“And it’s also the Winter Solstice, isn’t it?” I offer.
“Indeed it is. Well, what exactly do you want to ask me?”
Hillary still looks a bit scared. I think she isn’t used to this much tolerance in Shively. After all, we have at least ten churches here (and as many liquor stores). Hill takes her wreath out of the box.
“It’s a Winter Solstice wreath—I made it. But no one will let me put it up at Butler. Do you think, you could? I mean, if you won’t get in trouble or anything.”
Ms. S. takes the wreath carefully from Hillary. It really is beautiful. I hope she’ll hang it….
Then she walks to the bulletin board and takes down one of the usual posters. She puts the wreath in its place. Hill grins from ear to ear.
“You know what we still need, though? An explanation of the symbols and the Winter Solstice celebration. Could you write something up?”
“Of course. Thanks so much. I’ll do it tonight.”
“That’s great, Hillary. Maybe you’d like to join us in the meeting next week and share what you’ve written.”
So that’s how Hillary became a member of the Creative Writing Club. I was happy to have her in the December meeting with me, and everyone seemed to accept her there. Christmas draws closer, and Ms. Schell tells us about a regional writing conference in January. Each of us has to sign up for a workshop: poetry for me, of course—Hill chooses Creative Non-fiction, thinking maybe she can write about her Nona. I’m looking forward to visiting another school and getting out of math and chem for the day—and maybe winning a writing award.
Chapter 11: Searching for the Lasa
So now that I’m a real witch in the Stregha tradition, I need to have a Lasa Shrine in the house. Grimassi says it’s an essential part of being a Stregha, even though it isn’t really a tool. Apparently, any power I’ve called down or acquired will drain away if I don’t have a Lasa Shrine and offer my devotion and energy to the God and Goddess. It’s this small statue—it’s all explained in The Book. Crap! We couldn’t even find a freakin’ seashell in this town. Now what? I try to explain the problem to Emelia.
“See, look here, Em. Read this bit about the Lasa Shrine.” And I hand her the book.
Em twists her pumpkin-colored ponytail around a finger as she reads. I never know how this girl will react to what she calls my witch stuff; but I do admit she’s kept my secret faithfully. And I’ve kept hers. Sometimes I worry about her, and what will happen with her mom and all. And I know she’s missing that girl back in Florida when I see the shadowy look in her eyes.
“Well, I suppose we need to find one, then,” Em agrees.
“I’m sure we can find one online. You know you can find everything online these days. The trick is: how to get it and still keep the parental units from knowing about it.”
“Well, don’t think about having it mailed to me. Aunt Penny, although she’s not officially a parent, would instantly call my ‘unit’ if anything weird came for me in the mail.”
“I know, I know. Maybe there’s a way to go to Louisville, to some New Age-y shop or something?”
“Oh, right. Let’s tell your mom and my aunt that we need to go downtown to get a—what’s it called?”
“A Lasa—or a Lares. See—here’s a picture in The Book.”
“Well, whatever—that’s not happening and you know it. Even if we find a place in Louisville that has such an item, we’re only gonna get there if we have an iron-clad excuse.”
And that’s that. Em heads home shortly after that, and I attempt to study history for tomorrow’s quiz.
The next morning, I get a phone call from Emelia, so excited I can barely understand her. “Hill—Hillary—this is great—awesome—you won’t believe it—a Lasa thingy in Jeffersontown—and an email…”
“Whoa, whoa—slow down, girl—someone emailed you about a Lasa? How is that possible?”
“No—I’m sorry—here’s the story: I found a place that sells spiritual statues, including Lasas, and it’s in Jeffersontown. And—here’s the totes amazing part—we got the Creative Writing Club email from Ms. S.—guess where the conference is?”
“No way! Jeffersontown High School? Anywhere near the store you found?”
Emelia rushes on, “I’m way ahead of ya, my friend. The store is called Moon Struck, and it is—you ready for this?—within walking distance from the conference. All we have to do now is…”
I interrupt, “Sneak out. Easier said than done.”
Em sounds a bit wounded. “I know—but there’s gotta be a way. We’re smart women—we’ll think of something. How about a little more gratitude for my groundwork, huh?”
“Of course, Em—I’m sorry. You’re the best, really. Let me go look at the email from Ms. S. and explore the Moon Struck website. Talk to you later at lunch.”
“Okay, Hill. Later.”
* * * *
It turns out that Emelia was on point with this mission. We can make it happen if we’re clever and careful. I tell Em as much at lunch. Luckily, Charity isn’t at school today, and Dax is nowhere in sight.
“Here’s what we do—I’ve given this some deep thought.”
Em is busy removing the unwanted items from her sandwich: pickles and tomatoes. “What? What are you talking about?”
“The conference. The bookstore. My Lasa Shrine.” I take a big bite of my own sandwich and wait.
“Of course. I didn’t forget. It’s important. What’s your idea?” I can tell Em has been obsessing about Taylor again.
“I need you, Em. Stay with me.” And I touch her hand just briefly.
“I know, Hill. Tell me.”
Dax walks up to our picnic table just as I start to explain. “Hey, witches. I mean, ladies.” And he gives a ridiculous and annoying giggle.
“Dude, we need to talk. Alone,” Em says. I look at Emelia. I’m thinking maybe we should tell Dax—just in case something goes wrong. After all, he did keep his mouth shut about the spell thing. Maybe we should just trust the kid.
“Sit, Dax,” I say. Em looks surprised. “We have something going on, and we could use a friendly ear.”
Dax looks like I just gave him a million bucks. He really doesn’t have any friends, and I know how that feels.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” says Emelia. “Hillary needs something for her practice. As a witch, I mean. Never mind what.”
“Oh, please—not this again,” Dax complains. He rolls his eyes in frustration. What happened to the enthusiasm he had just a moment ago?
“Yes, this again. It’s important. Do you want to know about it or not?”
“Sure,” he answers. “Just don’t drag me into anything that gets me in trouble.”
“Don’t worry. You’re not actually being asked to do anything. Em and I are just trying to figure out how to accomplish this mission, and maybe you would have a fresh idea. We’re stuck.”
He remains quiet this time, listening.
“Okay,” I go on, “We found a place that sells—this thing I need to buy. It’s a bookstore in Jeffersontown. The Creative Writing group is going to a conference right down the street from that store. We need to figure out how to sneak out and then back in. And that’s all.”
Em and I eat in silence, waiting for Dax to think it over. Other students walk by our table, but no one stops to bother us. Finally, Dax speaks up.
“Will you both be in the same place at the conference? The same room?”
“No—Em’s in the Poetry Workshop, and I’m Creative Non-fiction. I assume they’re in two separate places. From what Ms. S. told us, the moderators give us the rules and a writing prompt, and then everyone has a specified amount of time to write and revise. I think it’s a pretty long time.”
Em adds, “But we have to stay in that room—with the moderator.”
“No prob,” Dax assures us, “just say you have to use the ladies’ room. Have some extra paper in your book bags. Think of an idea while you’re walking to the boo
kstore. Find someplace to sit and scribble it down, then come back as fast as you can and say you got lost. It’s a big school, all the hallways look alike…”
“Why can’t we write something ahead of time?” asks Emelia.
“Because, Stupid, you won’t know what the topic is,” says Dax.
I reply, “We aren’t stupid, thank you very much. But you have a point.”
Suddenly, Em sits up straighter, popping her last bite of sandwich into her mouth with a flourish. “I’ve got it! We do write something ahead—or plural somethings—try to think of the usual stuff teachers give as prompts. I’ve probably had every prompt possible. Each of us write up three or four ideas before we go, fold ‘em up really tiny, and hide the papers in our pockets in case they take our book bags. Then, when we get the actual prompts, we can just revise a bit during our trip to Moon Struck and back. The conference will break for lunch, too, which gives us extra time.”
“Maybe,” I concede, “but what happens when we get back? I really don’t think the getting lost thing will fly…”
“Look,” says Emelia, “Is this thing important or not? Because I think we should just do it, and trust that the Goddess will protect us. Maybe we do get in trouble. But you said yourself you lose all your powers without a Lasa. Then what’s the point of being a witch at all?”
Chapter 12: Secret Shoppers
The day of the writing conference all the club members are at school right on time. Ms. Schell has a clipboard to keep track of all the students, and Mr. Foxx from the library has volunteered to go with us. Twenty-two people, all loading into a school bus; thankfully, it’s winter and we won’t have to sweat it out on our journey.
Hillary and I sit together as close to the back—and as far away from Deshawn, T.K., and Keisha—as possible. Calen and another guy are sitting behind us. Calen seems like a nice kid, but I haven’t been very friendly with him because I want to avoid the “gay association.” I know that’s mean, but a girl has to look out for herself.
Hillary and I each have several responses to common writing prompts written out and folded in our pockets. We also have with us walking directions from the school in Jeffersontown to Moon Struck Books, and our cell phones. Dax offered to be our “home contact” by leaving his phone on vibrate and keeping it with him all day. Hopefully, we won’t need him.
The bus ride only takes about half an hour. As the bus pulls up to the high school, Hillary turns to me with a look of near-panic on her face.
“I swear, Em, if something goes wrong, I’ll be in so much trouble with Pop.”
I immediately put my hand over her mouth, looking around at our fellow writers. “Shush! Everything’s fine. And there are other people listening.”
Hill nods with my hand still on her mouth. I let her go, and we gather our stuff and follow Ms. Schell and Mr. Foxx into the building. The conference is apparently a big deal. There are groups from all over Western Kentucky, even a few private schools.
Ms. Schell checks us in at the Head Table, returning to the group with name badges and instruction booklets for everyone.
“Okay, kiddos, here’s the story,” she announces. “First, we have an orientation in the auditorium all together. Then, the various genres will go to their assigned rooms with a group leader and a moderator.”
Hill and I trade looks: two adults to sneak past instead of one.
“We have to leave book bags in their library—don’t worry, they’ll be safe—each writer gets ten sheets of lined paper, three pencils, and scrap paper for notes. You will have three hours to write and lunch will be brought into the room. Each writer gets one restroom break, so use it wisely.”
I look at Hillary: more news—I hope she can remember what we decided about coordinating the bathroom breaks. We might make at least the escape part work.
“Okay, Butler writers, let’s head to the library and then the auditorium. Try to stay together and listen to directions! Oh, and have fun.” Ms. Schell looks like she’s already having fun; I guess teachers like days off from routine, too.
In the auditorium, the noise is deafening: a veritable cacophony of teenage voices. Hillary and I decide to stick with Calen and his friend, and then we see Mimi Chesney motioning us to her row. Okay, so far so good. Some middle-aged guy with a reddish beard and mustache goes to the podium on stage and opens the conference with a speech that pretty much everyone but the adults seems to tune out. Must be the principal or head of the English Department. After that, a short, plump woman comes to the podium wearing hippie-looking clothes and a huge pendant. It looks like a goddess symbol from here—I nudge Hillary to check her out, and Hill gives me a thumbs-up. This woman gives us the actual directions we need for finding our rooms and repeats the part about the paper and pencil allotment. Now we’re ready: Operation Lasa may begin.
Hillary and I soon discover that the Poetry and CNF rooms are just down the hall from one another, and share the same hallway restroom. Woot! That’s a help.
It’s now 11:00 A.M. Hill mouths at me before she disappears among her group. “Eleven forty-five.”
“Got it,” I mouth back. And then I get sucked up into the poetry crowd, and we’re each on our own.
In the poetry room, I see T.K., Calen, and three other kids from Butler. I immediately grab the seat closest to the door and settle in. It takes about fifteen minutes for the group leader to give us directions, and I fidget around in my seat, patting my pockets to make sure I have my “cheat poems.” Finally, we get the prompts: a series of poems focused on the five senses, a narrative poem of a hundred lines or less, and a poem in a traditional form. I feel like doing a freakin’ happy dance! In preparation, I wrote five sensory poems, two narratives, a villanelle, and a sonnet. I’m golden! I just hope Hill planned as well as I did.
She didn’t. I shouldn’t be surprised—I should’ve helped her. She’s new to the whole idea of writing for pleasure outside of the classroom. When I meet her in the ladies room, she shows me what she has in her pockets. I won’t go into needless detail, but the prompts her group got are nowhere even close to the stuff she’s written ahead of time.
“Look, Emelia—I don’t care that much. I wasn’t expecting to get an award or anything. And if I get in trouble, like you said before, what were my choices? I need the Lasa Shrine. We have a way to get what I need. Period.”
“Okay. I guess. But I’m still hoping to pull this off without a call to Florida. And it would be awesome to get an award…”
By this time, we’re headed out of the bathroom and toward the front door, having removed our conference nametags to blend in. Hill has the directions to Moon Struck, and we stop on the sidewalk outside to consult the paper.
“Looks simple enough. Just down this street and across one small side street. Piece of cake,” Hillary assures me. I think she’s trying to reassure herself as much as me.
While we stand there checking the map, I have this weird feeling that someone’s watching us; not like a teacher or other kids, but something more…strange. There’s a think growth of tangled, ancient-looking foliage at the edge of the school property, in front of the football practice field. I take a few steps in that direction, because it just feels like something’s alive in there. Maybe a hurt dog or other animal.
“Hillary, I know it’s probably just nerves, but…do you hear anything over here? Or, like, feel something weird?”
Hillary doesn’t even bother to come over, but instead makes a face and motions me back to the sidewalk. “Emelia, stop it. We don’t have time for weird feelings. It’s just nerves, like you said. Come on!” And she motions again.
I shake my head to clear it, convincing myself that it’s nothing. We are indeed on a tight time schedule, and we should get going.
“Let’s just get there and back as fast as we can,” says Hillary. “Here, I brought us each a granola bar ‘cause I knew we would miss the lunch.”
“Good thinking, thanks.” And we begin the hike. It’s a bit cold, bu
t no snow, and the neighborhood is beautiful. Just the walk alone is almost worth the risk. Huge trees arch over the sidewalks and the houses are gorgeous. I wish we could come back and see this street in spring…
Before we know it, we come to the side road Hill mentioned. The book store is just down the street; I’m guessing the store must’ve once been a house, because this is mostly a residential area.
“There it is! Moon Struck Books—come on, Em.” Hillary hurries up the concrete steps and into a pale yellow building with all kinds of notices taped onto the door; Moon Struck must be a hub for info on New Age type events. As long as they have a Lasa, I really don’t care what else they’re selling…
A bell tinkles as Hillary pushes open the door. The light inside is dim, and there’s a smell of incense. I can tell the building was indeed once a house, as there are several small rooms going off in various directions. The only person in sight is a girl with long black braids all over her head who looks to be about eleven or twelve. Why isn’t she in school? And where’s the owner, or at least an adult salesperson?
“Hi, I’m Nokomis—can I help you?” This from the flower child behind the counter. Hillary and I both turn in surprise.
“Uhh, no—I mean, I don’t know.” Hillary sounds like we came in by accident.
“Sure, you can help,” I offer. “We’re looking for a certain kind of statue. A Lasa—or Lares?”
Nokomis looks mystified by this request. “Just a sec; I’ll have to get my grandma, she’s the expert on Wiccan items,” said as if this child could possibly be an expert on anything.
“Great! We’ll just look around until she comes.”
The girl seems put out by our lack of faith in her. I look at Hill and we both suppress a laugh.
Luckily, Nokomis’ grandma comes out from the back room in only a few minutes—I can feel the time ticking away while we’re gone from the conference. Immediately, I can see where the kid gets her fashion advice. This woman must’ve been an actual hippie; I think she was probably at Woodstock itself. But she’s smiling at us, and looks totally cool about our request.
Buried Secrets Page 5
