Spellbinding

by Maya Gold

  Once again, I feel that surge of magnetic connection between us. It’s not just adrenaline from the near-accident — it’s like I can hear his voice right through the glass, though his mouth hasn’t moved.

  You’re learning already. I knew you’d come back.

  My heart’s beating fast as I wrench my gaze away from those weird green-and-blue eyes. Learning what? How could he possibly know what was going to happen, or when I’d come back? With a pang, I recall the exact words I told myself as we were leaving.

  Come back without Rachel.

  My blood runs cold. I hadn’t been wanting my friend to get hit by a truck! I’d only wanted to see Rem again without feeling her judgment.

  I swallow hard, trying to calm down my heartbeat. Okay, let’s get real here, I tell myself. I did not make anything happen. I couldn’t have, even if I had that power. I rescued Rachel from the speeding truck; I didn’t send it to get her. And neither did Rem.

  All this goes through my head in a split-second jumble, like uncontrolled lightning, before I have a chance to remind myself of some important facts:

  A) Magic doesn’t exist.

  B) Even if it does, it’s got nothing to do with me.

  C) I don’t even know this guy Rem. He’s just some cute local who works as a waiter. Nothing supernatural about that — just an after-school job, like the one I’ll be looking for now that I’ve gotten my license.

  Rem turns his head toward the bookshop across the alley from the Double Double Café. There’s a “HELP WANTED” sign in its window. Was that there before? I’m positive I would have noticed it; I’ve had my eye out for jobs ever since I turned sixteen, especially now that summer is coming.

  I look back at Rem, but he’s busy wiping the crumbs from a table. I turn back to the bookstore. The Celtic-looking letters across the green awning read “SPIRAL VISIONS — Books, Crystals, Transformation for Spirit and Mind.”

  I inwardly groan at the New Agey sound of it all, but why not? The store is probably no stranger than anything else that’s gone on today, and the only jobs I’ve seen listed in want ads are for registered nurses, auto technicians, and Zumba instructors. A bookshop sounds much more my speed.

  “I’d like to step in there for a moment,” I tell Rachel.

  She looks up at the awning, car keys in her hand. “I thought we were going for dim sum. I’m starving. And what do you want with a crystal shop?”

  I point at the help wanted sign. Rachel’s eyebrows arch. “Really?” she asks.

  Yes, really. Deal with it, scientist.

  I head for the store. There’s a tinkle of Tibetan bells as the front door swings open, admitting us into a world of soft lighting and fabric-draped tables. Mingled harp music and birdsong is playing through speakers, and there’s a sweet smell of sandalwood incense.

  Normally, I wouldn’t be into this sort of thing, but I can’t help feeling that this is a really cool store. Near the overstuffed bookshelves are racks of exotic clothing, silk scarves, and jewelry. There are Balinese masks and batik placemats and woven baskets of trinkets. There are bins filled with polished stones, each carefully labeled with its healing properties. Glass shelves display amethyst geodes and quartz crystals, alongside bronze statues of gods and goddesses from around the world, flanked by scented candles and incense. There are tarot decks, Tibetan prayer flags, and yoga mats: something for everyone.

  The woman behind the counter looks up and smiles. She’s a motherly redhead with silvering roots, her wide-set eyes rimmed with smudged kohl. She’s dressed in comfortable layers, a vintage kimono on top of a black linen dress and red cowboy boots, with a silver pentangle at her throat and several large turquoise rings.

  “Let me know how I can help you,” she says.

  Something comes over me — a decisive rush that feels brand-new.

  “I’d like to fill out a job application,” I tell her.

  She looks at me for an appraising long minute, then says, “Leo?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a fire sign,” she says. “Not an Aries, though.”

  “Oh! Sagittarius.”

  This seems to be the right answer. Her smile broadens and she nods appreciatively. “Did Rem Anders send you?”

  I must look completely startled, because she laughs and says, “Never mind. I’m Dyami. Write down your name, phone number, birth date, and what days you’re free. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  That’s it? No forms to fill out, no references from past employers? How in the world did she know about Rem? A million questions flood through my mind, along with one answer: His last name is Anders.

  “How can you work in a place where they ask for your sun sign?” says Rachel. We’ve ordered our food at the Panda Pavilion, and I’m pouring green tea.

  “It’s a job,” I say, setting the teapot back onto the table. “The pay is decent, the hours are flexible. Plus it’s a cool store. It’s better than restocking toiletry shelves at a Walmart. It’s not like our area’s hopping with jobs.” I don’t mention the funny feeling I have — this certainty — that I need to be working in Salem. Rachel would dismiss it as silliness.

  “But that woman Diana —” Rachel begins, tying her silky hair back into a ponytail.

  “Dyami,” I tell her.

  “Dyami, so sorry. Dyami does palm readings. You don’t believe in that stuff.”

  “So what? If I got a job in a box office, would you expect me to love every movie? Or eat every donut if I worked at Dunkin’?” I challenge.

  “Point taken,” says Rachel. “It just seems so … silly.”

  Bingo.

  “Well, I need a job, and if she wants to hire me, I’m going to say yes,” I reply.

  “How are you going to get there?”

  I hadn’t thought about that part. The main point of getting a job is to save up more money to buy a used car, but I’d need the used car to get to my job. “I’ll figure out something,” I say with a shrug.

  Rachel raises her teacup, proposing a toast. “To your victory lap,” she says. “To the only teenager in Ipswich who passed her driving test on the first try.”

  “Come on,” I say, grinning. “There must be a couple.” I’m sure Travis Brown did. He’s perfect in that way.

  “I’m serious, Abby. I’m really impressed. When you set your mind to something, you really make it happen.”

  I know she means this as a compliment, but after the parking cone weirdness and the black truck, it gives me the creeps. I push my chair back from the table.

  “I’ll be back in a moment, all right?” I say.

  Rachel nods.

  The ladies’ room door is behind a bamboo screen with embroidered silk hangings that wouldn’t look out of place at Spiral Visions. I switch on the light.

  As I’m washing my hands, I examine my face in the mirror. Under the harsh fluorescence, my skin’s even paler than usual, my changeable eyes such a light, watery blue that their gold rims look really bizarre. I look like an albino giraffe.

  I reach into my purse for the blusher I always carry and my fingertips touch something velvety. It’s the antique green book I put back on the shelf at the Salem Library.

  Or thought I did.

  How did it wind up in my bag?

  The rest of the day races past in a blur. I barely taste the spicy General Tso’s chicken I scarf down with Rachel, and on the drive back home, I’m still thinking about that mysterious recipe book in my bag.

  When I get home, I’m tempted to run right upstairs and read it. But Dad — for once — wants to talk to me and hear about how my driver’s test went, so I can’t pass up that rare opportunity. Matt is moaning about how hungry he is, and feeling inspired, I offer to make a celebratory dinner.

  I make a spectacular seafood paella in Mom’s giant skillet. I’ve always loved cooking, the way that what seems like a pile of random ingredients all comes together to make something delicious when you put it over a flame. Rachel calls it practical chem
istry, but I think it’s a lot more like practical magic. The time I feel most like myself is when I’m in the kitchen, inventing a recipe out of thin air or inhaling the mingled aromas of olive oil, garlic, and saffron.

  The paella is great, but the conversation at dinner is all about Matt’s soccer practice. His team’s big game is tomorrow, and apparently their new goalie was messing up all morning long.

  “What a loser,” Matt sneers.

  Dad tells him, “We all make mistakes.”

  “Yeah. Especially him,” says my brother, tossing a mussel shell onto the pile.

  I tune out their sports talk, replaying my strange day in Salem — the library, the store. And a boy named Rem Anders.

  It isn’t until I’m getting ready for bed that I find a private moment to take out the velvet-bound book. How did it get into my purse? It’s a mystery, sure, but somebody else must have put it in there. Books don’t move by themselves. Neither do traffic cones. Waiters don’t send thoughts through window glass, and delivery trucks don’t obey psychic commands. There’s a good explanation for all of these things, and the word is coincidence.

  Reassured, I pick up the book again, drawn to its moss-colored cover and fragile pages. It’s like touching a piece of history. The handwritten words are so faded they seem to be written in weak tea instead of ink. The slanting script and strangely formed letters are hard to make out. But as I get used to the old-fashioned handwriting, I realize that what I thought were lists of cooking ingredients are recipes for herbal potions.

  One recipe reads “For the Increase of Fortune,” and on the next page there’s one titled “To Induce Cramping of Stomach and Vital Organs.” My eyes skim over the disgusting-sounding ingredients:

  One part Powdered Orris Root

  One part Sour Milk

  Two Drops Tincture of Fleabane

  Spoonful Dried Skunk Cabbage

  Veil of a Shaggy-Stalked Toadstool

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles.

  I’m holding a spell book. An ancient one.

  Who wrote these things down, and did they believe they would actually work?

  The wind’s coming up. As I sit on the edge of my bed, turning the powdery pages, a light rain starts drumming the roof and the dormers right over my head. It’s a comforting sound.

  I turn to a page spattered with something that looks like dried egg yolk. “To Win Another’s Attention,” I read through the stain.

  A love potion.

  And there are more. As I gaze at the various love spells, the sky seems to flicker, and I hear the low rumble of thunder somewhere in the distance.

  I’m overcome with the impulse to rush down the hall into my parents’ bedroom, the way I did when I was little. “The clouds are just having a party,” my mother would whisper, stroking my hair. “No need to be scared.” And I wasn’t. I’ve always loved thunderstorms. I was just happy to have an excuse to be with her, snuggled against her warm nightgown.

  A sudden gust of wind blows my window wide open. I can’t help it; I let out a gasp, dropping the book on my lap.

  This is crazy. I grew up on the North Shore; I’m not scared of storms. I tuck the spell book in the back of a dresser drawer, latch my window, and turn off the lights. Then I settle down under the covers to watch the night sky.

  Lilac branches scratch at my windowpane, striping the ceiling with tossing shadows. With the next flash of lightning, I hold my breath, counting the seconds until the next crash and drumroll of thunder. Sound travels five miles a second … so the storm must be about twenty miles away.

  The distance between me and Salem.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS, I SLEEP soundly and wake up without any trace of a headache, which seems like a miracle. Realizing it’s Sunday, I lie back on my pillows, enjoying the treat of just lounging in bed for a change. The sky is a cloudless bright blue, and the treetops are bursting with shiny new leaves. It’s a perfect May morning, with birds trading songs in the lilac bushes right under my window. All the strangeness of yesterday seems to have vanished, and I’m left with two thoughts to savor: I’m a licensed driver, and I’ve totally aced this history project.

  Well, almost. I still need to add these new names to the family-tree PowerPoint that I should wrap up today. After I fix myself a quick breakfast, I call my grandparents in Canton, Ohio, where Mom grew up. Maybe they can help fill in a few missing pieces.

  “Why, Abby!” Grandma bubbles. “It’s so good to hear from you, dear. How is school? How’s your brother?”

  “Matt’s fine, but he’s still fast asleep. Big soccer game today.”

  “How did they do?” asks my grandfather, who’s picked up the second extension, the one with the extra-loud speaker; he’s going deaf.

  “It’s not until this afternoon. Four o’clock,” I say, raising my voice. “Guess what I found out yesterday? One of our ancestors was hanged for witchcraft in Salem. Did you know about that?”

  “Oh, honey, that’s just idle rumors,” Grandma says, sounding a little affronted. “Stuff and nonsense.”

  “No, it’s true,” I say, and tell her what I read about Sarah Good.

  “‘Good’ was a common Puritan name,” she insists. “There are thousands of Goods in New England. It’s not the same family.”

  “But her father’s name was John Solart. Like Mom’s middle name.”

  “What was that?” Grandpa barks into his special extension. “Did you say Solart?”

  “Oh, be quiet, Leonard, you know you can’t hear on the phone.”

  “I can hear better than you, Margaret. Abby said ‘Solart.’ That was Margaret’s maiden name,” he explains to me. “She wanted it to live on. No idea why — they were a bunch of nuts.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. I feel my heartbeat speed up. “What do you know about them?” I ask.

  “Nothing. Just heard they were nutty as fruitcakes.”

  “Do any of our Solart relatives still live near Salem?” I ask him.

  “No,” Grandma snaps. Is it just me, or is she uncomfortable with this topic?

  “Well, there’s your great-aunt Gail,” Grandpa says after a short pause. “But she’s in a home.”

  Dad gives a deep sigh when I ask him if I can borrow his car. “Now it begins,” he says. “First it’s ‘Can I have your car?’ Then it’s ‘Can I have my own car?’”

  I do need my own car, and soon, but I’m not about to get into that now. “I’ll be back in plenty of time for Matt’s game,” I reassure him. “And it’s for my homework.”

  He takes the Honda’s keys out of his jeans pocket and hands them over reluctantly, folding his palms around mine as he looks in my eyes. “You drive safely, all right? Take it slow.”

  I’m touched that he cares enough to sound worried. But is he worrying about me, or his precious car?

  Both, I hope.

  The Dunrovan Nursing Home is one of those buildings that’s trying so hard not to look institutional that it winds up looking even worse. First of all, no real colonial building would be anywhere near this enormous. And it wouldn’t have a circular driveway and garage, or a wraparound glass-enclosed porch, or wheelchair ramps on both sides of the steps. It looks like a cross between a Holiday Inn and a hospital, which is probably just about right.

  The receptionist at the front desk seems startled when I tell her I’ve come to visit Gail Solart. I get the idea it’s been quite a while since Great-aunt Gail had any guests. “She’s on the second floor,” the receptionist says, weighting the words in a way I don’t quite understand. She hands me a stick-on guest pass with a room number, which I attach to the front of my T-shirt. Then she points the way to the elevator, down a wide hall lined with floral wallpaper.

  I can hear TV and radio sounds coming from behind residents’ doors, each with a name tag and bulletin board filled with family photos, silk flowers, and other mementos.

  The hallway is full of white-haired people sitting in wheelchairs or using their walkers. It m
akes me sad to see so many old people alone on a Sunday morning. I can sense their curiosity as I go past, and make sure to smile and make eye contact with everyone. One spunky old lady raises her cane and says, “Well, hello there, young miss!”

  I ride up in the elevator with a Jamaican nurse whose magenta-manicured hand rests on top of a cart full of medicine trays. “Who are you here for, darlin’?” she asks, and when I tell her, she gets very quiet. The second-floor buzzer beeps, and I follow her out.

  Right away I can see why the receptionist stressed “second floor” in that way. The olive-drab hall smells like Lysol; there’s no music playing. The doors all stand open, and inside each room is a hospital bed. If the first floor made me feel sad, this one stirs up something darker. I can’t help remembering Mom in the hospital during her last weeks, surrounded by terminal patients. My stomach turns over with dread.

  The few people sitting outside in the hall are in wheelchairs, their faces blank. One bald man is slumped over so far I’m afraid he’ll fall out of his motorized wheelchair. It’s hard not to get the idea that everyone here is just waiting to die. A lump forms in my throat. I would hate to wind up in a place like this. Anyone would.

  The name tag next to room 227 says ABIGAIL SOLART. So Gail is short for Abigail. I get a shivery twinge as I realize that she’s my namesake — or rather, that both of us might have the same namesake. Was there some long-ago Abigail? A daughter of Dorcas? Maybe my great-aunt will know. I raise my hand to knock on the door frame. “Hello?” I say timidly.

  “Come on in,” says a cheerful voice, and my heart lifts.