by Maya Gold
I lift it up, shrugging. I am healing, bit by bit. “Gets better every day,” I say. “It’s like magic.”
I DRIVE UP THE LONG ARCHING SPAN OF the bridge to Salem, feeling something that still strikes me as a miracle: totally normal. No colorful visions, no spike headaches, no phobias about drowning. I’ve come a long way.
The hot August sun bakes down on my roof as I drive through the village of Salem, passing all the familiar landmarks. I slow down a bit as I pass the green awning of Spiral Visions, where I still work every weekend, and the Double Double Café, where Kara is sweeping the sidewalk. I’m happy to note that there isn’t a parking space anywhere near it.
A bright red trolley bus passes in front of me, ringing its musical bell. It’s packed to the gills with tourists. I continue to drive through town, braking for shoppers and moms pushing strollers, and into the quieter section of waterfront streets to the south of the wharf. I drive out past Salem State College. The houses get farther apart on the outskirts of town. My heart starts to flutter when I reach the parking spot under the willows, near the secluded cove where I had my first swimming lesson.
I pop open the trunk of the Jetta, noticing that my left hand is losing its stiffness. The scar tissue’s darker than most of my skin, but that’s not saying much.
I shoulder my beach bag and head down the footpath alongside the creek, noting how much fuller and greener the willows have gotten. The small stretch of sandy beach is deserted, but I spot a kayak pulled up next to the flat rock, where there’s a sketchbook and paint box. I look at it, smiling. So Rem is already here somewhere. All summer long, he’s been working on his portfolio for art school applications — I finally convinced him he might win a scholarship. Talent, after all, is a cousin to magic.
I spread out my striped towel and sit down to wait for him, tipping my face toward the sun. Maybe I’ll actually get something that can pass for a tan this summer. That would make for a different start to senior year.
But I have the sense that the differences in me are more than skin deep. They’re more about confidence, and feeling closer to people. Especially one person.
Suddenly, I feel something ice cold against my back. It’s literally spine-chilling.
Rem has come back bearing two cups of soda. He holds them out, flashing his dimples. “Root beer or ginger ale?”
Laughing, I twist around to grab the root beer cup out of his hand, but I drop it. Quick as a flash, Rem reaches to catch it … and misses.
He’s got human reflexes now. And that’s just fine with me.
The root beer soaks into my towel, but I ignore it, grinning at Rem.
“Come on,” I say, jumping up and grabbing his hand. “Let’s go swimming.”
Don’t miss a remarkable new novel about troubled ghosts, hidden secrets, and the streets of New Orleans.
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by Paula Morris
Rebecca wriggled into her coat and darted out the red front door. When she looked up, the boy with blue eyes was standing right in front of her, close enough to touch.
“Please,” he said. He sounded foreign — British or Irish or something.
“What do you want?” Rebecca hissed, edging toward the restaurant door. Just because he was good-looking didn’t mean this guy wasn’t dangerous.
“You don’t know me,” he said, still staring at her, “but I … I’ve seen you before. You were down in New Orleans. I saw you with Lisette.”
Something surged through her — a sickening dread, charged with the electric tingle of excitement. This boy knew Lisette. So did this mean he was a ghost, too? No, that was ridiculous. It was impossible.
“I saw you with her,” the boy said, a desperate edge to his voice. Rebecca’s heart thudded. Nobody could have seen her that day on St. Philip Street, because when Rebecca held Lisette’s hand, she disappeared from view. She was invisible, just as Lisette was invisible to other people. They could walk through the crowded streets of the city, unseen and undetected by anyone. Anyone, that is, except other ghosts.
As though he understood what she was looking for, the boy inched back his jacket. His white shirt was stained with a huge dark splotch of what might have been ink, or was more likely blood.
THANKS TO SOPHIA AND RUBY, MY TRAVEL companions in Salem; the Harden family, for local color; Laura Shaine, for keeping the home fires burning; Susan Cohen and Phyllis Wender at the Gersh Agency; and my hardworking coven at Scholastic: Aimee Friedman, Ruth Ames, Becky Shapiro, Yaffa Jaskoll, Jackie Hornberger, Elizabeth Krych, Ed Masessa, Tracy van Straaten, Abby McAden, and David Levithan.
About the Author
Maya Gold is the author of several books, including the middle-grade series Cinderella Cleaners. She writes books for adults under a different name. Her eyes are a mix of hazel and gray, and though some of her ancestors come from New England, she doesn’t think they were witches. She lives in upstate New York with her daughter.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gold, Maya.
Spellbinding / Maya Gold.
p. cm.
Summary: When sixteen-year-old Abby traces her deceased mother’s family to the Salem Witch Trials, the nightmares she has been having begin to make sense, but soon she is caught up in a love triangle and an age-old quest for revenge.
ISBN 978-0-545-43380-8
[1. Witchcraft — Fiction. 2. High schools — Fiction. 3. Schools — Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs) — Fiction. 5. Revenge — Fiction. 6. Salem (Mass.) — History — Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775 — Fiction. 7. Massachusetts — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G5628Spe 2013
[Fic] — dc23
2012016692
Copyright © 2013 by Maya Gold
All rights reserved. Published by Point, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.
SCHOLASTIC, POINT, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First printing, April 2013
Cover art by Aleta Rafton
Cover design by Yaffa Jaskoll
e-ISBN 978-0-545-51032-5
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
