Spell Check

by Julie Wright

  “Are you still breathing?”

  “Of course.”

  “Any lacerations or major arteries exploded?”

  I gave her a flat stare. “No, Mom.”

  “Then you’re fine. Wrap up that poison ring sitting on the counter, please.”

  I grabbed the poison ring, folded it into several sheets of tissue paper, and placed it in a paper bag, while trying not to scowl at the customer who was taking up Mom’s time when I needed to talk to her.

  He glanced at me and then back at my mom. “You know, my wife has a fever. Do you have any suggestions?” He looked towards the wall of herbs we had on display.

  “Try a tea with elder and yarrow.” My hand waved in the direction of the herbs. I gritted my teeth to keep from shouting at him to get out because my mother and I needed to have a serious talk. He meandered over to the herbs but couldn’t seem to locate what I’d told him.

  I walked over—trying not to appear as irritated as I felt—pulled the things he needed off the display, and handed them to him.

  He looked genuinely grateful and took the items to my mom to ring up.

  “May your visit to Salem be magical,” Mom said as she handed the customer his bag. She waited until he was ushered out the door by the jingling bells before turning to me. “Okay, so what’s your emergency?”

  Where to begin? “Something’s wrong with me . . .” I started to say as her hand went to my forehead. I pulled away. “No. Not like that. I just. I . . . have some questions you need to answer.”

  She widened her eyes over her triangle reading glasses and shrugged. Mom was too vain to get bifocals. She said bifocals were for old people, which made no sense since the triangular reading glasses made her look really old. “Okay. Ask,” she said.

  “Can you . . . no. Do you . . . I . . .”

  Her widened eyes drooped skeptically. “Ask me while I dust shelves.” She’d grown tired of my stammering. Mom was like a hummingbird—always in motion even when it seemed she was holding still midair. She hated idle time.

  She tucked her hair behind her ears and walked through the aisles with her feather duster. I followed, feeling more frustrated than ever.

  “Why do we own Under the Moon?” I finally managed to spit out.

  She halted mid-swipe of the duster and turned back to look at me. “I dunno. What else is a divorced forty-year-old going to do to earn a living in Salem, Massachusetts?”

  Not the answer I was looking for. I tried again. “But why this? Why a new age shop that specializes in witchcraft stuff?”

  “If you can think of a product that might sell better here, let me know. Until then—this works . . . You know, not always as good as your dad’s business, but sort of, most of the time.” She went back to dusting.

  “But why not a hamburger shop, or a gas station? Or what about a job as a real estate agent? Why would you be drawn to astrology charts and aromatherapy, herbal stuff?”

  “Herbs are healing. Hamburgers cause high cholesterol and heart attacks. Gas stations get robbed. And aromatherapy—even if it doesn’t work—makes the world smell nicer. Why not? Ugh! Would you look at this? Someone left their chewed-up gum on my shelf. I wish parents would watch their kids better.” She made a face that looked like she was holding back vomit as she scraped the gum off the shelving unit with her fingernails.

  “You’re a witch, aren’t you?” I spluttered.

  She turned an icy glare at me. I stepped back instinctively.

  “What did you just call me?” She threw her hands up in the air. “Okay fine, I admit I wasn’t nice about your grandma, but honestly? She gave you a troll for your sixteenth birthday! And I wasn’t nice about your dad, but when was the last time I’ve been nice about him? Didn’t we have fun last night opening gifts and talking? Why would you call me such a thing?”

  “No! Mom! Honestly that’s not what I meant. I—” How do you ask your mom if she has magical powers and rides a broom? “What I meant was, is this store a cover-up? Can you do things? Weird things . . . magical things?” I took a deep breath and held it, awaiting her answer.

  It took her a few moments to switch gears from being insulted to being amused. “So you’re calling me a witch as in one who has special powers, not one who’s crabby and needs a vacation?”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice to answer.

  She laughed outright and went back to dusting. “Oh, honey, if I had magical powers, this size-twelve butt would be back at eight where it belongs.” She tapped her backside with her feather duster. “And we’d own a mansion in Hawaii. Sorry. You’re stuck with a normal mom. You sure you don’t have a fever?” She tossed back a wink at me.

  “Mom, this is serious. I don’t have a fever, I just—I . . .” I just what? How do you say, I started an epidemic at school and turned Lisa’s hair into green slime?

  “You what?” Mom turned to me. “Where would you get such crazy ideas?”

  I shrugged, realizing how crazy it all sounded, hating that she was likely going to call the school counselor as soon as she was alone, and worried because I saw what I saw when Lisa was in the bathroom. “Sorry. I’m not trying to be weird on you. School’s just been bizarre lately. And it seemed like thirty-two minutes disappeared somewhere. Maybe I do have a fever.” I backed up again, away from the hand reaching for my forehead. I didn’t have a fever. I wasn’t sick. Something had happened to Lisa and the clingers. Thirty-two minutes had disappeared.

  Sleep deprivation. It had to be sleep deprivation. I’d missed those two needed hours last night. She almost started to look genuinely worried when I smiled, shrugged, and backed away more. “I better get my homework done. I’ve got a paper due in English, and I want to get to bed early tonight.”

  “Hey, I thought we were going to Collin’s Cove tonight for a picnic dinner?”

  “Right. Sure. We can still do that. But I better get the paper done first. Is Robison home from school yet?”

  “He’d better be. Your dad has a habit of not bringing you guys home when he should. And Robison had better be doing dishes.” She waved her duster in time to her words. When she said, “Robison had better be,” she meant I’d better get home and make sure he did. Robison hated doing dishes.

  Mom was a huge believer in chores. Chores and piano practice. She said it kept us out of trouble. But no matter how many chores she might pile on me, nothing stopped the tightening in my gut that said I was in more trouble than I’d ever been in. So my mom wasn’t a witch, in spite of the fact that she sold tarot cards and crystal orbs.

  What did her not being a witch mean for me?

  Stop it, Ally. You don’t have powers. I repeated this over and over to myself as I walked home.

  I hopped up the front steps, pushed open the front door, and called out, “Robison!” in my best irritated-big-sister voice. “Robison! Mom said you had better be doing dishes!”

  His answer came from the TV room where the sounds of one of his dumb video games gave evidence that he was not, in fact, doing dishes. “She won’t be home until the shop closes!”

  I went into the TV room to tell him off for procrastinating, but he started talking before my mouth opened. “Dad’s in the bathroom. I’m not doing chores while Dad’s here. He wants to watch you open your present.”

  So much for any lectures I might have given Robison. Forget dishes being done. Dad had better be gone when Mom got home or she’d freak.

  Dad. Maybe my weird new ability came from Dad. I laughed out loud as I shot down the idea before it really formed. Dad? Magical? Not a chance on that one. The man certainly wasn’t normal, but he wasn’t abnormal in a magical way. He was abnormal in a lovable, comic-book-reading, still-plays-with-action-figures sort of way. He owned a company called Rent-A-Geek. He fixed computers and networked small businesses and households. Definitely not magical.

  You don’t have magical powers. If I told myself this enough, maybe I would believe it. It’s just that every time I thought it, Lisa’s green
hair popped into my head.

  “Hey, Pumpkin!” Dad entered the TV room with a large box wrapped in the obligatory black wrapping paper of the season. The bow was done up to look like a black bat. Obviously Dad paid someone else to wrap it.

  “Hi, Daddy.” I gave him an awkward hug as we traded off ownership of the box.

  “Let’s open this in the other room where your brother isn’t being loud.”

  Robison glanced up from his game. “I’m not being loud. I’m just sitting here. The game is what’s making all the noise.”

  “Semantics, Robbie. That’s just semantics.” Dad led me out to the dining room. “How’s it feel to be sixteen?” He set himself down at the head of the dining table—the place he used to sit before the divorce—to watch me open the box.

  I set the box on the table. “The same as it feels to be fifteen.” This was a lie. Nothing felt the same. In twenty-four hours my world had imploded.

  Dad grinned. “I figured you’d say that. Sixteen is one of those years that takes time to grow into. It doesn’t happen overnight.”

  My hands stopped and hovered over the bow I was about to untie. “Doesn’t it?”

  Dad laughed, thinking I was making a joke. “Well, I guess the actual age happens overnight, but the actual being of sixteen—that takes time.”

  “Oh. Right.” I went back to undoing the ribbon. Inside the box was another box, But this one looked like Dad had wrapped it with the paper all wrinkled and the tape scrunched and messy. Inside that box was another one. By the time I had unwrapped the fourth, I shot him a look. “Is there really a present in here?”

  He laughed. “Keep going and find out.” He leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. The sixth was a small velvet-covered jewelry box. I let the wrapping paper fall to the table and opened it. Dad leaned in even more.

  I opened the box to find a ring with my birthstone, an opal. The stone was inlaid into silver leaves molded delicately into the metal band.

  Dad’s eyes glistened with a sheen of tears. “It’s sterling silver. I know how you feel about gold. Here, let me.” He pulled the ring from its velvet seat and then took my hand.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said, mystified by the gift.

  He took a deep breath and began what sounded like something he’d practiced a few times. “I’m giving you this because there are going to be a lot of guys parading through your life. There’s going to be nice guys, dumb guys, boring guys, guys who seem exciting . . . Your mom and I married young. I don’t think she dated enough. She didn’t know what she wanted. I hadn’t dated enough either. We got married almost out of obligation. People expected us to be together. But neither of us really wanted to be married to each other. We just didn’t know how to get out of it once things progressed into rings and wedding dresses.”

  “Dad, I—” I didn’t want to hear about them being a mistake. They’d already told us that when they sat us down to announce him moving out two years ago. And I still didn’t understand. How could two of the world’s most amazing people be a mistake when put together?

  He shook his head to stop me from interrupting, and slipped the ring on my finger. “I’m giving you this because I want you to know that the marriage decision is an important one. I want this present to remind you that it’s okay to make a selfish decision when it comes to getting married. Marry the person you definitely want to be with, who loves you exactly as you are. I just want you to look at this ring when your heart gets broken, when you’re breaking hearts, when you’re lonely, when you’re loved. I want you to look at it and know you are loved by your parents—both of us—no matter what.”

  It was genuinely the sweetest thing my father had ever done for me, and the most eloquent speech he’d ever given. He kissed the top of my hand and leaned over the table to give me a hug. “Happy birthday, Pumpkin.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I love it.” And I did. I loved every bit of it and wondered yet again how my parents ever split up

  But they didn’t get along. Whenever they were together, there were fireworks, but not the good kind. Instead there were the illegal, loud, start-forest-fires kind.

  “What’s say we go out for dinner tonight?” Dad asked as Robison came into the dining room.

  “Sounds great!” Robison said at the same time as he peeked in the box. “So what did you get?” he asked me.

  “I got a ring.” I flashed my hand at my brother. “I don’t know that dinner’s a good idea. Mom’s already planned a beach picnic at the cove.”

  “Cool!” Robison said. “Not your ring. That’s lame. But a picnic at the cove is cool. Wanna come with us, Dad?”

  The room went quiet as Robison awaited Dad’s answer. Dad flashed me a look over Robison’s head—a look that said, I would rather swallow a bowl full of squirming spiders than do dinner with your mom. Dad put his hand on Robison’s shoulder. “Not tonight, champ. Your mom already has plans. Maybe we can do something this weekend.”

  Robison looked disappointed, but shrugged. He likely expected the answer. Mom would skin us if she showed up at home and found Dad waiting to come with us. Especially when she acted like she really needed a relaxing night. Dad and Mom together wasn’t relaxing for anyone.

  I felt as disappointed as Robison looked. I should have asked for a full on family get-together for my birthday—one that required my parents to spend the evening in the same room being nice to each other. But I might as well ask for an elevator to the moon. They’d tolerate one another and be civil, but it wouldn’t be fun.

  “Well, I’m out.” Dad ruffled Robison’s hair as he stood up from the table. “Thanks for the sleepover, kiddo. Next time I’m totally stomping you on Dinosaur Wars.”

  Robison looked smug. “Good luck with that one.”

  Dad turned to me. “Bye, Pumpkin.” He pulled me into a hug. “I love your guts. I hope your birthday was great.”

  “It had a few highlights.” I hugged him back. There was no way I planned on telling him about getting hanged, or the holey socks, or the fact that I might be convicted of criminal mischief if anyone found out the cheerleading team was in the midst of an epidemic because I shouted a curse during a bizarre electrical storm. I could talk to Mom about most of those things, but as great as Dad was—he wasn’t the kind of guy you confided in about girl stuff. He was the kind of person who wanted to solve the problem, meaning he’d be talking to Lisa’s parents, buying new socks instead of fixing the ones I loved, and likely calling the school to cancel all future unofficial school activities. Sometimes I needed Dad to go to bat for me, and sometimes I just needed Mom to listen to me whine without her trying to fix things.

  Another reason I wished my parents were still together. I needed them both equally but for different reasons. Not that I could tell either one of them I had hit a new growth spurt and made things happen with my mind. Neither one would understand that.

  Dinner at the cove was cold, but not in that miserable way cold can be, but in that crisp, turn-your-nose-red-and-make-you-take-deep-breaths-of-clean-air sort of way. We roasted hot dogs and made s’mores. Mom and I baked clams, though Robison would eat dog food before eating a clam.

  Mom looked genuinely relaxed by the end of the evening as she huddled in her blanket and stared at the fire burning the driftwood we’d collected. My headache had subsided, allowing me to get over the initial distress of my situation. I’d nearly entirely convinced myself that everything was okay and not my fault.

  “The school’s bells rang early today because they were broken or something,” Robison said, breaking the silence. “So it wasn’t Dad’s fault he was late picking me up.”

  Mom sat up straight, letting the blanket fall from around her shoulders. “Dad was late picking you up?”

  So much for relaxed. I scowled at Robison, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Not too late. Not as late as some people. Everybody was late getting picked up today. Even the buses. I told you; the clocks must’ve been broken or something.”
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  Mom absorbed this information and then looked straight at me with a question in her eyes. The firelight glowed in the little triangles of the glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.

  I looked away, feeling the headache come back just a little.

  “Did you mention something about missing thirty-two minutes today?” Mom asked.

  I didn’t answer, but felt a little sick. Maybe I had a fever after all.

  At home, I went straight to my room and got ready for bed. I took a few moments to put away my gifts then pulled out my laptop to thank everyone who gave me stuff. Mom said mailing thank you cards would be nicer, but once we debated our environmental responsibility, she finally agreed with me that an electronic thanks was way better than chopped down rain forests.

  Farmor sent me a message.

  Happy Birthday, Allyson,

  I’ve tried calling several times, but it keeps going to voicemail. You’ve received my present. Don’t forget what I said about the troll, and CALL ME if you have any troubles. In fact, CALL ME anyway. It is imperative that I talk to you immediately.

  Trouble? With the troll? What trouble did she think came from a wooden troll? I had real troubles to worry about—not troll troubles. The TV from downstairs was muffled, but loud enough for me to hear the reports about bizarre incidents caused by clocks showing the wrong time. They blamed solar flares for the trouble. I tried not to listen, but couldn’t help but focus all my attention on the muffled TV voice of the news broadcaster. I finally turned on my iPod to drown out the noise.

  It seemed my body had just gone to sleep when my eyes snapped open. My earbuds were still in, but the music no longer played since the sleep timer had already gone off. I pulled the buds from my ears and turned to look at the clock.

  Midnight.

  Again.

  And I wasn’t the slightest bit tired. Not in any way. I sat up, groaning and wondering aloud, “What is up with me?” I had dragged through all of yesterday with a huge headache due to lack of sleep and now, here I was, totally not sleeping. AGAIN!