“Come over here, young Wiccans,” she says. “I think I have just what you want.” And in a flash, we have a five inch high object in a grayish paper bag that the hippie-woman identified as an official Lasa. Thank Goddess! Yet, it almost seems like it was too easy….
We both thank the older woman and head out the door; I’m stressing about getting our entries revised and figuring out how to get back into our sessions. Though I tried not to worry Hill, I really did want to do well in the competition.
Chapter 13: First Sight
I’m sitting on the steps in front of Moon Struck Books, waiting for the two girls to come out. I admit I followed them when they left the school; I was curious where they were going, and especially intrigued by the taller girl with the amazing-colored hair. That hair…it reminds me of the spiced tea that Tituba used to make at our ceremonies in Salem. And she felt something from me—life breathing in my hiding place—I cannot let her get away.
I hear the bell on the door sound, and I know they’re coming out. I stand and walk further away, down the sidewalk. To frighten them away is not my intention.
The shorter girl walks right past me, but the one with the hair, the one I want to meet, stops short.
“Hello,” she says. “Were you just in the store, too? I don’t remember seeing you…”
I clear my throat and find my voice. I have not spoken aloud for quite some time. “Hello. No, I was just sitting on the steps. I like this street.”
She answers just as if we are old friends, “Oh, I know! The entire neighborhood is beautiful, isn’t it? Do you go to school at Jeffersontown High? By the way, I’m Emelia.”
Now I know her name. Emelia. The other girl, the dark one, seems anxious to go; she shoves something wrapped in paper into the pocket of her trousers. They must have some important errand or task.
“Let’s go, Em,” she urges. “We’ve got to work on our writing and then get back, remember?”
Emelia turns to me. “I don’t mean to be rude, uhhh…”
“Mariah,” I supply. I decided on this name just recently when I started to consider talking to the kids at the school.
“Mariah…that’s lovely,” says Emelia. If the undead could blush, I believe I’m doing so now. “Anyway, we have something we have to do kind of right away. Do you know where we could sit and write for about twenty minutes? Not at the school.”
I think before I open my mouth. I need to be careful to use the right words. I want this girl to think I’m just another high school girl. “There’s a—place—with food—down the road on the way back to—school. It’s owned by someone named John, I think.”
Emelia laughs, but in a pleasant way. “Papa John’s! I remember seeing that, don’t you, Hillary? That should work.” And they start to walk away. What can I now say to maintain contact?
“Do you mind if I follow along? I’m walking in that direction, too.”
The one called Hillary ignores me, but Emelia answers, “Sure, that’s cool. See we’re supposed to be at this writing thing with our club from school—we go to Butler, in Shively….”
Hillary interrupts Emelia, “Em—you’re talking too much, if you know what I mean.” And then, more quietly, “We don’t even know this person.”
I touch my hair self-consciously, a long-time habit. Right now my hair is long, with the front part pulled up in a knot. I’m beginning to realize I have the wrong look for this place and time….
“That’s kind of harsh, Hill. She seems friendly, what could be the problem?”
They are still talking as if I’m not present. Even though I can be invisible to mortals when necessary, that is not what I want right now. As each minute passes, I want more and more for Emelia to notice me—to like me. I imagine touching that soft, red-gold hair…
They start down the walkway toward John’s, leaving me behind. Yet Emelia looks back, flipping her hair in an enchanting gesture, and smiles over her shoulder. Improbable though it is, I feel this girl has some part in my future. I shake my head to dismiss this crazy notion.
“Bye, Mariah. Maybe we’ll see you later. And that is a really pretty name.”
I stand speechless as they grow smaller and smaller in the distance. I cannot blame them, really; as Mr. Parris used to say in Salem Village, a wandering spirit should not be trusted. If there’s one thing I am right now it is wandering…When they are out of sight around the corner, I follow anyway. After all, I am going in the same direction, back to the school. You never know what could happen.
I watch Hillary and Emelia from Shively as they go in to eat and to write on their papers. In my experience, writing is often a bringer of trouble; these two, however, seem to be having an enjoyable time, laughing and conversing as they work. I watch through the window from the other side of the street, wondering if I will ever talk to Emelia again.
Chapter 14: Attraction and Punishment
If you ask me, this is not going well. I did get my Lasa, so I suppose I should be happy. But I have a sinking feeling that we’re about to get caught, and now Emelia seems fascinated by this strange girl we met. To me, she looks odd—she looks like trouble—and there’s a weird smell about her, almost like soil, or even blood. She gives me the creeps! But Em can’t shut up about her.
“Come on, Hillary, what do you have against Mariah? All she did was say hello and direct us to Papa John’s.” We are now almost back to the conference site. I shake my head at my best friend in frustration.
“One: she talks weird—like she doesn’t know anything about the real world. Two: she has a hair-do like something from an old-fashioned movie. And thre—”
Em interrupts me, “Hey, I thought we were the misfits, remember? Us and Dax—we should give her a chance.”
“What? We will never see this person again—and three: she smells funny.”
“Oh, get over yourself, Hill! I didn’t smell anything; maybe she has gym first period and they played basketball or something. And…did you ever hear of the internet? Facebook? How many girls named Mariah can there be living in Jeffersontown?”
We are now back where we started, on the sidewalk in front of the school, ready to sneak back into the conference. If that is possible, and if Em can get her focus back.
“Okay, okay, Mariah is marvelous, and she’s going to be the new love of your life.” At this, Em gives me a panicked look, as if everyone from Butler, plus her mom, can hear me. “Shut the fuck up, Hillary Calvano!”
I immediately regret going in this direction. “I’m sorry, Em. But I had to say something crazy to get your attention. We have to concentrate and clear our heads if we hope to save ourselves from suspension—or worse.”
I can tell she sees the wisdom in this idea. We turn back to the problem at hand, and decide to go in by separate doors to give us a better chance of at least one of us sneaking back in successfully. Em heads for the side door across from the gym. As I watch her retreating back, suddenly I hear a newly-familiar voice.
“Hello!” It’s Mariah, calling from near the entrance to the football field. “Hey, Emelia!”
Em, of course, smiles and waves. Mariah starts toward us, crossing a patch of marshy grass backed against scraggly-looking bushes. When she gets about five feet from us, I can smell again the strange animal odor that Em denies smelling.
“You’re trying to get back into the—conference—without getting caught. I am right?”
I answer before Em can say something revealing and ridiculous. “Well, Mariah, I think we can figure it out. Em and I are in this together and it might be a bad idea to involve…” I start to say a stranger, but, even though I don’t like this girl, it’s not my style to be that rude. White witches are supposed to “do no harm;” everyone knows that. So I finish my little speech with, “…a third person.”
“I didn’t mean to intrude, it’s just that I’m familiar with the building, and I might be able to help,” she says.
Just what we need. Not! And then the thought crosses my mi
nd: does she actually go to school here? If so, why isn’t she in class? If she doesn’t go to school here, why is she always appearing where we need to be? As if in answer to my question, just at that moment, the bell rings. Students pour out of every building orifice, like so many cows let out of the barn.
I check the time on my phone; we’ve been gone almost two hours. If we can get back in now, we might have a chance of getting away with our Lasa Escapade. I look over at Em. She’s staring at weirdo Mariah, mesmerized. This can’t be happening. What we don’t need is extra complications. And if I know Emelia, as soon as she gets back to Shively and her aunt’s house, with the constant threat of her mother’s weird religious interference, her internal homophobia will kick in and she will be horrified at this brush with her lesbian self.
I grab Emelia by the arm and physically drag her away. She resists for only an instant. “Em, we have to get back into our sessions. If we get caught, I’ll catch hell from my father, and you’ll have, at the very least, a distressing phone call from Florida. Let’s go—now!”
Emelia shakes herself awake as if she’s been dreaming. She looks at me and grabs onto my arm. “Yeah, Hill—thanks—let’s go.” Yet she can’t seem to totally let go. She turns to look at Mariah one more time. “Bye, Mariah. Thanks for helping. Find me on Facebook: Emelia Behrends. From Daytona.”
Mariah stands rooted to the spot, smiling like an idiot. I’d almost think she had never heard of Facebook…
By the time she speaks, we’re halfway across the yard back to the building.
“Yes, Emelia. The face book. I will find it.”
What a buffoon! But no time to waste on figuring her out; we have to make this espionage thing work. Em goes to the side door by the gym and I run around to the main door. She’s on her own now, and I just pray to Diana she can focus on the task at hand…
I get to the room where my session is held, and the door is open a crack; someone must’ve just now used their bathroom break. The hallway is full of kids changing class, and I use this to my advantage, slipping into the room amid the jostling noise. I make it back to my original seat and try to appear as if I’ve been there all along, writing.
The only problem is that I don’t have anything to turn in that’s even halfway adequate! I wonder how Em is doing, but have no way of knowing.
The class change ends, and our moderator instructs us to resume writing and finish up in the next forty-five minutes. If I were a decent writer like Emelia, I could probably pull this off. Unfortunately, I spend the allotted forty-five minutes staring at the mess I’ve already written and adding nothing but some doodles of Wiccan symbols.
Next thing I know, the moderator calls the end of the period, and everyone starts bringing their work up to her desk to turn in. She checks each paper for length as the papers come to her; all the student writers before me seem to pass inspection. I feel my newly-purchased Lasa in my pocket and hope it was worth the trouble ahead.
When I hand in my paper, crumpled and messy as it is, the moderator looks up at me with disdainful eyes. She looks for my nametag, which I realize I have forgotten to replace; I know it’s in my pocket.
“Are you part of this conference? Where is your name badge? And why is your paper so…mussed?”
I know I look like the proverbial deer in the headlights, but I absolutely have no words. Finally, I croak out, “I’m Hillary Calvano. From Butler Traditional.”
“Ms. Calvano, is this all you wrote in three hours? I’ve never seen a competitor so—unprepared.”
Well, this is one way to stand out. But not what I had hoped for at all. I have a brief thought of how disappointed Ms. Schell will be.
“I think I need to call your club sponsor. He or she needs to know about your performance here—or lack thereof.”
Shit, shit, shit! Now what can I do? And my mind answers me, Nothing.
Within five minutes, Ms. Schell enters the room, looking surprised and disappointed. I feel a twinge of guilt that I let her down. But, more than that, I worry about what the consequences will be. And should I confess, or plead the fifth?
We go out in the hall, where the moderator explains that I have almost nothing to show for my three hours of writing, that my name badge is missing in action, and that she suspects I somehow left the room for a large part of the day. Ms. Schell looks embarrassed and angry at the same time.
“Hillary? Were you out of the room longer than your allowed bathroom break? And if so, where were you?” And then the inevitable question: “Is Emelia Behrends somehow involved?”
“I don’t really have good answers to those questions, Ms. Schell. I—can’t answer.”
The moderator puts in her two cents worth. “Ms. Schell, if this young lady doesn’t give a full explanation, we’ll assume on the strength of her written work that she was, in fact, absent. You and I both know that two poorly-written paragraphs that barely even pertain to one of the prompts cannot support any other conclusion.”
Poor Ms. S. looks even more humiliated, if that’s possible. She gives a heavy sigh and turns to me. “Hillary, you know I have to agree. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me the truth? It might make it a bit lighter punishment…”
“I just can’t—I’m so sorry.”
And at that moment, the Emelia question is answered. Em and the moderator from her group, a youngish male teacher with a shaved dark head and black whiskers, come down the hall, accompanied by T.K. Narwani. Hell and damn!
“Ms. Schell? I’m Jamal Williams, the moderator from the Poetry Group. These two girls are both from your school, is that right?”
Ms. Schell just nods, obviously at the end of her tether.
“Ms. Narwani just alerted me to the fact that Ms. Behrends never returned after she left for the restroom about thirty minutes into the session. I noted that Emelia was not with us at lunch, and then just moments ago I found her in the hall during period change, trying to blend in and reenter the session. I’m afraid, even though her work looks promising, I have to disqualify her. And I think you should be concerned about where she actually was; Jeffersontown can’t take responsibility for students off campus. Or anything might have happened to her, you understand.”
Okay, T.K. has a spell coming her way when we get back to Shively. Bitch! Why do those girls pick on us so much anyway?
Ms. Schell looks like she’s about to pass out. “T.K., please go back to your session until you’re dismissed. I need to deal with Emelia and Hillary.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” T.K. says, with a smirk.
“Girls, let’s go outside to the bus and talk. Mr. Foxx can round the groups up as the sessions let out, and we’ll get your bags from the library.” Em and I follow her wordlessly, sharing a look that reflects how guilty and worried we both feel. My only comfort is the weight of my Lasa in my pocket which, thankfully, no one has noticed. On the bus, Ms. Schell lets us know how disappointed she is, and asks us again if we had left campus, and where we had been. Our teacher hates conflict even more than we do; she seems distinctly uncomfortable as a disciplinarian. I would almost think she would let the incident go, except for the fact that our principal is an absolute stickler for following rules. There is no way she would allow Ms. Schell to pardon us.
Ms. Schell knows this, too. “Well, girls, as much as I hate this, I’m going to have to report this problem to Mrs. Murphy, and you know that will almost certainly result in suspension for both of you.”
Em speaks up, “I know, Ms. Schell—don’t feel bad—we’ll take our punishment.”
“I know you will, Emelia. Let’s just get everyone together and get back to Shively.”
In the next twenty minutes, small groups of Butler kids emerge from the building and board the bus, staring at us curiously. I’m sure they’ll all find out soon enough via T.K.’s big mouth.
I sink down in my bus seat next to Em, my fellow criminal. I’m more worried about what my father will do to me at home than getting a school suspension. I’m pret
ty sure Emelia feels the same way about the punishment her mom will dole out through her intermediary, Aunt Penny. Shit!
Chapter 15: Consequences
Hillary and I indeed get three-day suspensions from Mrs. Murphy, her coffee-colored hands clenching the entire time we were in her office, except for the few minutes it took for her to call Mr. Calvano and Aunt Penny. Part of me is mad at Hill for getting me into this, while another part is consumed with thoughts about Mariah. I wish I knew her last name. My only hope is that she’ll find me on Facebook…Then again, if she doesn’t find me, I can go back to my safe and hard-won asexual persona.
Hillary’s dad comes to Mrs. Murphy’s office to take her home. He looks like he might explode with anger, the veins in his neck protruding and pulsing. Aunt Penny is a bit calmer, but I know she’s thinking about calling Mom, and the trouble we’ll both be in as a result. On the way home in the car, I’m quiet, letting Penny talk.
“Emelia, I must say I don’t understand what you were thinking. Things here were going so well; we haven’t had to talk to your mom in weeks! And you know now that we have to call her tonight.” She sighs. I do, too, but say nothing. I can’t think of anything to say that’ll help.
I silently wonder what’s happening to Hill. I have no doubt she’ll get grounded for a time, and probably have her computer confiscated. And this is likely to be my punishment, as well.
On to the phone call….
“Andrea. This is Penny. Emelia had some—trouble—today at school.”
Strained silence from Penny while Mom talks.
“Well, it seems that she and her friend Hillary…” Mom interrupts. Penny listens, a resigned look on her face.
“No, she seems like a nice girl—the Calvanos have lived here for several years. She and Em went to a conference in Jeffersontown today. With Butler’s Creative Writing Club.” More from Mom’s end.
Buried Secrets Page 6
