by Maya Gold
I can’t help it, I jump up and scream. The whole grandstand erupts into cheers. I see Megan jump out of her seat in a bright yellow dress that clings to her curves. She runs to embrace him, and I hold my breath. Here comes the moment of truth.
As Megan propels herself into his arms, Travis lifts her right off the ground. She covers his whole face with kisses.
My stomach and heart drop. Well, so much for my magic powers.
I’m about to head back to my car when I see Travis pull away from Megan, searching the bleachers. He’s looking for … could it be me?
I stand very still, my nerves on edge.
Travis continues to gaze around, and then he spots me, standing just outside the chain-link fence. He smiles and waves. Megan follows his gaze, and when she sees that he’s waving at me, her spine stiffens. Her hands fly to her hips, and she thrusts her chin and chest forward, sputtering something indignant at Travis.
Travis shrugs and says something short, which might be “So what?” Whatever it is, Megan turns on her heel and stalks off in a rage. And Travis does not look upset in the least — in fact, he looks delighted.
Wow. Just … wow.
Travis’s teammates cluster around him, thumping him on the back and exclaiming about his win. I can’t see him at all in the throng, but that’s just as well, since I’m having some trouble with breathing.
Two thoughts are battling for space in my brain: Did I really do that? and What’s Megan going to do to me this time? If I’ve gained her boyfriend’s attention, that means I’ll be poison to her. Suddenly, I worry I’ve made a terrible mistake.
I turn and walk blindly back to my car, feeling a swell of excitement and fear. I need to get out of here fast. As I turn my key in the ignition, I notice my gas gauge is almost at empty.
Perfect. Nothing like a dull, routine errand to slow down your galloping pulse rate.
I drive to the Mobil across from the mini-mall strip where Dad’s computer shop sits next to a Dunkin’ Donuts.
There you go, Abby, I think. Back to normal. Fill up the tank with unleaded, and go treat yourself to a Boston Kreme. Life in the fast lane.
I unscrew the gas cap and fill the tank, taking deep breaths as I watch the numbers click upward. By the time I go inside to pay Mr. Schneller, I’ve almost forgotten I’ve been casting hexes on track stars. Until I start back toward my car and see Travis’s Alfa Romeo pull in right behind it.
“Hi, Abby,” he says with a grin. “I thought that was your Jetta.”
He’s noticed what car I drive? I must look totally shocked. If somebody told me my mouth was wide open, I wouldn’t blink. But it isn’t. Some confident self that I don’t even recognize seems to have taken over my body, stretching my lips into a relaxed, easy smile.
“Oh, hi,” my voice says nonchalantly. “Small world.”
“I’m so glad to see you,” he says. No mention of winning his race at the track meet; he’s not showing off. Which is kind of cool. Especially when he looks so terrific, his hair windswept, his face flushed from exercise. His arm is draped over the side of the door, and the hairs on his muscular forearm look golden.
“Want to go for a drive?” he asks me. He perches his sunglasses back on his forehead, and his blue eyes look right into mine. “Come on, it’s convertible weather. Top down, get some wind in your hair … What do you say? You can leave your car here.” And then he adds, “Please, Abby?”
Okay, now my inner jaw is dropped down to my toes, but my confident stand-in just makes me shrug and say, “Sure.”
Travis heads north, toward the lighthouse at Newburyport. I’m very relieved that he didn’t pick Salem for his scenic drive — seeing Rem when I’m with him would just make me feel confused, when I should be enjoying every moment.
Because this is really amazing.
The trees are in tender new leaf and the ocean is sparkling. It feels like a dream to be zipping along in Travis’s little red sports car, with the stereo cranked and the road rushing by. My hair’s blowing in front of my face; I must look like a tumbleweed. But I notice that people we drive past are waving at us with indulgent smiles, and I imagine them thinking we make a cute couple.
My heart gives a soft little flutter, like butterfly wings. It’s hard to believe this is real, that I’m actually sitting here next to the boy I’ve been dreaming about for so long. It would be beyond perfect, except for one thing: Travis can’t seem to stop complimenting me … or dissing Megan.
At first it’s a pleasure to hear him praise me to the skies, even though I know it’s the hex powder talking. It’s still pretty swoony when someone who you’ve had a crush on for most of your life tells you over and over that you look beautiful.
“I mean it,” he says. “You should always wear that shade of blue. It brings out your eyes. And your smile is amazing.”
It’s just the spell, I tell myself, but my heart pounds and I blush all the same.
Then he starts in on Megan — how selfish she is, how demanding and jealous. It also feels great to hear Travis complain about someone who’s made me feel two inches tall all through high school. But after a while it starts getting uncomfortable. I try changing the subject — Oh, look, there’s a sailboat! Where did you find this adorable car? Did you break the school record for hurdles? — but wherever the conversation may lead, it always loops back to how wonderful I am, how friendly and warm, and how totally different from Megan.
“Whenever I try to talk to her about anything going on with me, she zones out,” Travis complains. “She wants all the focus on her. It just makes me so mad when she does that, you know?” He glances at me, and then back at the road. “It’s like no one exists except her.”
I nod. This is all my fault, I think, feeling more than a little bit guilty as we speed along the spectacular coast. Travis tilts his head, shooting me an appreciative glance. “You’re a really good listener, you know?”
Yes, I am. And maybe a really good witch.
At dinner that night, Dad keeps looking at me over his plate of linguini. At first I think it’s because of my wild windblown hair, but then he says, “Did I see you getting into a red convertible at the Mobil this afternoon?”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat up. “Travis Brown gave me a ride after school, that’s all.”
Dad’s eyebrows go up. He’s never had to play the “protective” role because I never get asked out on dates. He seems to be a mix of concerned and pleased. He twirls a forkful of pasta against his spoon, dredging it through the Bolognese sauce. Finally, he says, “Good athletes, those Brown kids. Fast runners.” He looks at me. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
Good advice, Dad. You sound pretty fatherly.
Dad’s not the only one who’s reassessing my social status. The whole school is buzzing with rumors about Travis and Megan’s big fight at the track meet. And a few people have heard that he likes some weird junior.
He certainly does. He’s been following me like a puppy all day. He waited for me in the parking lot after Megan went in with her friends, walked me to my locker, and spent most of lunch sending me moony-eyed looks. It’s exciting, but more than a little bit scary — I know Megan’s gunning for me.
“You?” Rachel says at our after-school tutoring session at my house. “Is that who they’re talking about?”
“Is that so hard to believe, that someone might like me?” I demand, feeling hurt.
“Not just someone. The alpha male of this admittedly limited herd. And another girl’s boyfriend, P.S.”
Rachel is looking at me with a blend of concern and disdain, as if I’ve fallen off the smart-nerd shelf and turned into Snooki. A very tall, very pale Snooki.
“I thought we were here to do trig,” I say, bristling.
“Well, we would be,” says Rachel, “if you’d done your homework. What’s going on with you, Abby?”
More than you can imagine, I think. For a moment, I consider trying to tell her the whole thing — she i
s, after all, my closest friend now — but the idea of talking to practical, analytical Rachel Mendoza about magic spells is preposterous. She’d think I’ve gone out of my mind. And you know what? She might not be wrong.
I may not be doing my trig homework, but I have been studying. I’ve been poring over the spell book every night. The love potion worked so well that it’s made me skittish about trying more, but I still want to find out what’s possible. I just wish I had someone to share all this with.
For one split second in my room last night, I had considered calling up Valerie in Sarasota, and telling her everything — she might believe me. But then I remembered how far apart we’ve drifted. It would be so awkward to call her up and say, “Guess what? I’m a witch!”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I finally say to Rachel. “This is just a weird time.”
Rachel sighs, shutting her trigonometry textbook. “You want my diagnosis? One part end-of-the-year junioritis and one part hormones. The only thing I can’t figure out is whether you’re crushing on Travis or Rem.”
That makes two of us.
When I go to Salem on Saturday morning, I stop by the Double Double Café to pick up a mocha. It’s become my tradition — I’ve never been much of a coffee drinker, but now I relish the chance to see Rem every morning on my way to work. But Rem’s not at the café today. I’m surprised by how disappointed I am. I order a coffee from Kara, the pretty barista with uptilted eyes and a tattooed black rose on her shoulder.
“Rem took a personal day,” she says, handing me a double caramel mocha in a to-go cup.
“I didn’t ask,” I say, doing my best not to blush.
Kara’s smile is wry. “You didn’t have to.”
Is she making fun of me, or sympathizing? Either way, I’m embarrassed. I drop all my change in the tip jar and leave very fast.
The weather’s deliciously balmy all day. Dyami leaves the store’s door propped open to usher in tourists. It’s Memorial Day weekend, so they’re out in force. We do a booming business in souvenir maps and books about everything from Nostradamus to pet massage. Dyami does tarot and palm readings practically nonstop, so I’m really busy at the cash register. When the customers need help finding something, I always know just where it is. I even give people advice about crystals and herbs. I’m starting to get really good at this job.
It’s still warm outside when we close for the night. I ought to head home, but first I decide to unwind with an impulsive walk through a part of town I’ve never seen, out past the high school and power plant. It’s a spit of land jutting between two coves, with short blocks of old, modest houses and several small churches. I know there’s a park with a beach at the end, but I’m not sure how far. I’m walking past a ramshackle marina when some instinct tells me to cross the street and go inside the fence of its boatyard.
I swing the gate open and take a few tentative steps, looking around. What am I doing here?
A tan-armed boy is walking past me, his face hidden by the cooler he’s carrying on his shoulder. He turns, and my pulse quickens.
It’s Rem.
For the first time, he seems genuinely surprised to cross paths with me, and I can’t help wondering if this time I’m the one who made the coincidence happen, just by wanting to see him so much. He looks great, of course. His T-shirt is damp and the cooler he’s carrying smells of seawater.
“What is that?” I ask him.
“Dinner,” says Rem. He sets down the cooler and lifts off the top. Inside is a silvery fish packed on ice, with a cluster of shrimp. “My friend’s boat just came in. I helped them unload, and they gave me a tip.”
“I thought you might be sick, since you weren’t at —”
He cuts off my sentence. “I had some stuff to take care of, that’s all.” He’s not meeting my eye, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he seems ill at ease. I have the sensation that he’s hiding something. Then he flashes his usual dimply grin. “Want to join me for dinner?”
My heart leaps. I so wish I could, but I promised Matt I’d pick up takeout Chinese on my way back through Beverly, and it’s already past six. “I wish. But I’ve got to get home. My family’s expecting me.”
“I’ll take a rain check,” says Rem. “Can you come see my place, at least? Since you’re in my front yard.”
I look around. All I can see are a lot of old boats, a diesel pump, and a repair shed.
Rem notices my confusion and smiles. “You’re looking right at it.” He points at a vintage red tugboat tied up to the very last dock.
I feel my eyes widen. “You live on a tugboat?”
“I’m fixing it up. Come and see.”
Rem leads me through a maze of boats up in dry-dock, their round hulls exposed like white whales. People are taking them out of storage for the summer, and I can smell fresh paint and varnish. A couple of seagulls flap skyward as we step onto the …
Oh. My. God. Bridge.
I can’t help it, I grab Rem’s arm. I’ve gotten used to crossing the Beverly Bay Bridge in my car, but this is a thin strip of floating wood with no railings at all, which bobs up and down on the water with each step we take. It’s my personal nightmare.
Rem can’t help but notice. I’ve gone white as a sheet and I’m digging my fingernails into his forearm.
“Abby?”
“I’m sorry, I’m kind of … I’m not good with bridges.”
Rem sets down the cooler and pats it. “Step up.”
“What? Onto that?”
“Go on, it’ll hold you.” He takes my hand, helping me up. As soon as I’m standing on top of the cooler, he turns around. In one swift motion, he lifts me onto his back.
The breath goes right out of my body. I can feel my heart beating against his strong back as my arms wrap around his chest, my cheek pressing into his brine-damp hair. Suddenly, the last thing I’ve got on my mind is the wobbly bridge. I want this to go on forever and ever.
Rem carries me piggyback all the way down to the tugboat. Then he sets me down, easing me onto its deck. He turns to face me, and I feel a magnetic charge crackle between us. He’s looking into my eyes with a sudden intensity, as if he’s trying to find out not just what I’m thinking, but who I am. The blue streak inside his green iris seems brighter than ever. I wonder if he sees the gold streak in my eye.
Neither one of us seems to be breathing. Is he going to kiss me? I’ve never been kissed, but I can almost imagine it — the feel of his lips on mine.
But no, this is Rem Anders, the king of mixed messages. Just when I think he’s about to lean close and brush our lips together, he turns suddenly, breaking the moment.
“Come on, I’ll show you around. Watch your head, the door’s low.”
I really don’t get this. I wasn’t imagining things; we were heartbeats away from kissing, and then he just turned off the switch. Travis would never pull this kind of mind game. He’s been completely consistent with all his compliments — okay, maybe it’s just because of a spell, but I know where I stand with him. Maybe I ought to bake Rem one of those special cupcakes.
But why do I get the feeling that magic cupcakes wouldn’t work on Rem, that his will is much stronger than Travis’s? That might be what makes him so hard to pin down. And so tantalizing.
Rem leads me across the deck, past a sea kayak he calls “my bike,” and into the tug’s living quarters. Some areas are freshly painted, some sanded and scraped, and some still covered in old, peeling paint. Next we head into the wheelhouse, where I’m surprised to see several unframed watercolors spread out to dry on the windowsill.
“Did you paint those?” I ask, pointing.
“Oh. Yeah. They’re not finished. Just messing around.”
I pick up a landscape with budding willow trees next to a creek. The quick sketch really catches the play of light over the water. “Rem, this is really good.”
He looks embarrassed. “Something to do, right? What I really should paint is the kitchen. It
’s wicked funky down there. Can I make you some coffee? Though it’s not double caramel mocha.”
I smile. “That’s okay. Will you be at the café tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Rem looks at me. “You’ve got to go now, right?”
I nod. “I wish I didn’t.” He has no idea how much I mean that.
Or maybe he does. He looks at me with a flirtatious smile. “Do you need me to carry you back?”
I can feel myself blushing. “That would be … if you don’t … Yes.”
“Okay,” says Rem. “But we’re definitely going to work on this fear-of-bridges thing.”
“I know, it’s ridiculous. I just get this panicky feeling that I’m going to fall in and drown. I guess it’s because I don’t know how to swim.”
Rem looks as if he just found out I’m missing both legs. “You can’t swim?”
Now my cheeks are bright red. “Don’t make fun of me, please. It’s not like I haven’t tried learning. I just plain don’t float.”
“Everyone floats,” says Rem. “You need the right person to show you how, that’s all. Have you got a swimsuit?”
My cheeks are getting even hotter. “For sunbathing, yeah.”
“Bring it tomorrow. First lesson right after work.” He looks at me with those hypnotic eyes, and I feel my heart beat a little bit faster.
Who could say no?
THERE’S NOTHING QUITE AS EXCRUCIATING as wearing a swimsuit in front of a guy you like. Especially when he’s tawny and sun-kissed from working outdoors, and you look like a glass of skim milk.
I still have the sky blue bikini I picked up two summers ago for a beach party Valerie dragged me to. (I read a book in my beach chair the whole time, and nobody noticed I never got wet.) I don’t know whether to be pleased or depressed that it still fits me perfectly. Not many new curves to show off, but I do have long legs, thanks to Mom.
