Spellbinding

by Maya Gold

  The tips of my ears get warm. “Travis.”

  “He likes you a lot,” says Dyami, a smile spreading over her face. “It’s no wonder the queen of the monkeys feels threatened.”

  The queen of the monkeys. Now there is a phrase to bring joy to my heart. And if she thinks Travis likes me now, wait till I get him under my spell.

  As I head out for my lunch break, my mind’s turning over and over. Could Dyami really be right about Travis? Her instincts are usually correct, but he’s never been more than generically friendly or looked at me twice till this week. Plus he’s dating the queen of the monkeys.

  I’m trying to figure it out when I run into Rem, coming out of the pizza place I’m going into. My heart lifts as soon as I see him. I’ve noticed that he has an uncanny instinct for turning up right where I’m heading. It’s as if he has some kind of internal timer, taking his lunch breaks or going out on an errand exactly when I do. He always seems happy to see me, and always acts like it’s a total coincidence, which, who knows, it might be. Sometimes people just have a weird synchronicity, and you run into them everywhere for no reason at all. I don’t understand it, but I’m not complaining.

  He holds up a pizza box. “How do you feel about pineapple?”

  “Great in a fruit salad. Lousy on pizza.”

  Rem grins. “Perfect. I got slices with everything but. And there’s plenty for two.”

  “Really?” I say. “Can I pick up some sodas?”

  “Sure,” he says. “There’s a deli right next to the park I’m thinking of.”

  It’s obvious Rem knows all the non-touristy local places to find a cheap lunch, away from the trolley route and the pedestrian shopping mall. I get the sense that there’s a second Salem behind all the quaintness and witch kitsch, where the people who live here go to get haircuts, do laundry, and buy discount shoes. And there must be a high school, right?

  I ask him that as we settle onto a bench with our pizza and drinks.

  Rem nods and points toward a tall smokestack on the horizon. “It’s over that way, by the power plant and the boatyards.”

  “Is that where you go?” I ask, opening my can of soda.

  He shakes his head. “Graduated last year. I’ve been doing the gap year thing, earning some money for college.”

  “Do you know where you’re going?” I ask him.

  Rem hesitates. “I know where I’d like to go, but I’d rather put money aside for it first than take on lots of student loan debt. You know how it goes.”

  I do indeed. “So you’re working full-time right now?” I ask as he hands me a pizza slice piled high with so many toppings I can’t see the sauce.

  “Part-time at the café, but yeah. I’ve got a few other odd jobs. House-painting, boat-painting, stuff like that. What about you? Are you starting to think about college?”

  I nod, waving my hand to indicate that my mouth is full. Rem flashes a grin as he watches me speed up my chewing.

  “No, let me guess,” he says. “Science, right? Chemistry, botany … chef school?”

  My eyes open wide. “How did you know? Did I tell you that?” It’s been my secret ambition to train as a chef, but since I’m good at science and my mom was a botanist, everyone’s always assumed I would follow her footsteps.

  “How did you know?” I ask Rem again. This time his mouth’s full of pizza.

  After he swallows, he shrugs and says, “I just picture you with a mixing bowl. Grinding up herbs in a mortar and pestle.”

  Um, that actually might be the potion I’m planning, but I’m not about to tell Rem about that. He’d probably think I was out of my mind. And I’m certainly not going to tell him anything about Travis.

  Not for the first time, I wonder if Rem’s got a girlfriend. It’s hard to believe that someone as gorgeous as he is doesn’t have someone in love with him.

  Sometimes I wonder if that someone might even be me. But I’m not going to tell him that either. The list of things I’m not telling is growing by leaps and bounds. But it’s all so confusing. I look at Travis and see someone I’ve adored my whole life. I look at Rem and see … what? Someone I barely know, but can’t take my eyes off whenever I’m with him. Someone who seems to understand me instinctively.

  After we finish our pizza, Rem leans back onto his elbows and squints at the sky. “We better head back,” he says. “Going to start raining soon.”

  I look up at the sky. It’s clouded over since we started eating, but it doesn’t look at all threatening. “How can you tell?”

  He shrugs. “I can smell it. The ozone.” He folds up the pizza box, dropping it into a nearby trash can. Like every trash can in Salem, it features a graphic of two legs in striped socks and pointy black shoes, next to a twig broom. You can’t escape witches around here.

  I swallow my last few sips of soda, reluctant to leave, but Rem’s right: By the time we walk back to the Double Double Café, the sky has turned gunmetal gray.

  The first few drops spatter the awning as I stand next to Rem, hoping he’ll hug me good-bye. Not a boyfriend-y, full body embrace, just that little brush-touch most friends do when they’re saying good-bye to each other. But I’ve noticed that Rem’s not a toucher. In fact, he has both hands jammed into the back pockets of his jeans, which does very nice things for his biceps, but also seems like a statement, a small way of keeping his distance.

  “Well, bye,” I say, letting the moment stretch awkwardly. Maybe if I just stand here doing nothing, he’ll figure it out. I notice the cat-eyed barista at the Double Double Café watching us through the window. I wonder if she has a crush on Rem Anders. It wouldn’t surprise me.

  “You better get into the store. It’s about to start pouring,” Rem says. I nod and take off, feeling a slight sting of disappointment as I cross the alley. It isn’t as if I expect this hunk to be swept off his feet by my pale, gawky self. It would make perfect sense if he just ignored me, but why does he have to blow so hot and cold? One minute he’s seeking me out, almost seems to be flirting with me, and the next he’s completely indifferent. I can’t get a read on him, which means that I never know how to behave. I don’t understand how I can feel so connected to him and so unsure of him at the same time, but Rem’s nothing if not full of mysteries.

  All afternoon the rain comes down in sheets, and the only customers who come in are two surly tourists who scuttle inside to get out of the rain for a couple of minutes. I try to entice them to browse, but they don’t even bother to answer me. They stand side by side right in front of the door, frowning at the rain as if it’s out to get them, and blaming each other for everything. “If you hadn’t spent so much time in the store … If you ever remembered to bring the umbrella …”

  “It’ll let up soon,” I say, doing my best to sound like a friendly employee, but fervently wishing they’d both go away.

  Just at that moment, the rain stops.

  “Thank god,” says the woman, whose husband is already pulling her out the door, as if he can’t wait to get out of this horrible store. As they cross the street to their minivan, a fresh gust of wind-driven rain soaks them both to the skin. I can’t help feeling satisfied. Serves them both right for being so rude.

  The lights in the store flicker and then cut out. So does the music.

  When I turn away from the window, Dyami is looking at me with a strange expression.

  “Is it a blackout?” I ask her.

  She nods. “It certainly is.” She quickly lights some candles, then reaches over to pick up her tarot deck. “Let’s take a look at your cards, shall we? I’m sensing we’ll have the place to ourselves for a while.”

  Probably true. It’s already pouring again.

  Dyami spreads out her silk, and lays out four objects in each of its corners: a conch shell, a small piece of driftwood, an old Chinese coin, and another candle.

  “The four suits of the tarot deck represent the four elements,” she explains. “Earth, water, air …” She strikes a match, lighting t
he candle. “And fire.”

  A tingle runs right up my spine. It’s partly the shadowy light and the echoing sound of the rain on the roof, but the mood in the store is suddenly deeply mysterious. The light from the candle seems way too bright, as if that single flame holds a bonfire within. I can’t keep my eyes off it.

  Dyami takes out her card deck and places the whole stack between my palms, wrapping her own hands around mine. She shuts her eyes, taking a few long, deep breaths. Then she opens her eyes again.

  “Cut the cards,” she instructs. “Once, twice, three times to the left.”

  I obey. She picks up the reshuffled deck and starts dealing out cards in a cross pattern, turning them faceup one at a time. I’m not prepared for the raw strength of the painted images. A man hangs upside down by one foot … a heart is pierced by three swords … a body lies on the ground, pierced by a row of ten more swords … two figures are thrown from a stone tower struck by a lightning bolt.

  Dyami’s brows knit together. She deals out another card with a high priestess seated between black and white columns, the crescent moon at her feet.

  “So much power,” she murmurs.

  What does that mean? Is it good or bad? I could do with some hints around now.

  Dyami turns over the next card, and her face relaxes into a smile. “Well, I know who this is.” She points at the image: a young page by the edge of the sea, holding a goblet with a small fish peering out at him.

  Behind me, I hear the front door swing open. Is it the wind?

  “And there he is now,” says Dyami.

  I turn to see Rem, his hair spiky and wet from the rain. My heart jumps at the sight of him.

  “Have you got some candles?” he asks. “The café’s all out.”

  “What kind do you want? We’re candle central,” Dyami says, heading into the darkened stockroom.

  Rem crosses the room to the table where I’m still sitting. He looks down at the tarot spread, and I see his jaw clench.

  “What are you doing this for?” he says with an edge in his voice.

  “Just for fun,” I tell him. “No customers, no electricity, so we decided to …”

  “Fun?” Rem’s voice sounds angry, contemptuous. “Don’t mess around with the elements. Ever.”

  “What are you talking about?” I demand, bristling at his tone.

  “This isn’t a game. Not for people like us.”

  What?

  Before I can ask him what he means by that, Dyami comes out with a carton of votives. “Here you go. These ought to hold you.”

  “Thanks,” says Rem, taking the candles from her. His grin parts the clouds on his face as if nothing had happened. “Bye, Abby,” he twinkles, his dimples on full display. What is with this guy?

  Just as he reaches the door, Rem turns and looks back at me, and I have that same strange sensation of hearing his thoughts.

  Don’t play games. This is real, says the voice in my head, backed by a surge of electrical hum as the lights blink back on.

  Rem’s warning reverberates inside my head as I circle the store, picking out all the powders and herbs that I need for my love potion for Travis.

  I hear it again in my room late that night, as I line them up next to the spell book, a mixing bowl, and yes, a mortar and pestle. But I don’t want to listen. I think of the way Megan and her friends cornered me in the bathroom at school. I hear their mocking laughter when they tracked me down at my job — just because Travis was nice to me! — I think of sweet, generous Travis, and my anger rises all over again.

  She doesn’t deserve him. I do. It’s that simple.

  I take a deep breath. The night air feels electric and newly washed in the wake of the rainstorm. I can smell the familiar salt nip of the ocean a few miles away, mingled in with the heady flower perfumes of late spring.

  Dad is back from his latest dinner date with Danielle, and I can hear his steady not-quite-a-snore down the hall. Matt is out like a light in his room, too. The house is all mine.

  I pick up the spell book and open it up to a random page. It’s the spell I was looking for. My breath catches with the reminder that I really do possess magical powers.

  Like any good cook, I start by assembling all the ingredients I’ve collected. This spell really is like preparing a recipe, because after I’ve mixed up the potion, I need to get Travis to swallow a spoonful. Sounds kind of tricky, but I’ve got a plan.

  I reread the first line of the spell:

  Obtain an Image of the Beloved

  I open my desk drawer and take out a photo of Travis I cut from the newspaper sports page. Even in the grainy newsprint likeness, his wide grin melts my heart. As the recipe instructs, I place the photo on a plate, and add a photo of me — a random snapshot Valerie took of me on the front steps of my house — facedown on top of it. The next step of the spell calls for crumbling dried rose and marigold petals together and sprinkling them in a circle around the photos.

  Then I make use of my haul from the store today. I mix two drops of lavender oil, one of wildflower honey, and three threads of ginseng root into a sticky paste, which I dab on the photos’ four corners. I grind pinches of witch hazel, thyme, periwinkle, and white sage in the mortar and sprinkle the fine powder over the photos as well.

  Now it’s time to burn them. I’ve set up the same semi-circle of seven white candles as I did during the last spell. Lighting them one at a time, I recite:

  “Forsaking all others

  Turn thine eyes to me

  So mote it be

  It is done.”

  The flames of the candles flare up and back down. Following the spell’s instructions, I pick up the candle in the center and use it to set fire to the photographs, concentrating all my thoughts on Travis as they burn. I gather the powdery, herb-scented ash in a silver spoon, tipping it into the velvet pouch.

  There. That part is done. Now I just have to get Travis to swallow it.

  I’m going to be doing some baking tomorrow.

  I SPEND THE NEXT AFTERNOON IN THE kitchen, turning out batches of chocolate-chip cookies, gingersnaps, caramel brownies, and lemon-coconut cupcakes. Mixing the batters and lifting the fragrant baking sheets out of the oven fills me with a heady joy. This is really what I’m meant to do. As I sample a bite of a brownie — still warm, so the caramel swirl gushes onto my tongue — I find myself thinking not of Travis, but Rem. I think of the marinara sauce splashed on his ear and the pizza-with-everything lunch when he guessed I was dreaming of chef school. I’ll have to bake him something special someday, I think with a smile.

  Matt’s soccer friends Kevin, Ridley, and Griffin are all hanging out at our house, and they make such excited, frequent raids on the cooling racks that I’m afraid I won’t have anything left to sell at the National Honor Society bake sale, much less to sprinkle with hex powder for that special someone. One of those cupcakes has Travis Brown’s name on it.

  The bake sale is after school on Tuesday, right outside the gym. There’s a track meet today, and we’re trying to catch hungry spectators, plus any athletes who might need a last-minute carbo-load. I’m sitting with Rachel and Kate Reeder, my stomach aflutter with nervous excitement. I can’t quite believe that I’m going to go through with this. Plus there’s the added anxiety that the special cupcake with hex powder under its coconut icing might somehow find its way to the wrong jock. I’ve set it aside in an otherwise-empty tin, just to be on the safe side, but you never know.

  Most of the track team has already jogged past our table, some of them stopping to pick up a treat on their way to the track. When Travis comes out of the gym, looking handsome in his maroon singlet and track shorts, my heart starts to race. I concentrate all my energy on making him turn toward our table. He does. It’s like playing a video game with a joystick. Okay, Travis. Now you look right at me.

  He does that, too, and I hand him the cupcake I made just for him. “Home-baked,” I tell him. “My treat.”

  Travis grins. “H
ey, thanks,” he says, taking a giant bite. My breath catches as he swallows.

  So mote it be.

  Travis closes his eyes in ecstasy, like a Food Channel host telegraphing how great something tastes. He breathes, “Wow. That is insanely delicious. Just … wow.” He opens his eyes and gazes at me with a look I’ve never seen in real life before. At least, not ever directed at me. He looks awe-struck. I feel a flush all over. Did it really work?

  “Thanks, Abby,” he says earnestly. “You’re an incredible baker.”

  He takes half a step toward the track and turns back to me. “Are you going to come out and watch my race? I’d really like that.”

  “I will,” I tell Travis, and he smiles at me like the sun just came out.

  When he trots away, Rachel and Kate are both staring at me.

  “What did you …” Rachel starts.

  Kate just says, “I want that recipe.”

  We run out of baked goods — including the rest of my undoctored cupcakes — before the meet’s over. Kate is counting the money and Rachel and I are dumping loose crumbs out of Tupperware boxes when I hear the announcement for the high hurdles. That’s Travis’s event, the last race of the day.

  “I want to go see this,” I tell them both.

  Rachel raises an eyebrow and asks, “Really?” and Kate says, “Hey, go for it.”

  I head for the track, where the team is already in starting position. The afternoon sun backlights Travis’s hair as he assumes a crouch, his muscular legs coiled to spring from the gate. The starting gun sounds and he’s airborne.

  Could there be a better metaphor for Travis Brown than hurdling? Without breaking stride, he soars gracefully over each obstacle. That’s how high school is for him, I think. Fun and effortless. It’s never been like that for me — not for most people, I guess. But as I watch him leap, I feel like my heart’s soaring with him. He’s so far ahead of the pack that he crosses the finish line before the next runner has cleared the last hurdle.