by Tate, Kristy
Dad laughed again. “Actually, I think you can put a genie back in its bottle—but let’s not tell your stepmother we talked about the Lord and genies in the same conversation. Do you want to go to a different private school? There are plenty to choose from if we leave the area.”
“That’s what I don’t get—why do I have to leave the area?”
“You. Burned. Down. A. School.” He spoke slowly and distinctly, carefully enunciating every word.
“No, I didn’t. It was just one room, not a whole school.”
“A room full of terrified students and a teacher are saying you did.”
“It doesn’t matter what they say.” I blinked back tears and the growing fear in my head and heart. I couldn’t have burned down the science lab. I would never do that. “It had to be a wacky Bunsen burner or a gas leak or . . . I don’t know. Something, but not me. Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
“I believe you, sweetie. I do. I just . . . we’re doing the best we can. Faith Despaign is a great school. We’re lucky they’ll take you, because no one else will.”
Dad looked out the window. He took my hand, and pulled me into a hug. “I don’t want you to make up your mind about Faith Despaign too quickly, though,” he said into my ear, his breath warming my skin. “Go with Beatrix tomorrow. See what you think. You can even start and if you don’t like it after a week, I’ll pull you out, and we’ll come up with a different plan. Maria said she’d be happy to homeschool you along with Bianca.”
Oh, please no. “That’s nice of her,” I said, pulling away from him. “If I can’t go to Hartly or Norfolk High, I guess Faith Despaign is my third choice.”
My dad smiled and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Just remember, it doesn’t have to be your entire career. Genies can switch bottles.”
I laughed, feeling a little better. “No, they can’t!”
“You’re right, they can’t. But you can change schools.”
#
As soon as Dad left, I ran upstairs and booted up my computer to look up Faith Despaign. A stone building with white woodwork and trim popped up. I scrolled past its awards, student population information and recommendations until I reached the history section.
Faith White Despaign Academy is named after the woman known as the Witch of Woodinville—a farmer, healer, and midwife, and the last known person convicted of witchcraft in Connecticut. Despaign’s neighbors accused her of transforming herself into a cat, damaging crops, and causing the death of livestock.
No drawings or paintings of Despaign exist, but accounts describe her as attractive, tall, and possessing a strong sense of humor and wit. Despaign grew medicinal herbs and wore trousers while working on her farm; both traits were atypical for the ladies of her era. It is speculated that this combination of clothing and good looks attracted local men and upset their wives. Despaign biographer and advocate, Cory Fowler, suggests Despaign’s neighbors may have been jealous of her, and the witchcraft tales may have been conjured up in an effort to remove her from, and subsequently gain control of her property.
Today, Faith Despaign’s property is home to Faith Despaign Academy, one of the most prestigious private schools in the state of Connecticut.
#
The next day, at 12:10 p.m., I sat on the living room sofa, waiting. Uncle Mitch sat beside me, his hands clenched in his lap. He seemed more nervous than I was.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asked for about the twelfth time.
“No, don’t be silly. I’ll be fine.”
“But I’m not sure I’ll be,” he muttered.
Mrs. Mateo wandered into the room, feather duster in her hand, caught sight of us and frowned. “Where is that woman?”
Uncle Mitch looked at his watch.
“She said she’d be here, so I’m sure she will.” Although, I couldn’t be positive—I’d met Birdie, the wanna-be witch, once and had talked to her for a grand total of maybe two minutes.
“I’ll take you myself,” Uncle Mitch said.
“No! You have a class in an hour.”
“I can miss it.” Uncle Mitch started to jiggle his leg, making the sofa bounce. If he didn’t stop soon, my woozy stomach was going to lose its insides all over the carpet.
“No you can’t,” I said, just as I heard the scrunch of tires. I bounced up to look out the window and saw Birdie’s old Cadillac coming down the driveway.
Looking old, feeble, and about as powerful and influential as a butterfly, Birdie climbed out of her car. Without bothering to knock, she let herself in the door. No self-respecting teenager wants to be caught dead in the company of a parent, let alone a grandmother with a creepy fox-fur thing with glass beady eyes and glistening fake teeth around her neck.
Birdie eyed my jeans, sweater and boots. “Is that what you’re wearing?” she asked.
I flinched. “Yes,” I said, lifting my chin. At least an animal didn’t have to die for me to get dressed.
“No. Go and put on your navy sweater dress.”
I flashed Uncle Mitch a questioning look.
He nodded.
“Chop, chop,” she said, waving her hand.
Sighing, I climbed the stairs, wondering how Birdie knew I had a navy sweater dress. Maybe she had magic all-seeing powers. Once in my room, I reached into the far corner of my closet and pulled it out. I tried to remember the last time I wore it—church with Maria? I slipped it over my head, and since it looked cute with my boots, I left them on, briefly wondering if Birdie would argue.
“You’ll find your place soon enough,” Birdie said. “No need to hurry. Now, come along. We don’t have all day.”
This seemed contradictory, but I followed her out the door and to her car.
“Let’s leave the top down, shall we?” Birdie asked after we settled in.
I had a thousand questions I wanted to ask, but because of the wind blowing in my hair and the roar of the traffic around us, I kept my questions bottled up, promising myself I’d have another opportunity.
I watched the familiar landscape pass by, but after a few minutes we turned down a road I had never even known existed. Woods, dark and deep, lined the way. The trees’ canopy hung low, and sunlight streamed through the branches and red and gold leaves. I wondered how it would look in the dead of winter when the black branches reached for the sky. A witches’ forest, I thought.
Twisting my hair around my hand, I tried to keep a hold of it, worried that by the time I reached the school, it would be wild and untamable.
Birdie didn’t seem to mind the wind tossing her silver curls about her face.
After a few quiet miles with nothing to see but woods and brambles, we turned off the road and stopped before a large wrought iron gate. Without any sort of remote that I could see, the gates rolled open. Birdie beamed at me. I tried to return it, but I was pretty sure her excitement far outweighed mine. We rounded a hill, and the school came into view.
It sat in a small valley, surrounded by hills covered in autumn’s trees. A stone mansion with white window casings and trim, it looked just a bit larger than the Hendersons’ sprawling house and a couple of hundred years older.
“This house is one of the oldest in Connecticut,” Birdie told me after she cut the car’s engine. “The stone walls are nearly two feet thick. It’s been a fort, a church, a private home, and now it’s a school.” She chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Don’t you find it ironic this once was used as a church?”
“Why would that be ironic? The pilgrims came here to escape religious persecution. This was probably one of the largest houses around. Why not meet here?”
Birdie gave me a disappointed look, slowly shook her head and climbed from the car. Slamming the door shut, she turned to me. “Your mother taught you nothing.”
I got out and placed my hands on my hips. “If you want to know the truth, I was raised by my dad and my uncle. Right now, my mom is in India, b
ut before that, she was in a country with a name I can’t pronounce and that no one has ever heard of . . . except for the people and yaks that live there, of course. I see her sometimes. She calls when she’s someplace with cell service. So, yeah, my mom hasn’t taught me much. I wanted to ask her what she remembers about this place, if she liked going here. But all the stuff I really need to know, I learned from my dad and Uncle Mitch.”
“Well! That explains so much!” Birdie slowly turned around, as if wondering what to do or where to go next. Finally, she sat on a stone bench and patted a spot beside her.
I sank slowly to her designated spot, wondering what was coming next.
“You must have a thousand questions for me.”
I bit my lip, afraid of my questions and even more afraid of the answers. Deciding to confront the elephant in the room, I blurted, “I didn’t burn down the science room.”
“Of course, you did.”
I shook my head. “No. I would never do that!”
“Not intentionally, but you still did it.” She heaved a big sigh. “This is really your mother’s fault. You have powers and you need to learn how to control them.”
“What about my mom? Do you think she has powers, too?”
Birdie made a noise that sounded a lot like Scratch grunting. “Your mother . . . such a disappointment.”
“So she doesn’t have powers.”
Birdie shook her head. “Of course she does. She just refuses to acknowledge them.” She caught my chin in her fingers and stared into my eyes. “But you listen to me. Like your mother, you can choose to ignore your powers, but doing so will only make you frustrated and bitter.” She dropped her hand and we stared at each other.
The silence stretched between us until I asked, “Is Faith Despaign a witch school?”
Birdie’s looked at the school and her expression softened as if she were caressing the stone building with her attention. “As I’m sure you are aware, we witches have a long and painful history. Even in this supposedly enlightened era, we must be ever vigilant and protect our powers from idle curiosity and those who would harm us with their jealousy.”
“Harm you?”
“The world is an evil place.”
“And . . . are . . . you a good witch?”
Birdie’s lips twitched. “Sometimes.” She pulled herself to her feet and smiled down at me. “Here’s the thing, my pet. No one is ever black or white. A true villain, just like a true hero, is a hard thing to find. People are people and witches are witches—both for good and for bad. We all make mistakes. Sometimes we try to do a good deed and it backfires. Sometimes when we set out to place a curse, it creates a blessing, and vice-a-versa.” She shrugged and gave up trying to hide her smile. “Sometimes a science room—or two—goes up in flames.”
I stayed rooted to the bench, more unsure and indecisive than ever.
“I’m here to help you.” Birdie put her finger to her lips. “Most of the students and many of the teachers here are not witches. That’s just the way of the world. We have always been a minority.”
I didn’t know if I believed Birdie, but I did know one thing. I didn’t want to ever burn anything ever again. Not even a candle.
“Come.” Birdie turned and marched down the drive and up the stone steps.
I trailed after her. I wanted to stop and read the historic marker on the porch pillar, but Birdie opened the door, and I had to hurry after her. Going to a new school was horrible, but getting lost would be a hundred times worse.
Passing through the massive wooden doors, we paused in the foyer. A circular stairway loomed in front of us. I looked up, counting the stories—three, maybe five. A fireplace tall enough to stand in to our left, curtained French doors on our right, and a hall sneaking away directly in front of us. Portraits of past headmistresses lined the walls. It wasn’t hard to imagine a pointy black hat or a green hairy wart on any of them.
“Where is everyone?” Birdie asked.
“I don’t know, class? This is a school.”
“Don’t be cheeky. Especially not with Mrs. Craig.”
“Mrs. Craig?”
“The headmistress.”
“Headmistress? I thought they only had those in Britain.”
Birdie turned her beady eyes on me. “What did you call the headmaster at Hartly?”
“Dr. Roberts. That was his name.” Just then, an amazing thing happened. Something I thought never ever would. I missed Dr. Roberts and his plastic hair and too-perfect teeth, maybe because he was the most un-witchlike person I knew.
“Forget about him.”
Could Birdie read my mind? Or was she just guessing what I was thinking?
Birdie strode to the double French doors and pushed them open. “Regina?”
A large boned woman with a mop of curly white-gold hair sat behind a massive desk. Light streamed in through stained glass windows, casting a warm glow in the small room. Shelves jammed with books, jars of odds and ends, boxes, and containers lined the walls. Regina looked up, her expression open and friendly. When she saw Birdie, she hastily climbed to her orthopedic shoe-clad feet.
“Mrs. La Faye!” She extended her hand. “We’re so pleased to have your granddaughter joining us.”
Birdie clasped Mrs. Craig’s hand briefly, before pushing me to stand before the woman.
“This is Evelynn Marston. Her education has been sadly lacking.”
“I’m a straight-A student,” I said.
Birdie continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Although, she is an incendiary.”
Was I? That word made me sound like I was a case of dynamite or a bucket of lighter fluid, which, in either case, was definitely not a compliment. “How would you like it if I called you a gas can?”
“Spunky little thing, isn’t she?” Mrs. Craig smiled at me, even though she spoke as if I wasn’t in the room.
I curled my hands into tight fists while my heart pounded in my ears. I fought to rein in my temper.
“I have her transcripts here,” Mrs. Craig said, resting her hand on a pile of papers sitting on her desk. “But they can only tell us so much.”
“Agreed,” Birdie said with a sigh. “So many things have to be discovered for oneself.”
Mrs. Craig nodded, as if Birdie had said something remarkable and profound. Turning to me, she asked, “And what do you like to do, Miss Evelynn?”
“Do?” Dr. Roberts had never asked me that before, nor had any of my previous teachers. I was supposed to do whatever they told me to do. That’s what going to school was all about, wasn’t it? The teachers told me information and later asked me to regurgitate it onto tests.
“What’s your passion, child?”
I disliked questions without answers, and I really hated being called a child.
“Well,” Mrs. Craig broke the awkward silence, “we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”
I wondered how she could be so sure. Because even with all the things Birdie had told me, even with all her pretend clairvoyance, I still preferred to believe in Uncle Mitch’s science, or even in Maria’s religion, than in Birdie’s witchcraft.
“Follow me.” Mrs. Craig stood. She reminded me of the scrawny cows at the diary outside of town—all loose limbs and knobby knees. Of course, I couldn’t see Mrs. Craig’s knees, since her shapeless dress hung to the middle of her calves, but I was pretty sure all that gray wool hid a pair of knees as big and round as grapefruits. She headed for the door. “Everyone is outside today for a pep rally. There’s a game tonight!”
Birdie and I followed her down the hall, through the doors, and down the steps.
“You have a football team?”
This place looked so prehistoric, it was hard to imagine them having sports teams. We crossed a wide lawn, taking a path down a hill. There, past a thicket of trees, stood a large stadium.
“Do you like sports, dear?” Mrs. Craig asked raising her voice to be heard above the growing din of the cheering and stomping students.
Birdie and Mrs. Craig exchanged glances.
“It’s a community theater production. My best friend’s mom is the producer.”
“And what role do you play, dear?”
“I’m a Munchkin.”
“Of course, you are,” Birdie said, shaking her head. “This is all your mom’s fault,” she added beneath her breath.
I thought about telling Birdie what Mrs. Henderson told the cast—there are no starring roles. She had even read us a Bible scripture to back up her point. I wished I could remember how it went. Something like, there are many people in the cast, but one play. And the woodsman cannot say to the Munchkin, “I don’t need you”; or the witch to Toto, “I don’t need you.” Because there was one play made up of lots of people and everyone needed everyone else.
Mrs. Craig paused by the stadium’s gate. “This will probably seem overwhelming to you now—everyone gathered together this way. But in reality, we are a small, friendly school, specializing in the arts.” She winked at me. “With your love of fire and drama, you’ll fit right in.”
Inside the stadium, cheering thundered around us as the high school band pounded out a song I didn’t recognize.
“Freshman on your left,” Mrs. Craig yelled above the clamor, pointing across the field. “Sophomores, your class, on your right.” She turned, and faced the crowd directly behind me. “Juniors and seniors to the right and left respectively.”
I turned, and there, right in front of me in the senior section, about five rows up, sat Dylan. He watched me with a warm, steady stare.
I flushed and looked away, no longer caring that Birdie had called me an incendiary, or that the bovine Mrs. Craig was the headmistress. As long as Dylan looked at me like that—I was going to like it here.
Not much else mattered.
