by Maya Gold
I study his face. “You keep saying ‘they.’ Not ‘we.’”
“I’m only half witch. And my human half wants to protect you.”
My eyes open wide as I put it together. “That’s why you keep turning away.”
Rem nods, looking miserable. “I was supposed to make you fall in love with me, so I could give you the witch’s kiss and seal the deal.”
I bristle. “Supposed to? What am I, your homework?”
“That was the plan. But …”
But what, Rem? This better be good.
I hear the roar of the ocean behind us as he lifts his eyes, looking right into mine. “But my human half fell in love with you first.”
Oh. Wow, that is good. My heart starts to flutter.
And then I remember. “But what about Kara?”
Rem sighs again. “That was such a mistake. I thought I could make you jealous and drive you away from me. But if you keep casting spells on your own, you’ll still be in danger. They want you to come fully into your powers, so you can bring fire to the circle and gather the storm.” He takes my hand, imploring. “You’re still much more human than witch, but every time you cast a spell, your powers get stronger. Look at yourself, Abby. Even your eyes are changing. That’s the sign. Promise me you’ll stop doing magic.”
“How can I promise? I don’t even know how it works! Sometimes I just think really hard and things happen. Like moving that traffic cone.”
“That’s how you got onto our radar. Esperanza spotted you.” With a gasp, I remember the RMV tester with the long dark hair, the way that she stared at me after the cone moved. “And that led you straight to the Double Double Café.”
“To meet you.”
Rem nods, looking guilty.
“Except nobody led me,” I challenge him. “I was the one who decided to go to Salem, and I was the one who picked out the café.”
“Magic always makes you think you’re the one making the choices. Does Travis know he’s being led?”
I wince. Rem knows about Travis? Now it’s my turn to look guilty.
Of course I know, he says inside my head. Our souls are connected, remember?
“Then why can’t we —”
Rem stops me short. “If we kiss, you’ll become a full witch. Forever.”
“You said a witch’s kiss transfers power. Couldn’t I make you human forever?”
“The stronger energy always replaces the weaker. That’s why the earth witch wants me to finish the task.”
A harsh gust of wind shears sand off the dunes. It swirls in an angry cloud, stinging our faces, and I feel a sudden deep dread in the pit of my stomach.
“He’s found us,” Rem whispers. “Go back to your school, to your human boy. Steer clear of Salem and don’t practice magic. I’ve got to go.”
“But …” There are so many ways I could finish that sentence. I land on one of the weakest. “How will you get back home?”
Rem points to the edge of the dunes, where he’s hidden his kayak. “I’ll be fine, Abby. You can still choose to stay human. It isn’t too late” is the last thing he says.
I am late for school, though. Incredibly late. I’ve missed trig altogether, and I slink into Ms. Baptiste’s classroom midway through a pop quiz. There’s so much swirling around in my mind that I can’t focus at all. It occurs to me that I’m already keeping my promise to Rem: In place of the magic that’s been guiding my fingers to circle the right answer every time is a totally human confusion, as real as the sand in my sneakers.
“All right, turn them in, people. No extra time!” Ms. Baptiste calls. Students grumble and pass their papers down the rows to Samson Hobby, who’s been put in the front row for attitude issues, giving us all a prime view of his stubbly new Mohawk.
I carry my test up to Ms. Baptiste’s desk instead. “I missed most of class,” I say. “Can I take the rest of the quiz during my study hall?”
She frowns, fixing me with a steely-eyed stare. “If I can trust you not to consult any books in between,” she says. “How’s that extra-credit research project on Salem coming?”
Wrong question. I kind of forgot about that, even though Salem itself has been on my mind nonstop. “I’ll get it to you really soon,” I say, blushing. “I’ve just had a lot … going on.”
She leans back and studies me over the top of her glasses. “I’m sure you have,” she says drily.
I’m not sure what she means by that. I never think teachers pay much attention to the gossip mill that’s so all-consuming in Ipswich High School. But Megan’s smear campaign against me would be hard to miss.
She’s been calling out “Hey, Big Bird!” and “What’s up, Scabigail?” every time I pass her and her friends in the hall. She’s even started a Facebook page called the “Pick at a Scabigail Group,” which makes my stomach hurt every time I see it pop up on-screen with more Likes. I’ve stopped going online, just so I won’t have to deal with all the mean comments. It seems a steep price for getting Travis to fall for me. Especially if my soul is connected to Rem’s.
As I walk out of Ms. Baptiste’s class and down the hall, I see people smirking and whispering to each other, or turning their heads from their lockers to stare as I pass. I do my best to ignore them and hold my head high, even when I overhear a boy in a track jacket say to his friend, “Who, her? Is he blind?”
To make matters worse, Rachel is still barely speaking to me. We don’t meet up before and after school, text, or talk like we used to. The only person who’s still in my corner is Kate. She says Megan is blacklisting me, like her grandfather was blacklisted in the 1950s, during what she calls “the Communist witch hunt.” I don’t tell Kate how right on the money she is.
And Travis, of course, is also in my corner, loyal and true. He keeps asking me to bake something for him. I’d be happy to whip up a batch of non-magical cupcakes, but the kitchen’s no longer my own.
It’s Danielle’s.
She’s now moved in with a vengeance. Dad and I used to split grocery shopping and laundry chores, but she’s taken over those duties full-force. It’s a relief not to have to do all the grunt work, but every time I open the fridge to a new brand of orange juice or find her socks mixed in with mine in the dryer, I feel invaded.
It doesn’t help that, in spite of the stresses of dealing with insurance claims and repairmen, she’s been unfailingly pleasant to me. Nice in a sort of slick way that has to do both with her hostess profession and with her seeing me as a problem to solve — New Mate’s Hostile Daughter — instead of a specific person with likes and dislikes and her own set of issues. Issues Danielle couldn’t even begin to imagine.
And, of course, Matt thinks she’s great. He’s a nine-year-old boy; you can win him over with chocolate-chip pancakes and Tater Tots. Easy as pie. Which Danielle also bakes, in the oven that used to be my private domain. Dad is happier than he’s been in years, which I am glad to see, but also makes me — again — the odd one out in my family. And it doesn’t escape me that Danielle is living in our house because of the fire I started.
Any lingering doubts I had about whether I really have magical powers were put to rest by Rem telling me I’m a fire witch. The fire witch, apparently, the one the witches of Salem have been seeking for hundreds of years.
I didn’t ask for any of this, but it seems that the hand I got dealt in this life was a literal burning rage. If the thoughts in my head can start fires, I better watch out what I think of Danielle. Of everyone.
All day Friday I waver back and forth — should I go to Salem tomorrow morning, or not? I sit in my classes, mulling it over. It’s really not fair to Dyami if I quit my job with no notice, especially now that it’s getting into prime summer season. And what would I even tell her? “I’m sorry, I’m scared I’ll turn into a witch forever if I come to work” sounds ridiculous by any standards. Besides, I’m still paying my cousin Roberto. I don’t want to give up my car.
In the end, I decide that I will go to wor
k, but I’ll honor Rem’s wishes and steer clear of him. No more double caramel mochas for breakfast; I’ll have to buy my coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts like everyone else.
Well, at least I won’t have to see Kara.
The irony hits me between the eyes. Rem can kiss Kara; she’s already crossed over. But he won’t ever kiss me.
And why? Because his human side wants to protect me. I feel a swell of joy mixed with sorrow at the realization. He can’t kiss me, because he’s in love with me.
I WAKE UP BEFORE THE ALARM CLOCK ON Saturday morning. No nightmares at all, and no headache either, which seems like some kind of a miracle. If they were the first sign of my witchy powers, maybe they’ll go away if I keep my promise to Rem and stop practicing magic.
It’s something to hope for, at least.
I brush my teeth, pull my clothes on, and head down the stairs to the kitchen. Dad is already wearing his soccer coach uniform, and Danielle’s fixing him an egg sandwich with bacon and cheddar.
“Good morning, Abby.” She smiles, putting the sandwich onto a plate and reaching for a bottle of ketchup. “Would you like me to make you one?”
I shake my head. “I can’t face that much food when I first wake up. Thanks for the offer, though.”
Dad looks up from his coffee, grateful that I’m being nice to his girlfriend for a change. “How about some juice?” Danielle offers. She opens the fridge. “You can take it to go, if you’d rather.”
“I don’t need to —” I stop in mid-sentence. Why not just say yes? It’ll make her so happy. “Sure.”
Danielle smiles, pouring orange juice into a travel cup. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from her and waving at Dad. “I’ll see you both later.”
I can’t help it. That “both” makes me wince.
I don’t touch the orange juice. My stomach’s unsettled, and my whole body feels heavy and sluggish, even though the weather could not be more perfect. It’s as if the morning is posing for June on a calendar. I roll down my front window as I drive along the familiar roads with the radio cranked to my favorite oldies station. The air’s mild and sweet, with a whiff of wild roses and salt air. When I get to Beverly Bay, I see more sailboats and windsurfers out on the water than ever before.
Usually this is where I would take a deep breath, anticipating the surge of excitement that bubbles inside me whenever I cross the bridge over this span of water. But my spirits don’t lift in the usual way. It’s not hard to figure out why: A big part of the reason my heart swelled every time was the prospect of seeing Rem.
Not only do I know full well that he’s not going to let himself bump into me accidentally-on-purpose, I’m also freaked out by the things he’s told me about Salem. Behind all the quaintness, touristy witch-kitsch, and Halloween trappings lurks a secret society of actual witches, including an earth witch who apparently scares even Rem. And these unknown witches seem to be holding the reins on a lot of decisions I thought were my own, moving me like a puppet and listening in on my innermost thoughts. Just the idea of it makes my skin crawl.
So when that same perfect parking spot that’s been open for me twice before, right in front of Double Double, turns out to be empty again, it doesn’t feel like a stroke of good luck — it gives me the cold creeps. I drive right past it deliberately and leave my car parked in front of an abandoned dry cleaners on a back street several blocks away.
I walk back toward Dyami’s store via a series of residential side streets, where the everyday sights of little kids bombing around on brightly colored tricycles and a middle-aged woman unloading her grocery cart help me to calm down a little.
This town isn’t all sinister. There are Laundromats and gas stations, college students and hardware store clerks, old men wearing windbreakers and Velcro sneakers out walking their dogs, just like anyplace else. As a fringe benefit, parking on the back street means that I’ll be approaching Spiral Visions from the opposite direction, so I won’t have to walk past the Double Double Café. I don’t want to know if Rem is at work today, and I certainly don’t want to cross paths with Kara.
“Something is making you sad today,” says Dyami after I arrive. She passes her hand just above my head “to calm the crown chakra.” For a moment, I wonder if she’s a witch, too. Anyone could be — who would have guessed there were witches who give drivers’ tests? And Rem said there were many of them, descendants of the old witches, here in Salem. But Dyami’s eyes are a solid, comforting brown — no streak of gold or silver. Her gift isn’t magic, but pure intuition.
She’s right, I am feeling a little bit sad. Especially when I head out for my lunch break and have to avoid all the places I’ve eaten with Rem — Ugly Gus, Benny’s Pizza, the Polish place that makes those delicious pierogi. There are memories everywhere, but I do what Rem told me to do and steer clear of any place where I might come across him. Or miss him too much.
To continue my good-girl streak, on my way home from work, I stop at one of the town’s several witch-themed museums. I promised Ms. Baptiste I would do more research, and I want to find out not just about my own ancestors but the rest of the people involved with the trials. Especially now, given what I know. If the living witches who haunt Salem now — the ones plotting some kind of revenge scheme they want me to join — are descended from the accused who were sent to their deaths in 1692, I need to find out all I can about who those people were.
As I wait in a long line of tourists, I study the eyes of the old woman taking admissions, but they’re both the same shade of patrician blue. I feel a small wave of relief, pay her the fee, and go inside.
The exhibit shows large dioramas depicting the Salem witch trials. And each diorama gets more and more under my skin. It was hard enough reading about these dark times, but seeing the images in three dimensions is so much more visceral. The life-size wax museum figures are like scenes from my nightmares — the afflicted girls in their dark dresses and white aprons writhing in fits, dark-robed men in Puritan hats, fingers pointing. When I see the likeness of Reverend Nicholas Noyes, the man Sarah Good cursed from the gallows, it’s all I can do to keep breathing.
He’s not real, I remind myself. He’s molded wax with glass eyes and horsehair.
Then I come upon a diorama showing Sarah Good in her prison cell. It tears at my heart. Gaunt and pale, her pregnancy poorly hidden beneath threadbare garments, my ancestor looks feral, defiant. But it’s little Dorcas who haunts me the most. When I turn my eyes to the smallest wax figure, I can feel her inconsolable cries echoing somewhere deep inside my bones. My own eyes sting with tears. Are they for that long-ago girl who lost her mother so young … or for myself?
I force myself to move on to the next diorama. A lot of the names are familiar from my research reading, but some things are brand-new to me. One thing I didn’t know is that only nineteen of those who died were sentenced to hang. At least four died in prison before being convicted. The last, a tough-minded farmer named Giles Corey, adamantly refused to testify. He was pressed to death beneath heavy stones, with more and more weight added until his bones cracked and his heart burst. I can’t imagine how painful his death must have been, and I wonder if his tortured spirit is one of the ones that’s come back to wreak vengeance on Salem.
Could his descendant, in fact, be the earth witch Rem warned me about? But there’s no mention of the four elements on any of the placards. The history Rem told me doesn’t exist in the official versions; it’s underground lore.
I leave the museum shaken, wondering how much goes on in the world that’s not written in history books, that we can’t understand. We’re told as children that witches aren’t real — and neither are vampires, werewolves, or ghosts. But if that’s the case, why have their stories been passed down for centuries?
And of course now I know why. Because sometimes they’re true. It’s as if there’s another world lurking just underneath ours, and sometimes, not often, the veil between worlds gets a little bit th
readbare and something slips through it.
This is on my mind as I’m driving back home, especially when I take a wrong turn on the highway I’ve driven on many times, and wind up right outside Great-aunt Gail’s nursing home.
I’m about to back up and get back on my route when I’m seized with the impulse to go in and visit her. It doesn’t make any sense, but it’s almost as if I’ve been hypnotized. Without any conscious decision to do it, I find myself parking my car, heading into the Muzak-filled lobby, and signing my name in the guest book at the front desk.
When the elevator lets me out onto the grim second floor, the first person I see is the West Indian nurse with the dreadlocks. Her nails are bright coral today.
“You seeing Miz Solart, darlin’?” she asks. “I’m sorry to tell you, but she had a partial stroke. Hasn’t spoken a word since the last time you came.”
She makes this sound as if this is a blessing. I bet the whole nursing staff is relieved that Great-aunt Gail’s no longer spitting out crazy words and curses. It does make it seem even more pointless to go to her room, but again, it’s as if something is pulling me forward.
Fighting the uneasy dread in the pit of my stomach, I walk down the olive-drab hallway, lined with inert older people in wheelchairs. One man’s toothless mouth is wide open, his eyes blank and staring. Edging away from his side of the hall, I nearly trip over the bony feet of the woman across from him. “Sorry,” I say, and she grunts out a sound without consonants.
The door to Gail’s room is propped open, and I leave it that way as I slip inside. Her shrunken form lies underneath a blue sheet. She is staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, and my first thought is that she might have died. Is this what a stroke looks like?
