Something like Voodoo

by Rebecca Hamilton

  CONTENT

  * * *

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Titlepage

  Copyright

  1. Emily Bishop Is a Liar

  2. Don’t Let The It Girls Get To You

  3. It’s Complicated

  4. Marked

  5. Promise You Won’t Go to the Asylum

  6. Made in Chine

  7. First Kiss

  8. Founded 1848

  9. 99 Red Balloons

  10. You’re Scaring Me

  11. What did Noah Do to Sarah?

  12. We All Fall

  13. Oxygen

  14. The Salem Witch Trials

  15. Hunger of the Pine

  16. It’s Not a Birthmark

  17. A Charitable Event

  18. The Death of a Witch

  19. Spellbound for Life

  20. Dad’s Secret

  21. Ghost Girl

  22. Life and Death

  23. Voodoo Isn’t Politically Correct

  24. I Put a Spell on You

  25. A Deal is a Deal

  26. We All Lie

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  A teen girl with the ability to predict deaths through her drawings shouldn't need to lie constantly to make her life sound interesting. But that doesn’t stop Emily from spinning stories faster than she can keep up.

  After transferring to a new school, Emily’s ‘dull’ life is shaken by the appearance of a boy who seems unfazed by her far-fetched stories. A too-handsome-for-his-own-good senior, Noah has some secrets of his own. He needs Emily’s special gift to save him from Sarah, queen bee of the school’s It Girls, whose own supernatural abilities have forced him into a life of silence and solitude.

  But when Emily tries to free him from Sarah's voodoo curse, things go belly up, landing Emily on Sarah’s hit list. Soon, Emily and Noah are on a collision course with the It Girls, leading to a shocking revelation that ties them together in unimaginable ways. If their powers remain unchecked, this teenage popularity contest could spell the death of them all ...

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  New York Times bestselling author Rebecca Hamilton lives in Georgia with her husband and four kids, all of whom inspire her writing. Somewhere in between using magic to disappear booboos and sorcery to heal emotional wounds, she takes to her fictional worlds to see what perilous situations her characters will find themselves in next. She has been published internationally, in three languages.

  Learn more at www.rebeccahamiltonbooks.com

  SOMETHING LIKE VOODOO

  REBECCA HAMILTON

  »be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

  Digital original edition

  »be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

  Copyright © 2016 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

  Written by Rebecca Hamilton

  Project management: Rena Roßkamp

  Cover illustration: © shutterstock/Ase, © shutterstock/Pindyurin Vasily,

  © shutterstock/Tatiana Grozetskaya, © shutterstock/robert_s and

  © shutterstock/Warut Chinsai

  Cover design: Rebecca Frank of rebeccafrank.design

  eBook-production: hanseatenSatz-bremen, Bremen

  ISBN 978-3-7325-3513-2

  www.be-ebooks.com

  1

  EMILY BISHOP IS A LIAR

  It wasn’t as though my family had ties to the mafia or anything. But I’d witnessed a crime committed by a raging psychotic with a ruthless lawyer, and that’s all it took for the U.S. Witness Security Program to move us to New Jersey. That’s right, the armpit of America. Thanks a lot, Department of Justice.

  Meanwhile, the real villain continued on with life as usual, while we were sequestered to the small town prison of Hackensack. Exit 64B, if you must know.

  You would think we were the ones who had committed a crime. Like maybe they learned about all the people who died after I drew their picture. But the psychologist hadn’t believed me, so I was off the hook on that one. To be fair, the sketch-killings had never been intentional; I never would’ve killed my own mom.

  Dad put his hand on my knee. “Ever show you what my dad used to do to me?”

  His favorite joke. If I said no, he would tickle my knee. If I said yes, he would tickle my knee.

  I nudged his hand away and stared out the window, slumping against the passenger door with my chin in my palm. “Not now, Dad.”

  “Come on, Squirrel, we’ve been through worse.”

  Like losing Mom. Not sure how he thought that would make me feel better. I took down the air freshener and gave it a whiff. Ew. Corn. Not cherry vanilla like the tag said.

  “Dad, this is stale. You never replace them. It doesn’t do anything.”

  “You’re avoiding again.” An ironic statement given I could say the same about him.

  “I’m not. And I’m not ‘Squirrel’ anymore. I’m seventeen. Why bother giving me a name you weren’t ever going to use?”

  He returned his hand to the tan leather steering wheel. Immediately, I regretted my harsh tone. The past was all he had left. All either of us had left.

  “Emily, I need you to at least try.”

  I’d looked up my birth name once, wondering what was so great about it that made everyone else in my class have it, too. Apparently, Emily had been at the top of the “most popular names” list the year I was born. In other words, “Emily” was a condition of lazy parenting.

  “This isn’t easy for either of us,” Dad said.

  I lowered my hand and turned, the back of my head still resting against the cool glass window. “I know, Dad,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m just…tired.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded. “Take a rest. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

  I couldn’t sleep, though. Instead, I killed off a bag of pretzels while I studied him from the corner of my eye, trying to reconstruct the memory of my mom by subtracting his looks from my own.

  My mousy brown hair and large mud-brown eyes came from him. I had his ears, too. Weird thing to notice, but my mom always said how lucky I was – her family had big floppy ones. The rest of me was all Mom – small sloping nose, pale lips, and paler skin. She’d been a model. Had the whole tall, waif-like figure thing going on. We’d matched in size but not stature. Still wasn’t sure how that worked out, since my Dad aced the height charts, too.

  When I grew bored, I closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep because next thing I knew, I woke to the car rolling to stop. We were off the interstate, idling at a light. I pushed my sweaty hair out of my face and snapped off the heater. When the light turned green, Dad turned onto the next street, tipping his chin toward the corner lot. “Should be right up this way.”

  Here’s the thing: I lied about the witness protection part of this story. That’s why my dad was driving and not some U.S. Marshall or whatever. In reality, I simply had an over-protective father who thought changing cities was the solution to a bullying problem at my old school. He was under the impression I would somehow be more likable in Hackensack.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Dad said when I didn’t respond.

  He slowed as we approached a pale yellow, Dutch colonial home with a dead lawn and pathetic tree in the middle of a small yard. Our new house. He’d hired a company to relocate and unpack all our
things so we could feel more at home when we arrived. Because moving into a house that was already unpacked is somehow less weird.

  “Look,” he said, pulling into the driveway. “I got you something.”

  A Toyota Corolla sat parked in front of us with a big, ugly green bow on top. Bet it came recommended on some website’s list of “Best Cars for Motherless Seventeen-Year-Old Girls.”

  Not that I was complaining, but I bet he only bought it to try to cheer me up for making me move here. And it worked, a little, though guilt knocked in my chest knowing that was all it took.

  “Are you sure you can afford it?” I asked.

  Dad grinned and handed me the keys. “Cost of living is cheaper here,” he said, which I was sure was true. Anywhere would be cheaper than Greenwich, Connecticut. “Hackensack has its perks.”

  I leaned over and hugged him tight. “Thanks, Dad.”

  We hopped out of his old Buick so I could check out the Corolla. Silver, only a year used. Better condition than Dad’s set of wheels, which made me feel worse for giving him such a hard time.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  I peeked in the windows – clean inside, that wouldn’t last long – then peered up at him. “It’s perfect.”

  About a hundred times better than my last car – the Pinto – which he told me we needed to sell before moving to pay off some debts. I should’ve known. My penchant for making things up hadn’t come from thin air.

  “Good.” He tilted his head toward the purple night sky. “We should head inside. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Right.” Kill-joy. “School.”

  “That’s why we moved here, Emily.”

  I put my hand up to stop him. “I’m not complaining!” Heaven forbid! The last thing I needed was a lecture. “Thanks again for the car, Dad. I really do love it. I should probably check in to my room now.”

  “It’s not a hotel, Em. We live here now.”

  Right. So we did.

  And he was never going to let me forget it.

  I love my Dad. I just don’t always love how good he is at being a dad. For example, I was sure he meant well with the pink bedroom walls and peace-symbol quilt and little matching lamp with tassels. I would have loved this decor when I was five. And the walls did match my pink diamond Essie nail color. But the same color painted on four walls of plaster sort of gave off a “no boy zone” vibe, which was undoubtedly what he was going for.

  I dropped my messenger bag by the door and took a few more steps into my new room. Makeovers would keep until after school tomorrow. This box did have its benefits – like the window overlooking my backyard – and the cemetery behind it. No, I wasn’t some morbid teenage freak, but I did think cemeteries were beautiful.

  Mom’s old vintage desk was set up in the room with my laptop plugged into a nearby charger, and someone had already unpacked all my clothes into my old dresser. Indeed, nothing but the car was new. Including me. So why did Dad think Hackensack was going to be any better? Did he honestly think entering senior year at a new school, mid-year, would lead to some epically amazing social phenomenon?

  I guess we would find out soon enough.

  The local high school was aptly named Hackensack High School. Dad said it was one of the top thirteen schools in America, according to Newsweek.

  I didn’t go in right away – the protection my car offered would disappear the moment I set foot on the school parking lot. Time to scope the place out – observe the faces of my future tormenters. See which girls would brave a few inches of snow in high heels. Wonder why we couldn’t have moved somewhere that at least had better weather.

  Truth was, people were going to be the same, no matter where we went. Myself included.

  I glanced at my clothes. My style was “whatever doesn’t draw attention,” which in this case accounted for my skinny jeans, brown boots, and a paisley tunic hidden under my coat.

  Now all I had to do was avoid looking lost. I studied the school map I’d printed out the night before. The guidance office would be a few steps inside the main entrance, to my right. The halls would probably be crowded with everyone returning from winter break. They would be too busy catching up with friends to notice me. Or so I hoped.

  I sighed heavily. This was it. The beginning of my next rotten school experience. Senior year, half done, and only a few more months left to survive. I would take Dad’s advice and let this be a fresh start. Mainly, I wouldn’t try to make friends this time. That never worked out well. Go to class, don’t talk to anyone, then go home. The key was avoiding eye contact. I could do that. I just needed to get out of the car.

  So I did. Boots crunching the snow, I slung my backpack over my shoulder. When I shut my car door with a little too much force, I cringed, but a slow breath resettled my nerves. Kind of. Then I focused only on the school’s main entrance. Get from here to there. That was all I had to do. Tell some lady or some man at some desk who I was and pick up my class schedule.

  Halfway there now.

  Someone shouted, “Hey,” as I walked into a solid mass.

  Ow.” I grabbed my shoulder and checked for what caused the damage.

  Apparently that mass was a person.

  “Watch where you’re going,” the person said.

  I looked up. Goosebumps prickled up my arms and neck. Staring back at me was a boy with the most intense cerulean eyes, framed by the darkest lashes. So much for avoiding eye contact.

  “I’m, uh, wow. Sorry.” I scurried past him but he gripped my arm, spinning me back again. “Whoa!” I cried out. “Listen, I said –”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. You’re new here?”

  Being new was the worst thing to be in high school. “Um, no,” I lied. “I just skip classes a lot.”

  He laughed, the anger lines that creased his forehead dissipating. “You’re that Bishop girl,” he said with a little too much fascination. Guess my reputation preceded me. “Come on, brat. I’ll show you to the office.”

  Brat? I shook it off. I heard him wrong. I mean, that would be pretty rude, right? He seemed like he wanted to help me, even though I’d totally crashed into him.

  As we walked, I made an extra effort not to look at him. Not in the eyes, anyway. It was impossible not to see some of him from the corner of my vision. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and shorts, but I bit back the urge to ask if he was cold. If he were, he would’ve worn something warmer. So I kept my mouth shut and stared at his calf muscles as he led me through the front doors into the large open hall.

  With such an athletic build, I bet he had some cheerleader girlfriend who would flip out if she saw him talking to me. I’d been here all of ten minutes and already I was making enemies.

  This school year was going to be awesome.

  Placing both hands on my shoulders, he steered me toward the main office. When he reached over my shoulder to open the door, his chest pressed against my neck, and my heart stuttered to a near stop. How often did this guy work out? For Christ’s sake, we were only in high school. What were they feeding these Hackensack boys?

  “Ask for Mrs. Clemens,” he said low in my ear. “Trust me.”

  I stepped into the office, turning around to say thanks. But he had already disappeared into the sea of students in the hall. I whirled around to face the front desk. A big bouquet of dragon lilies filled an orange vase sitting on the pea green Formica counter. The room smelled like butterscotch candies. Behind me, a wooden bench backed up against a wall of window looking out onto the hall.

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Clemens,” I said to a sour-looking lady behind the counter. Her name tag read Miss Lemont.

  The boy had given me some good advice, as this first lady didn’t seem too friendly. She stared at me, frowning. Another woman stepped away from the copy machine, her hand outstretched. �
��I’m Mrs. Clemens.”

  I returned her handshake with a hesitant smile. “Emily Bishop.”

  “Ah, yes. We were expecting you. Right this way.”

  She turned and headed down a small hall, and I followed until she stopped at a room. She went inside, but I stayed in the doorway.

  “You can come in.” She waved me in as she shuffled through some papers. “Have a seat.”

  As I did, she seated herself, scooting her chair forward with her legs tucked under a large mahogany desk. An open file sat in front of her.

  “Let’s see…Emily Bishop…” She leaned away from the paperwork then pulled her glasses up from the chain around her neck. Her eyes went wide – really wide – but she didn’t comment on what must have shocked her: my school transcript. She thumbed through the pages until a loose sheet of paper tumbled out. “Ah, there we are! Yes. They have you in all the AP classes. I hear it doesn’t make much difference. If you want, I can get you out of them.” She winked. “Finish your senior year on an easy note so you can focus on other things, like making new friends?”

  My lips twitched into what I hoped resembled a smile. Awk-ward. “Whatever you have down for me is fine.”

  Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug as she held the schedule out to me. “Here you are, then.” Reaching over the paper, she pointed with her pen at my first class. “Your homeroom is A172. Simple set up we have here,” she continued, flipping to the next page – a map – and indicating everything I needed to know with her wand of blue ink. “This is the A hall. If you go around, clockwise, you have B hall, C hall, and D hall. Anything in the hundreds is first floor, anything in the two hundreds is upstairs.”

  I swallowed and nodded. “I think I got it. Do I have a locker?”

  She flipped back to the first page and indicated the sticky note attached with locker number and combination. “A-172. Hmm, look at that! We always keep lockers in the same hall as homerooms, but yours even has the same number! That will be easy to remember.”