Spellbinding

by Maya Gold

  Rachel keeps driving, past the Pickering Wharf shopping district and the New England Pirate Museum, tracing the trolley route marked in bright red on the sidewalk. We spot three different witch-themed museums sandwiched between chowder houses, psychic parlors, and gift shops with names like Bewitching Boo-tique. Even the delis have vampires and ghosts on their signs; the pet shop is called Eye of Newt. It’s like a witch Disney World.

  The sidewalks are crammed full of tourists and families enjoying the lovely spring weather. There’s no place to park. Rachel drives slowly from street to street, craning her neck for a spot that’s not taken. A teenage boy in a black T-shirt is sweeping the sidewalk in front of the Double Double Café. He stares at our car and then turns toward the curb. Right where he was looking, an SUV signals and pulls out into traffic, leaving us with a prime parking space. It’s not even tight — there’s a narrow alley in front — so even a girl who flunked parallel parking twice can slide into it smoothly.

  Rachel and I whoop and high-five. I reach into my purse for my iPhone and check the address for the library, where they keep genealogical records.

  We’re on the same street.

  “How’s that for luck?” I say as we get out of the car.

  “It’s like magic,” says Rachel, rolling her eyes.

  “Groan. How many times do you think they’ve heard that around here?” I look at the café’s purple awning, hoping to spot a street number, but there isn’t one, and the boy who was sweeping has gone back up the alley and through a back door.

  The smell of fresh-roasted espresso beans tickles my nostrils. “Let’s go in,” I say on impulse. “I want a latte.”

  Rachel wrinkles her nose. “Let’s go to the library first and then take ourselves out for lunch. We passed plenty of other nice places to eat. That Gulu-Gulu Café place looked pretty sweet.”

  “But I want to go here,” I say, suddenly stubborn again. I don’t know why I care so much where we get coffee, but it’s as if the choice has already been made and I’m following orders. Do it, the voice in my head says. I open the door and walk in. I can feel Rachel’s irritation at me taking over, but it doesn’t matter. This is exactly where I want to be at this moment: the Double Double Café.

  Its walls are mauve, covered with sepia-toned vintage photos and wreaths of dried flowers. There’s a counter right next to the door where a pretty barista — tall with a black rose tattooed on one shoulder — is looking right at me with eyes like a cat’s.

  “May I help you?” she asks. I glance up at the menu board, lettered in lavender chalk.

  “Double caramel mocha,” I say, as if I come here all the time and know just what to get. It’s the first thing that caught my eye, and it sounds delicious.

  Rachel pores over the list of drinks, frowning at too many choices. “Green tea, rooibos, cappuccino …”

  “Get an iced chai,” I tell her. “You always do.”

  “You know me too well,” she says with a smile, looking around for a table. There’s a small round one right next to the window, with sun pouring over the lace tablecloth. We take seats across from each other and gaze out at the street.

  Tourists stroll up and down, toting shopping bags from the Witch Dungeon Museum and Fangtastic Foods. A girl in a black velvet dress and Red Riding Hood cape bounces past us. A basset hound trots along next to her. A couple of reenactors in Puritan costumes walk by, talking into their cell phones.

  “Salem is cute,” I say, watching two children in face paint dance past, waving glittery wands. Behind them, their mother is wearing a pointed black hat with her pastel pink Polo shirt and golf shorts.

  “Maybe a little too cute,” sniffs Rachel.

  “Your drinks?” says a low voice at her elbow. I look up and let out an actual gasp. It’s the boy we saw sweeping the sidewalk, and really, “too cute” doesn’t cover it. He is stunning. I’m stunned.

  He’s dark-browed and lanky, with butterscotch skin and a thatch of unruly dark hair that bristles like sea grass. He’s also got really full lips and a couple of dimples that work overtime with that mischievous smile. But that’s not what’s socking me right in the gut, so hard I’m not sure I’ll be able to breathe. It’s his eyes. They’re a clear, sparkling green, and splashed across one is a wedge of bright blue.

  They’re the eyes from my dream.

  TIME SEEMS TO HAVE FROZEN, BUT SOMEHOW in this instant that’s lasting forever, the boy with those eyes must have handed me my double caramel mocha. Because I just dropped it.

  “Look out!” Rachel shrieks as the boy’s hand shoots forward, catching the cup a split second before it falls into my lap. He sets it down on the table in front of me, the whipped cream and caramel swirl barely trembling.

  I stare. “Did you just catch a full cup of coffee in midair?”

  He shrugs. “I got lucky.” Those dimples etch into his cheeks as he looks at me, green-blue eyes twinkling. “I’m Rem.”

  “R-E-M?” Rachel asks, her eyebrows twin question marks. “As in rapid eye movement?”

  Leave it to Rachel to sound like a science geek in front of a gorgeous boy. “Or the band?” I add quickly.

  “Neither,” he says. “As in Rémy. My dad’s from Quebec.”

  “Oh, wow, you’re Canadian?” God, could I sound any more like an idiot?

  Rachel looks at me sidelong, but Rem shakes his head. “My mother’s a native. Her people have lived here for ages.”

  “Mine, too!” I exclaim. “My ancestors landed in 1636.”

  Rem’s eyes sparkle even more, if that’s possible. “Yeah? Then I bet they met mine on the beach.”

  I can feel myself blushing bright red. When he said “native,” I thought he meant local, not Native American. “So she’s —”

  “Abenaki,” Rem says with evident pride. “How’s that double caramel mocha?”

  I haven’t touched it, of course. I lift the mug quickly and steal a quick sip. It’s insanely delicious, foamy and sweet with a buttery finish that makes me feel warm to the tips of my toes. “It’s amazing,” I tell him.

  “I’m glad,” he says, flashing those dimples again. “You’ve got …”

  He gestures toward his own face, then reaches for mine instead. I freeze, but then he’s tracing a little half moon on my cheek with the tip of his finger. The light from the window catches the blue streak in his left eye, and the world seems to glow in the same supercharged way it did on the bridge. Again, I have a tingling sensation of already knowing something that’s happening for the first time. We shall be together. The voice echoes inside my head, and I realize that I’ve stopped breathing.

  “… whipped cream.” Rem lifts his finger to show me the dot of white he just brushed off my face, and the surreal moment dissolves like a soap bubble. We’re back to normal — not that there’s anything normal about this guy Rem — but back to being a boy and a girl who don’t know each other at all and don’t really have an excuse to keep interacting. I wish I were one of those smooth-talking flirts — like Megan Keith, I think reluctantly — who can always come up with the right thing to say. But all I can manage to sputter is “Thanks.”

  “Anytime,” Rem says with a waiterly nod. “Enjoy Salem.”

  “Well, somebody thinks he’s all that.” Rachel glances over at me as we leave the café, heading toward the library. “And it looks as if you agree.” Her smugly correct usage of “as if” makes me bristle. You don’t have to ace Honors English 24/7, hello.

  I blush. “Well, did you see him?” I ask.

  Rachel shrugs. “Sure, he was good-looking. But he thinks so, too.”

  That’s not it at all, I think. Rem’s not conceited. His self-assured presence isn’t about what he looks like — it comes from someplace much older and deeper, as mysterious as the moon’s pull on the tide. Where am I getting this stuff from? I wonder. And how would I know? I met him all of five minutes ago.

  “I’ve got to admit, the coffee-cup trick was impressive,” Rachel continues
.

  “It wasn’t a trick,” I tell her.

  “Really? What was it?”

  I don’t have a good answer for that. What else would you call it? Luck, reflex, fate? I am not going to use the word magic, even though it’s on every shop window and doormat in this crazy town.

  I give Rachel a preoccupied shrug and take my iPhone out of my bag to recheck the address of the library, even though I remember it perfectly well. I don’t want to give her an excuse to keep putting Rem down, when every fiber of my being is still feeling the buzz of his presence.

  Or maybe it’s just the caffeine. Breathe, Abby.

  I fill up my lungs, drinking in the salt air. I don’t have a crush on this Rem guy, I assure myself. I don’t feel all breathless and lame-brained, the way I do when I see Travis. It’s almost the opposite: I feel supercharged, filled with a humming energy I don’t understand. It’s like someone dialed up the volume on all of my senses.

  And I’m already wondering how I can see him again.

  The words from my nightmare come back unbidden: We shall be together. As simple as that. Not a question, a statement of fact.

  Now I just have to figure out how to come back. Without Rachel.

  The Salem Public Library is housed in an old redbrick mansion, with tall columns flanking the entrance. I’m definitely not the first person to come to the front desk and ask how to research my ancestors’ roots; the hip-looking librarians look at each other, trading wry smiles before one of them pushes her chair back to give me the tour. There’s a huge genealogical database with an in-house password, and a whole room dedicated to local history. It’s tucked inside the reference room, with a clipper ship etched in the leaded glass over the door.

  I survey the shelves full of books about Salem and witchcraft. “I think I might be here awhile,” I tell Rachel.

  “Fine with me,” she says with a smile. “I could curl up for days in that reading room. Come and get me whenever you’re ready.” And just like that, I’m reminded of why we’re so close. We know how to give each other space.

  Valerie and I had been inseparable before she moved away. Every afternoon, every weekend, was spent together. Which was cool in its way, but we were like sisters, always fighting and making up, fighting and making up. With Rachel, there’s not all that drama — we just get along. I smile back, feeling guilty for being annoyed with her on the way over, and grateful that we’ve dropped the subject of Rem.

  I head into the local history room and take out my class notebook, wondering where to begin. First I log on to the in-house computer and start tracing the names that I already know, BENEVOLENCE FLETCHER on one side and ETHAN DALE on the other, hoping to find some connective threads. But however I search, I keep hitting the same gap I did with the websites last night. The dates just stop cold.

  I better try out some wild hunches. Like Mom’s middle name.

  I type in SOLART. Dozens of links come up instantly, all including the name Sarah Good.

  Sarah Good, accused witch. Sarah Good, mother of Dorcas Good.

  Sarah Good, hanging.

  A shudder runs through me. But what was her link to my mom’s family? I stare into space, and a book on the shelf right in front of me catches my eye. The faded gilt letters along its cracked spine spell out FAMILIES OF SALEM.

  I get up for a closer look. The leather-bound book has the musty, hide-and-glue smell of an old pair of riding boots. Intrigued, I take it off the shelf, and a tiny velvet-bound book tucked behind it falls into my hand.

  The small booklet is worn and stained, spattered with dried candle wax. Its velvet cover is a deep, bottle-green color. It looks more like a diary than a library book, its uneven folios hand-stitched together. It must be centuries old.

  Intrigued, I open it carefully to the center fold, where a worn strip of ribbon separates the yellowed pages. The text is handwritten in spidery pen and ink, the letters so faded they’re hard to make out. It looks like a list of old recipes. Sounds right up my alley, but it’s not going to help me one bit with my homework project. I’ll come back to it later, after I’ve solved the mystery of Mom’s Salem roots.

  I sit back down with Families of Salem, skimming ahead till I find what I’m looking for:

  Sarah Good’s father, John Solart, was a well-to-do innkeeper in nearby Wenham. When he died, his estate was saddled with lawsuits, and his daughter inherited all of his debts. Sarah Solart’s first husband, an indentured servant, also died deep in debt. In desperation, she married itinerant laborer William Good, and they soon became homeless beggars, along with their young daughter, Dorcas. Sarah cracked under the strain. Hostile and possibly mentally ill, she was considered a public nuisance, and on February 29, 1692, she and two others were accused of practicing witchcraft.

  February 29. The date sends a chill up my spine. My mother was born on Leap Day. When I was little, I thought it was terribly sad that her birthday came only once every four years, but she reassured me that it was a blessing: She’d never get old.

  That part came too true.

  I will never get used to the way something as small as a date in a book can make the constant, back-of-the-heart ache of losing her flare up like a sunspot. For a moment, I feel like I can’t even breathe. Then it settles back down, and I pick up the book and keep reading.

  Sarah Good was the first of the three accused witches to be questioned. Scorning the court, she refused to confess, but townspeople lined up to testify against her, and she was found guilty despite her insistence that she was no witch. Since she was pregnant, she was not hanged at once, but thrown into prison, along with her four-year-old daughter, Dorcas, until her new baby was born. But the newborn died behind bars, and Sarah Good was hanged on July 19. Her last words to Reverend Nicholas Noyes, who condemned her to hang, were “You are a liar. I am no more a witch than you are a wizard, and if you take away my life, God will give you blood to drink.” Years later, Noyes died of an internal hemorrhage, choking on his own blood.

  When I read this last sentence, my hair practically stands on end.

  Sarah Good’s curse came true!

  I stare at the book in my lap, my heart racing. So my possible ancestor wasn’t just accused of witchcraft — she might have had actual powers. Does that mean I might have inherited them? But how, if they hanged her? I go back to reading, my hands trembling.

  Little Dorcas remained in prison, alone and untended, crying piteously for her mother, for eight more months. Although she was finally released, and survived into adulthood, she never recovered from the ordeal. Eventually, like her mother before her, she went mad.

  I can’t bear to read any more. The idea of a motherless child locked in a prison cell breaks my heart. Of course she went crazy; who wouldn’t?

  But Dorcas survived, and I know in my bones that sometime in her unhappy life, she must have had a child. This would explain the long gap in my mother’s family tree: the Solart connection, which leads in a straight line from Sarah to Dorcas to — skipping a few centuries — me.

  Could the joke that some doddering great-uncle told my dad on his wedding day really be true? Is there witch’s blood running through my veins? Is that why my sleep’s filled with nightmares, why this peculiar town feels so familiar, why I can — maybe — move traffic cones just by wanting to?

  My head feels like it’s about to explode.

  Or have I inherited something else from my fore-bears — not magic, but madness? There’s a word for people who hear voices and see things, and it’s schizophrenic.

  I need some fresh air. I turn off the computer and hastily put the books back on the shelf, scurrying over to meet Rachel.

  “I’m ready to go now,” I say in a voice that comes out much too bright. I don’t want her to notice how shaken I am.

  She looks up from the novel she’s three chapters into. “Already?”

  I nod, holding up my list of names and dates. “I found what I needed. Let’s go get some lunch.” I’m talking fast. “I s
aw a Chinese place called the Panda Pavilion in Beverly. We could still do the dim sum thing.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Rachel says, unfolding her legs from the armchair where she’s been curled up, and following me to the door.

  We walk back along the same sidewalk. Across the street from where Rachel parked her car, the trolley stripe cuts the crosswalk of a wide intersection, past a stone church with bronze sculptures surrounded by bloodred azaleas. As Rachel steps into the crosswalk, a heavy black truck zooms out from behind the church, barreling recklessly toward her.

  “Look out!” I lunge forward, stepping in front of her. Every ounce of my being is caught up in one simple thought: Stop.

  The truck grinds to a halt with a violent squeal of brakes, its grille inches away from my face. I can feel the heat rising from it.

  Rachel looks at me, eyes wide. “Abby! What — you could have been killed! How did you know he …” She doesn’t finish. Which is a good thing, because I couldn’t answer.

  Shaking, I hold out my hand and Rachel takes it. We finish crossing the street in silence. There’s a lingering smell of scorched diesel, a hiss as the driver releases his brakes and rolls gingerly back into motion.

  “Thanks,” Rachel says. “That was scary.”

  I’d have to agree.

  Just as we’re about to get into the Volvo, I look up and into the front window of the Double Double Café. Rem is standing stock-still at the table where he caught my coffee cup, staring at me through the glass.