Witch Ways

by Tate, Kristy

  “Wait! Are you telling me Lauren Silver was a witch, too?”

  Mom chuckled. “Well, that all depends on how you define the term, doesn’t it?”

  “Not funny. None of this is funny.”

  “I promise you’ll think it is in a few years.” She paused. “Now, I need you to do something. It won’t be easy, but you know you have to do it. If you can’t do it alone, take Mitch with you. He loves you.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too. That’s why you need to put on your shoes, march over to the Hendersons’ and tell them—and the police—what really happened tonight.”

  “But what if the guy says I burned him?”

  “Not going to happen, because it never did happen. It was just in your head. But let’s imagine it did, and he’s stupid enough to say something about it. Who’s going to believe him? Your side of the story is the only one anyone is going to believe, especially if Josh is there to back you up. Now, go. And call me back as soon as you’re done. I want to hear how it went.”

  Ten minutes later, a sleepy Uncle Mitch and I stood on the Hendersons’ doorstep.

  Bree pulled open the door. “What are you doing here?” She glared at us.

  I swallowed. “Is Josh here?”

  Mr. Henderson wandered past the door, caught sight of us and joined us outside on the porch, closing the door on a curious Bree.

  Uncle Mitch put his hand on my shoulder. “Evie has something to tell you.”

  I sniffed.

  “Go ahead, Evie,” Uncle Mitch urged.

  “Did Josh tell you what happened tonight in the woods?”

  Mr. Henderson nodded at me, confusion in his expression—which meant that Josh had kept his word.

  “There’s more to the story. I was there. That man grabbed me.” I really didn’t want Mr. Henderson and Uncle Mitch to see my bra, but I knew they needed to know what happened, so I opened my sweatshirt to show him my ripped blouse.

  Mr. Henderson sunk into one of the three rocking chairs on the porch. “This changes things. When Josh and I went back looking for the man, we couldn’t find him.” Mr. Henderson looked up at me. “We have to tell the police. Do you think you could describe him?” He motioned for me to sit beside him.

  Uncle Mitch remained standing, radiating a protective anger.

  “I’m not sure. He fell face first, so I never got a good look at his face.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” Mr. Henderson asked.

  “I was scared. And I didn’t want anyone to think it was somehow my fault.”

  “Your fault?” Uncle Mitch exploded. “How could it have been your fault?”

  I thought about how I repeatedly beat him with my stick, and tears filled my eyes.

  “Obviously, the entire incident was extremely traumatic,” Uncle Mitch said. “She hesitated, but she’s here now to tell what really happened, and she wants to cooperate with the police so they can find this man.”

  I nodded.

  Mr. Henderson stood, pulled open the door and bellowed out Josh’s name.

  Moments later, Josh stood on the porch. He had put on an UConn sweatshirt, but he still wore the sweat pants.

  “We’re going to go and tell the police what happened tonight,” Mr. Henderson said. “Grab my keys. We’ll take the van.”

  #

  The next morning my phone buzzed with a text from Bree.

  “What were you doing in the woods with Josh?”

  I looked at my clock. Six o’clock in the morning, two hours before school started. I groaned, rolled over, closed my eyes, and considered turning off my phone. Last night had been a really long night. I hoped Bree would go back to sleep.

  The phone buzzed again with a long string of question marks.

  Giving up, I sat up and replied.

  “Nothing.”

  “Does Dylan know about the nothing?”

  I thought about this and came to a decision that had nothing to do with Bree. She might think that it would, but I knew my heart.

  “I don’t care if he does. I don’t like Dylan.”

  The response was immediate.

  “YOU DON’T LIKE DYLAN FOX?!”

  “No.”

  “How can you NOT like Dylan Fox?”

  I thought about writing because his mother is a witch and thinks I am, too, and frankly, I’m not interested in being a witch, because only creepy and wacky people want to be witches. But instead I typed out, “Chemistry. Our pheromones don’t speak the same language.”

  “Dang. Does this have anything to do with my brother?”

  “NO!” I tossed the phone down and climbed from the bed, nearly stepping first on Scratch and then Amber.

  Bree wasn’t the only one who had a hard time believing I wasn’t interested in Dylan Fox.

  When I got to school, I found him leaning against my locker.

  “What happened to you yesterday?”

  Somehow, he made Despaign’s dismal gray uniforms sexy. And he smelled good—a mixture of soap and something earthy.

  I needed him to move so I could put my bag away and get my science book, but with his shoulder resting on my locker and a small frown on his face, he looked like he had no intention of going anywhere anytime soon.

  I steeled myself for a confrontational conversation. Leaning forward so we couldn’t be overheard, I said, “All the witch talk was spooking me out.”

  He laughed so hard he shifted off my locker, and rocked back on his heels.

  I swooped in, ignoring him, and rolled through my combination. He was still laughing after I’d deposited my bag and picked up my science notebook. Hugging my books to my chest, I stalked away as the first bell rang.

  He caught up to me, and took my arm. “Hey wait, you’re serious.”

  “Yeah. I’m not a fan of the occult.” I glanced up and down the crowded hall, making sure no one was listening. The other students rushed by, hurrying to beat the tardy bell. I pulled my arm out of his grasp.

  He leaned down so our noses nearly touched, and his eyes met mine. “You better get used to it fast.”

  “Why? So I can watch horror movies? So I can collect bat wings and frog legs and cast spells? No thanks.”

  He pulled away from me as if I’d slapped him. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  “No—and you know what? I don’t want to get it.” I turned away, headed for the science lab—a place where logic reigned and equations had indisputable outcomes.

  Dylan skipped ahead of me and blocked my path. Walking backward, he faced me. “We can talk about this at lunch.”

  “No. I think you should stay on your side of the cafeteria, in the senior stratosphere, and I’ll hang in the sophomore splash zone where people are more normal.”

  “You think I’m not normal?” I could tell he wanted to laugh. “And you think you are?”

  I pushed his chest, making him skitter backward and bump into a cluster of freshmen girls. While they twittered and giggled and he apologized, I ducked into the science room and chose a desk in the far corner minutes before the tardy bell rang.

  I avoided the cafeteria, and spent my lunch break in the library. Deciding to work on my newspaper article, I began to wonder about Hugh Thornhill. Sitting down at a computer, I typed his name into a people search program. I found lots of Hugh Thornhills, but none of them were in Alaska.

  Of course, that meant nothing. He could have moved a hundred times in the past twenty years. What about his parents, or his family? Could they still live in town? I found lots of Thornhills mentioned in the archives of the Woodinville Observer, but sadly, Hugh was the last of the family. He had been an only child of an only child, and unless he’d created his own family, the Thornhills of Woodinville no longer existed. For a reason I couldn’t pinpoint, this made me sad and more than a little depressed.

  Remembering how Dylan had told me that some of the Thornhills’ things were still in the theater, I decided to drop by the theater aft
er school and snoop around the attic and spare rooms.

  I climbed onto the bus, trying to avoid Dylan. I knew it was stupid, and that I couldn’t avoid him for the rest of my life, but maybe if I played hard to find he’d take the hint. Taking a seat next to Ryan, I slunk low, even though I knew Dylan wouldn’t follow me onto the bus.

  Ryan and I compared notes for our upcoming history test until we came to the stop in the center of town.

  The Thornhill Theater sat on a couple of acres a few blocks from the town green. Memories of Dylan’s kiss flashed in my mind, but I dismissed them. I absolutely couldn’t be with someone who believed in witches. What would Uncle Mitch say?

  As I climbed the wide steps leading to the double doors, I tried to imagine a conversation between my uncle and Dylan—which was pretty hard. Although, I had a really good idea of what Uncle Mitch would say after such a conversation. He’d use the M word and all of its synonyms, like hooey, bunkum, and twaddle.

  To my surprise, the doors were unlocked. I stepped into the foyer, my footsteps echoing. I tried to imagine the theater as the Thornhill family home with its cavernous rooms, sweeping double staircase and three story ceilings. My heart ached for the little boy that Hugh must have been, growing up all alone in the ginormous house.

  Which made me wonder. Was I really sad about Hugh and his family, or did my sadness come from something closer to my own situation? In the past few weeks, I had been accused of burning down the science room, been expelled from the only school I’d ever attended, started a new school, met a secret grandmother who claimed to be a witch, lost my best friend, blown off a hot guy who wanted to be my boyfriend, fought off an attacker . . . And what if Uncle Mitch married Janette? Did I want to live with two honeymooners? No. It was bad enough just watching them kiss.

  It was all too much too soon.

  What was it Janette said we need to do as actors—center ourselves? In my head I heard Uncle Mitch muttering his M word and its synonyms. But then I also heard Janette, “You need a reference point, a place to come back to when life and emotions and stress push you off balance.”

  Was I off balance? Remembering Janette’s relaxation exercises, I inhaled through my nose and counted to eight before I exhaled.

  “Evelynn?”

  I jumped, swallowed the rest of my breath, and turned to find Andrea staring at me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Frowning at me, she looked different without her Glinda costume, still tall and beautiful, but less polished. Dirty smudges stained her hands, shirt and jeans.

  “I’m writing an article on the history of the Thornhill Theater. Dylan Fox—his dad’s investment firm owns the theater—told me that some of the Thornhills’ things are still around.” I shrugged. “I thought I’d see if there was anything I could use in my article.”

  She balled her hands into fists and placed them on her hips. “Seriously? You thought you could barge in here and snoop?”

  “Well . . . it’s not like they live here anymore or anything.” I blinked at her, trying to read her anger. “Hey, did you know Hugh? Maybe you could tell me about him.”

  When she narrowed her eyes at me, my confidence wavered.

  “Or his family,” I added, quietly.

  “What makes you think I knew him?”

  I pointed a shaky finger at a picture on the wall. “Didn’t you say that you were a part of the Thornhill Thespians back in the eighties?”

  “No, I did not.” Andrea laughed, but it sounded more like a gurgle than a giggle. “Why would you think that?”

  “I’m not sure.” Some memory I couldn’t place niggled at the back of my mind. I shrugged it away. “Do you mind if I look around?”

  Andrea folded her arms across her chest. “Well, the thing is, I’m not even supposed to be here.”

  “So why are you?”

  “As an actor, it helps tremendously to soak in my surroundings before a performance.”

  I opened my mouth to say we were still weeks away from a performance, but an opening door interrupted me.

  “Evie?” Dylan. Had he followed me?

  “Dylan?”

  Relief flooded his face. “I’m glad I found you.”

  “Why were you looking for me?”

  He bit his lip, as if he didn’t know what to say, as if he wasn’t used to girls questioning him. After an awkward moment, he said, “I wasn’t really looking for you. Finding you was just a lucky break. My dad asked me to stop by and check on the contractors.”

  “No contractors,” Andrea said.

  “No?” Dylan asked. “I guess that makes my job easier.” He flipped his keys in his hand. “Want a ride home?” he asked me.

  I balked. “I really wanted to see if I could find out something about the Thornhills.”

  “It’s not a good idea for you to be here alone,” Andrea said.

  “She wouldn’t be alone, she’d be with me,” Dylan said.

  “She can’t just poke around—” Andrea began.

  Dylan turned to me and flashed his devastating smile. “I’ll get permission from my dad. I’m pretty sure he won’t mind.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  Dylan’s smile wavered. “At the moment, he’s on an airplane—that’s why he sent me. We can’t call him for a few hours. But how about tomorrow? We could come after school.”

  I inhaled and exhaled, wondering about how to find my center. I didn’t really want to spend any more time with Dylan. Looking at Andrea and her scowl, I asked, “Can you just take me home?”

  #

  As soon as I got in the car, Dylan started. “Why are you avoiding me?”

  I sighed and looked out the window. He reached over and trailed his finger down my arm.

  “Look, maybe the whole witch thing is overwhelming if you haven’t grown up with it. I should have been sensitive.”

  When I didn’t answer, he continued, “Is it witchcraft, or is it me?”

  “Both,” I said, staring straight ahead.

  He chuckled, and for some reason, that just made me angrier.

  “I’m not interested in witches, and if you are, then I can’t be interested in you, either.”

  He put the key in the ignition and the car roared to life. “So, you’re a bigot?” The laughter in his voice softened his words.

  “What?”

  “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? Given your heritage.”

  “My heritage? My family came to the United States from England back in the seventeen hundreds.”

  Dylan shrugged. “So?”

  “So, as far as I know no one was burned at the stake. No one flew over on batwings from Transylvania. No one ever ran with a pack of wolves. We’re not even particularly hairy. Everyone can eat garlic.” I was aware that I was babbling, sounding crazy, although maybe not as crazy as him. “Take me home! Start this car!”

  “Just a minute, Evie,” Dylan said, holding up his finger and using a calm, patient voice.

  “No! Take me home!”

  “Calm down. I want to make sure Andrea Markham leaves.”

  I sniffed. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Why is she here? I wonder if my dad knows.” He glanced at me. “Do you think I should call my mom and tell her?”

  “What would she do?”

  Dylan’s looked back at the theater. “I’m not sure—probably not much. She’s in court today.”

  “Then don’t bug her. Andrea was just trying to get her star-power on.”

  He smiled. “Star-power, what’s that?”

  “It’s something Janette says before a rehearsal. Get your star power on. I guess it’s like getting your groove or mojo.”

  Dylan put the car in drive, smiled at me, and pulled out of the parking lot. We didn’t speak until he pulled into my drive.

  “You might not see it now, but you will,” he said. “You belong with me.”

  “No, I do not.” My simmering anger flared. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

  “No
t true,” Dylan said. “As humans, we all belong to each other. We fit. We’re connected just because we’re alive.”

  “It’s a big planet. And I’m just one person. I can get lost pretty easily.”

  “You can, but you won’t.”

  I slammed out the door.

  #

  All through the next rehearsal, I felt Bree’s hostility. Dylan sat beside her in the dark auditorium, his gaze as steady, although a lot harder to read. Sometimes I thought I saw Bree’s lips moving along with my lines. I wondered why she didn’t try to talk to Dylan. Bree looked about as happy as Scratch after a day at the groomer, and Dylan looked love-sick.

  Mrs. Olson sat behind the piano, her hands resting on the keys. She plucked out the opening bars—my cue.

  The music stopped—Mrs. Olson’s way of telling me I’d missed the entrance.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Apologies aren’t going to get you over the rainbow,” Mrs. Olson informed me with a scowl.

  Janette stood. “I have an idea. Evie, try turning around.”

  “Huh?”

  Janette swirled her finger in the air. “Face the back wall.”

  Did this help? I no longer faced Bree’s laser eyes, but I did feel them boring into my back.

  “Take a few deep breaths,” Janette continued, “and pretend you’re at home in the shower.”

  Mrs. Olson replayed the opening bars of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and this time I hit the right notes at the right time. My voice, warbly at first, gained strength and confidence and by the time I reached the chorus, my throat opened up and I forgot about Bree, Dylan, the Munchkins and all the other Oz creatures and nearly drowned out the piano.

  Flushed, I turned around to applause. Bree looked slightly less mean, Dylan more obsessed, and Janette pleased. In the very back of the room, Josh leaned against the doorframe, his expression almost sad. For a moment, I wondered what bothered him, but Janette dragged my attention back to the rehearsal.

  “Everyone else, hang loose while I help Evie with her song. Andrea, why don’t you help Lenny with his free fall? Munchkins and monkeys, do your noisy thing.” Bouncing up the stairs, Janette came on the stage and took me by the shoulders.