Wednesday, Rowena. Wednesday," I insist, as if somehow my naming the day of the week will make my sister snap to.

  "Wednesday?" she repeats in a faint voice so unlike her usual warm honey tones. My hands and feet are tingling suddenly and I turn, but the sidewalk is now empty except for rivulets of rain running into the cracked concrete. Turning back, I notice that my sister is also craning her neck, as if looking for someone. A shiver seems to pass over her and she huddles in the doorway, a crumpled heap of a girl. "What's he really like, Tam?" she says, her eyes imploring, her fingers scrabbling at the sleeve of my coat. I'm about to ask if she is talking about Alistair when my eyes are drawn to something on her exposed wrist. Without asking, I grab her arm, push her coat sleeve back. Three dark lines, barely scabbed over, mar the otherwise clean surface of her skin. What's even worse is that she doesn't resist, doesn't seem to notice that my fingers have tightened into what must be a painful clench around her hand.

  "What is this?" I say roughly, shaking her hand a little, staring at the crusts of blood. My mouth feels dry, as if I've just swallowed sand, as I add, "You need ... you ... you shouldn't be here."

  Her fingers under mine spasm briefly and finally she tugs herself free. "I want to be here. I need to be here. With him. You wouldn't understand."

  I step back until the stone lintel edges against my shoulders. I don't ask who she means. It feels as though my heart has briefly stopped beating.

  Rain is running down my neck and soaking into the collar of my jacket, but I don't care. I cup my hand over my cell phone, listening to the ringing on the other end of the line. Please, please, ple—

  "Hello?"

  "I need you."

  "I like it," Gabriel exclaims, his whole voice filling my head. But I can't even smile. "You know, I was wondering how long it would take—"

  "You have your car in the city, right?" A man bundled tightly in a dark raincoat brushes past me and I bite back a scream, but he doesn't even look at me. Not Alistair, not Alistair, not Alistair.

  "Um ... yeah. You need me to take you to IKEA or something?"

  I wish. "I need you to take me home. Me and Rowena."

  "Wait a sec—what's—"

  "I don't have time to explain," I whisper into the phone, and then my voice chips into pieces. "There's something wrong with her."

  "Tell me where you are."

  Because of the rain it takes us more than an hour to get out of the city.

  It feels more like three.

  "Tamsin," Rowena says from the back seat. "Where are we going?" This is the third time she's asked.

  "We're going home, Ro," I tell her again. "Remember? Big house, fields, garden, goats." Gabriel looks at me sideways but makes no comment. I shift in the passenger seat and an empty Coke can spins away from my foot.

  "I don't want to go home," she says predictably, and I sigh, digging my nails deeper into my thighs.

  "Yes, I know. It's only for a little while. Then we're coming back. Okay, Rowena?"

  I crane my neck, try to smile at my sister. But she won't return my smile, won't even look at me. Instead her face and hands are pressed to the rain-smeared window and I have a sudden absurd flash of what she must look like to other drivers and passengers on the highway. Her fingers twitch restlessly on the glass, her nails tapping out a Morse code message of distress.

  "He doesn't want me to go," she whispers so softly that it's like a thread of sound, practically lost over the rush of wheels and rain. "He needs me." At last she turns a fretful face to me and says, "I need to go back. I know it. I know it here," and she thumps her chest so hard that I almost feel the vibration in my own body. She shifts in the back seat but then immediately lurches forward again, her mouth stretched into a narrow slash.

  "Listen, Rowena," I beg, barely clear on what I'm saying. "We just need to go home for a little while. Just a little, little while. And then we're going back. I promise." In the same breath I mutter to Gabriel, "Can't you go any faster?"

  Gabriel looks sideways at me again and answers in the same muttering tone. "I'm pushing eighty-five. That's about all this piece-of-crap car can do."

  "He wants me back!" Rowena shrieks suddenly, slamming her hands into the back of Gabriel's headrest.

  "Shit!" he exclaims, and we lurch around a car in our lane, just scraping past.

  "Rowena," I say, reaching out to grab her hands. She twists away as the pale point of her tongue darts across her upper lip. Her eyes, which seem all pupils right now, grow darker. "We're going to go back. But it's good this way. Really," I babble. "It's good to play hard to get. Guys get more intrigued this way. Right, Gabriel? Gabriel?"

  He looks in the rearview mirror, regarding my sister like she's a rabid animal. "Um ... oh, yeah. We ... love that stuff. Gets us really hot."

  I nod maniacally as my sister's eyes flicker to me. For one brief instant her face is blank and then she shakes her head. "What do you know, Tam? What do you know about love?"

  Swallowing hard, I silently acknowledge that the words, at least, are pure Rowena, even if the tone—blank, emotionless—is all wrong. "I know this isn't love," I say, all pretense of remaining calm gone. "This is something, but it sure as shit isn't love." I wrap my hands around my knees—otherwise I'm afraid I will reach out and attempt to slap my
sister back to sense.

  "Easy, Tam," Gabriel murmurs, reaching out one hand, and I take it, feeling the comforting squeeze of his warm fingers. But Rowena's next words drive all that from my head.

  "He told me you would say that. That you wouldn't understand. None of you."

  "Oh, really?" I say, my voice dripping with scorn. "And what did he—"

  "We need to turn back," Rowena says again, and now her voice has smoothed, stretched into its familiar sweetness. "He wants me to come back. To him." I stare at her, helpless. "Gabriel," my sister singsongs, ignoring me now. "Turn the car around. At the next exit you are going to turn around and head back to New York City."

  "Tam," Gabriel says slowly, dreamily, "maybe we should go back."

  "What? No! Are you crazy? Don't listen to her!"

  "Yes, listen to me," my sister adds, her voice supple and beseeching. "This is what you have to do. Turn the car around."

  "Okay, okay," Gabriel agrees, his voice brightening as if he is only too happy to oblige my sister. I punch him. Hard. "Ow! What the hell?" He shakes his head briefly, his fingers tightening on the wheel, and then he gives me a look. "Tam, what do I ... I feel—"

  Rowena leans back against the seat. "That's it, Gabriel," she purrs, her voice looping and twirling through the car like warm butterscotch taffy. "You're doing the right thing," she encourages as Gabriel flicks on his blinker and heads into the right lane. A truck's horn blares at us, its headlights slashing through the car.

  "Don't kill us in the process," I snap.

  "Don't listen to her," Rowena says. "She doesn't understand. Anything."

  Ignoring her, I reach across Gabriel's lap and crank down the window. Rain splatters through, soaking us both. "Shake it off," I tell him.

  "I can't ... she needs me to do this," he murmurs. His fingers tighten even more on the wheel, but we're heading for the exit too fast. Tick, tick, tick. The sound of the blinker seems unnaturally loud.