by Tate, Kristy
I tucked my hands in my pockets and headed for the train station. I now knew I could follow the tracks and they’d lead me to Old Barn Road. I could use the navigation on my phone if I got lost. In the dark. Alone.
No. I couldn’t worry. Wouldn’t worry.
I checked the time—10:37 p.m. I glanced back at the house. All the windows were dark. Uncle Mitch’s car was in the garage. He was in bed.
I looked over at the Hendersons’. Light blazed from the windows. I wished I could ask Bree to come with me. I thought about Josh. Would he remember picking me up from Lauren Silver’s house?
The wind cut through the trees, and pulled at my hair. I tried to keep my curls tucked into my hoodie, but they blew around my face. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the night, and I found the deserted train station. If I stayed on the tracks, at least I wouldn’t wander into a patch of poison oak, ivy, or . . . what about wolves? Or murderers?
Why would anyone kill Lauren? She looked harmless—crazy, but harmless. And from what I remembered, it didn’t look as if she owned anything worth stealing. I followed the tracks into the woods. The trees and brambles muffled any noise coming from the road or town. Leaves and twigs snapped and crunched beneath my boots.
Somewhere, a dog howled, making me wish I had brought Scratch. But he had never enjoyed walks. Even the two blocks to Hartly wore him out. But since I wasn’t a bulldog, I could walk for miles. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
A light shone through the trees.
I checked the navigation on my phone. I was close.
Somewhere, someone was listening to Maria’s favorite performer, Barry Manilow. Really? “Copacabana” on a Friday night?
Scooting around a shed, I came out on the street. I double-checked the sign. Old Barn Road. There was the porch covered with the blue tarp. I let out a long breath I didn’t know I’d been holding when I spotted the red tennis shoes on the porch.
I ducked behind a large bush, and scoped out the street—quiet, and dark. Barry had stopped singing, and the dog had stopped barking. My skin prickled along the back of my neck, warning me that I wasn’t alone. Someone nearby was watching. I looked back at Lauren’s house, and a pair of amber colored eyes met mine.
The cat.
But wait. What would happen to the cat now? Who would take care of it?
I shook myself. Not my problem, which seemed harsh, but true. After another careful look around, once I was sure no one, other than the cat, would see, I sprinted to the porch, ducked under the yellow police tape, snagged the shoes, tucked them in my jacket, and ran for home.
I stopped at the train station. I sat on the closest bench and waited for my heart to stop racing. Blood pounded in my ears as I leaned back. Relief zinged through me. I had the shoes. No one could connect me—or Court—with Lauren Silver. Leaning back, I tipped my head and gazed at the stars, thanking them. I was minutes from my bed and sleep, and . . . what was pressing against my leg?
I looked down but saw nothing. Dismissing it as phantom alarm, I stood, tied the laces of the shoes together and looped them around my neck. I zipped up my jacket so no one could see them, and headed for home.
A motor roared up behind me. Turning, I spotted Josh. He narrowed his eyes and pulled his bike next to me.
His blue eyes glared at me. “What the hell, Evie?” His breath stank like Lauren’s house. Beer—or something else? Was he drunk and mad? Just one was bad, but the two combined seemed over the top.
“What the booze, Josh?” I retorted without stopping.
He straddled his idling bike and used his feet to scoot and keep up with me. Blinking slowly, he focused on my face. “You sent my little brother onto the field?”
“I gave him a message to give to you.”
“He said you sent him on the field.”
“Believe it or not, I was trying to help.”
“Yeah. Well, next time, don’t!” He rolled beside me. “I helped you! I didn’t even ask what you were doing, or why you were hanging at that woman’s house, or—”
“Shh!” I hissed at him.
“Don’t shh me!” he yelled. “You don’t get to shh me!”
I looked up and down the deserted street. “Be quiet!” I whispered as loudly as I could.
“I will not be quiet!” he yelled.
Several dogs started barking.
“Very mature, Josh. Now look what you’ve done.” I shoved my hands into my pockets, and headed home.
Josh rolled beside me. “What are you doing out here, Evie?”
“None of your beeswax.”
He got off his bike, let it fall beside him, and stepped directly in front of me. He was huge with his football gear on, but now, inches away, he looked behemoth. Leaning forward so his nose almost touched mine, he repeated, slowly, “What are you doing out here, Evie?”
He reeked.
I resisted the urge to back away. “Josh, you aren’t going to tell anyone you saw me tonight, and you definitely aren’t going to tell anyone you picked me up on the Old Barn Road on Wednesday.”
“Why not?” He edged closer, but I stood my ground, despite his smell.
“Because if you do, I’ll tell your mom and dad you were drinking and driving.”
Josh reeled back as if I’d slapped him. He stared down at me, blinking.
“I was going to get a scholarship,” he said quietly.
“You still can,” I said with a lot more conviction than I felt.
His shoulders slumped and he sadly wagged his head, looking a lot like Scratch after a long day. “There was a talent scout there from UConn, and after the Lincoln thing, I couldn’t catch anything. The ball actually hit me in the face.”
“You mean it hit your helmet.”
“Same thing.”
“Not really. You’re not even bruised.”
“I’m bruised, Evie! My . . .” he floundered, searching for the right word, “chances are bruised.”
“You mean your ego is bruised. The season just started.” I went over to the bike, picked it up, pulled the key from the ignition and tucked it in my pocket.
“No. It’s over for me.” He reclaimed his bike, but didn’t ask for the key. He fell into step beside me, panting. “What am I going to do? I can’t spend the rest of my life at the furniture shop. I just can’t.”
I bumped him with my shoulder. “One bad game isn’t going to ruin your life or set you on a career path.”
Josh stopped in the middle of the road and looked over his shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”
“What?” I looked around and didn’t see anyone.
Josh pointed and I followed his finger to a black cat with amber eyes sitting next to my boot.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Shoo!” I hissed.
The cat didn’t flinch.
Sighing, I bent over and picked him up. He started to purr as if I had just flipped an on-switch.
“He likes you,” Josh said.
“Doesn’t matter. I can’t keep him.” I checked the little silver tag attached to his collar, but I couldn’t read it in the semidarkness. “Scratch wouldn’t like him.”
“Well, he can’t come to my house. We already have five cats. It’s like I live in a damn zoo.”
“Josh!”
“It’s true! I’m in a cage with a bunch of animals.”
I stopped and put the cat down at my feet. “What’s with you? I love your family, and I know you do, too. You’re lucky.”
“Don’t lecture me, Evie. I get enough of that at home . . . and at work.” He left me with a clear view of his backside.
I had to trot to keep up. “You don’t have to work at your dad’s store.”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
Which was code for screw you, and I knew it. And it hurt.
“Don’t be that way, Josh.”
“What way, Evie?”
Now he was emphasizing my name, which was way worse than saying whateve
r.
“Ew. I don’t like you drunk.”
He opened his mouth to say something, and I braced myself because I knew whatever it was, it was going to sting.
He closed his mouth, and silently walked away, taking his bike with him. But after about five steps, he stopped, turned, and glared at me.
“I can’t let you be out here by yourself in the dark.”
“You don’t need to babysit me.” I pointed at the cat. “Besides, I’m not alone.”
He didn’t say anything, but watched me with a tight-lipped scowl. When I caught up with him, he fell into step beside me. We didn’t speak all the way home.
I turned to him at the gate. “Thanks,” I said. “Be sure and use mouthwash. And you better do your own laundry.”
He nodded. “Next time you decide to take a walk at midnight, please don’t.”
“Night, Josh.”
“Night, Evie.” He paused. “You’re not going to tell Bree, are you?”
I shook my head. “Not this time, but probably next time for sure.”
He waited at the gate until I disappeared into the house. From my bedroom window, I watched him roll his bike into the barn, which served as the family’s garage.
#
That night, my dreams took me far away to an outdoor marketplace.
My mother chatters beside me, planning my sixteenth birthday party. An emerald colored cobra flicks his long pink tongue at me. An Indian in a shimmering robe holds the creature in a basket and beckons me closer. I try to edge away, but crates of strange colored twisted vegetables hem me in.
The heat is thick, heavy as blankets. Spices fill the air and I feel them pressing into my lungs. I struggle to breathe.
My mom moves out of my sight. The Indian man steps closer, smiling at me with a gaping, toothless mouth. He smells of turmeric, cumin, and coriander. The cobra hisses and a dog barks.
When I sat up, the black cat that had been sitting on my chest moved to the foot of my bed and gave me a reproachful stare. After twirling twice, she settled down by my feet.
“Woof! Woof!” Scratch complained and I realized the dog barking in my dream had been Scratch.
I looked from the cat to the dog, and back to the cat. “You can’t stay here,” I told her, echoing Scratch’s thoughts.
She responded with a twitch of her tail.
I flopped back against my pillows and tried to pull the comforter over my face, but the cat kneaded the blanket with her claws. Who would take care of her now that Lauren Silver was dead?
I thought about the mice and rats in Uncle Mitch’s lab. They would probably feel just as strongly as Scratch about having a cat move in. I watched her make herself comfortable on my quilt.
“Woof! Woof!”
“Evie?” Uncle Mitch knocked on my door.
When I sat up, the cat jumped off the bed, over the sill, and out the window. She watched me with reproachful eyes from a branch of the maple tree.
“Yeah?”
Uncle Mitch opened the door, and the mouth-watering aroma of Janette Starks’s apple turnovers floated in the room. “Janette is here,” he said.
No kidding.
“She said you missed your voice lesson with Mrs. Olson.”
I groaned and put my pillow over my face.
“Do you not want to play Dorothy?” Uncle Mitch asked, stepping into the room. “Because you don’t have to.”
“No, I do. Tell her I’ll be right down.”
“I think she’s counting on that.” He looked at his watch. “She said she’ll drive you to the theater in twenty minutes. Can I tell her you’ll be ready?”
I nodded, climbed from my bed, and headed for the shower.
#
The Oz cast gathered on the stage in a large semicircle surrounding Janette while she led us in our warm-up exercises.
“Place your hands on your belly,” Janette instructed, “and take three deep breaths. Feel the air fill your lungs and circulate throughout you. As you exhale, release all your worries, inhibitions, and concerns. From this moment, you are no longer yourself, but a character on the stage. Your only cares are those of the character you possess.”
I tried to be Dorothy, but not even the deep breaths could help me. Once the rehearsal began for real, I knew I really should have practiced my lines.
“You are most welcome, noble sorceress, to the land of the Munchkins.” Andrea, AKA Glinda the Good Witch, towered over me, basketball-star tall, even before she put on her silver slippers. “We are so grateful to you for having killed the Wicked Witch of the East, and for setting our people free from bondage.”*
“There must be some mistake. I haven’t killed anyone.” I remembered that line.
“Oh, but your house did.” Andrea tinkled a little laugh that didn’t match her size. “And that is, after all, the same thing!”
I stared at the empty place where the Wicked Witch of the East would be smashed by a house. I stared some more.
“She can’t do it!” Gabby called out. “She’s supposed to say, ‘The house is fallen on her, whatever shall we do!’”
“Patience, Gabby, she just got the script a few days ago,” Mrs. Henderson said.
I bit my lip, knowing for once Gabby was right. I should have been working on my lines. I parroted Gabby.
“There is nothing to be done,” Andrea said. “She was the Wicked Witch of the East and she has held all the Munchkins in bondage for many years, making them slave for her night and day. Now they are all set free and are grateful to you for the favor. Now are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”
The question stumped me. I wiggled my fingers, wondering if I wanted to be a witch at all.
“Neither,” Janette prompted from the stage’s shadowy wings. “I’m not a witch at all.”
“I’m not a witch at all,” I repeated, sounding unsure. Because witches aren’t real, right? Dad called Birdie a kook. Mom said she suffered from delusions of grandeur, and I shouldn’t listen to anything she said.
“But you must be! Only a mighty sorcerer could kill the Wicked Witch of the East.”
“Are you a Munchkin?” I asked.
“No, but I’m their friend. When they saw the Witch of the East was dead, the Munchkins sent a swift messenger to me, and I came at once. I am the Witch of the North.”
“Are you a real witch?” I asked, grateful the words were coming back to me.
“Yes, indeed. But I am a good witch.”
“But I thought all witches were wicked.”
“Oh, no, that is a great mistake.”
The recording came on and Andrea, aka Glinda, broke into song.
While I watched the Munchkins dance around me, I saw Josh slip into the back of the auditorium. Our eyes met briefly. We were conspirators—guarding each other’s secrets. He looked fine. I never would have guessed he’d been drinking, and I wondered if his mom or dad would know or figure it out. I knew if they did, Josh would have hell to pay.
Glinda and the Munchkins stopped singing and dancing. Andrea stood in front of me. “You must go to the City of Emeralds. Perhaps the Great Wizard of Oz can help you.”
I paused.
“Is he a good man?” Gabby hissed from the wings.
I huffed and broke character. “I knew that line!”
Mrs. Henderson stood up. “Josh! Take Gabby home.”
“No!” Gabby cried. “Not fair! Not cool!”
“Listen, love,” Mrs. Henderson brushed the hair out of Gabby’s face. “I need you to go home and put in a frozen pizza for the littles.”
“Not again!” Gabby stamped her feet, like an impatient horse tied to a tree. “I’m sick of frozen pizza!”
Mrs. Henderson rummaged through her purse and pulled out a few bills she shoved into Josh’s hand. “Here, stop by Little Bambino’s and pick up a pizza. Let Gabby get the sweet pig.”
I watched Josh and Gabby go, wishing I could leave with them. I knew I needed help, but I also knew a wizard wasn’t going to b
e able to help me. I didn’t know what to do. Maybe I should have just told the police about the shoes. If I was a real witch, which I wasn’t because there was no such thing, right? But if there was—and I was—maybe I could have made the shoes disappear.
But I wasn’t a witch and the shoes couldn’t disappear. Some things you have to do on your own.
How could I make them disappear? Could acid destroy them? But where would I get acid? Could I even buy acid? I couldn’t see myself walking into Woodinville Hardware and asking for it without raising some suspicion.
But maybe someone could help me. Not the police, obviously, since they already thought I’d burned down the science room. My thoughts clicked over the adults in my life, and I decided since I couldn’t use magic, and didn’t know how to use science, I’d try religion.
After the long rehearsal was over, I found Bree.
“Can I go to church with you tomorrow?” I asked Bree, my voice trembling.
#
The next morning the Hendersons’ jacked-up van rolled down my driveway. Lincoln had his face pressed up against the window, so his cheeks and lips looked like a smushed pink blob. Mrs. Henderson sat behind the wheel, while Bree, by virtue of her broken leg, rode shotgun, ousting Josh, the oldest, and therefore the most privileged when it came to seat selection, room assignments, and first pick of the watermelon slices. The rule also applied to cobs of corn, cookies, and pieces of fried chicken.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I asked Mrs. Henderson. She looked pretty in her Sunday best dress, with her hair curled and wearing makeup. I rarely saw her like this.
“Are you kidding? This is my Christian duty!”
Uncle Mitch, still wearing his striped flannel pajamas, stood on the back porch with his hands wrapped around his coffee mug. He frowned at the crowded van with its floor covered in cheerios and petrified French fries. “There isn’t room for you, Evie,” he said, obviously hoping I’d rethink my decision and return to the house and our Sunday habit of doing crossword puzzles.
