“I wasn’t sure it would,” she admitted.
After five minutes the screen had emptied but for a long string of 3333333333 cascading down the center.
“What do I do now?" asked Tom, sounding both awed and affronted.
“Try deleting the threes,” said Lucy, who had no idea if this would work, but thought it made sense. “You don’t want any part of it left.”
“Okay,” said Tom, and started deleting. As he worked, the number moved more slowly, and finally stopped.
“We’re almost done,” said Lucy.
“Will the room warm up when you’re finished?" asked Spencer. “This cold thing is creepy.”
“I think so,” Lucy answered. She gave her attention to Tom. “Now, enter the new sequence of numbers until the screen is filled with them, and save them.”
Tom sighed and started typing.
Aaron was tapping nervously on his cup. “You’re all ozwonked, you know?”
“Hey, Aaron, it looks like it’s working,” said Curtis.
“Yippeee,” said Aaron with heavy sarcasm.
“It really is working,” Tom declared.
“That’s — ” Whatever else Aaron had intended to say was lost as there was a quick knock on the side door, followed by a tearing of paper as the door opened, knocking over the candle and spilling the salt in the paper plate.
“Hi,” said Bruce Paxton with a leering smile. “Sorry I’m late.”
No one in the garage spoke. No one moved.
“Hey, what’d I say?" Bruce wanted to know.
Lucy stared at the overturned candle, aghast as it flickered out. Then she rose and rushed to pick it up and to move it out of harm’s way.
Bruce leaned toward. “Glad to see me?”
“No, I’m not,” she answered bluntly, and went to get a whiskbroom to take up the spilled salt. “At least come in and close the door." She could feel Bruce watching her as if his eyes left dirty fingerprints on her. She wanted to yell at him but she held her tongue.
“Bad timing, dude,” said Spencer.
“Is the screen filled?" Lucy asked Tom.
“Just about. I’ve got one more row to go." He hesitated. “Should I finish?”
“Finish and save,” said Lucy, sounding less sure of herself.
“So what’s going on here?" Bruce asked the room at large. “Why all the paper? What’re the numbers about.”
Aaron answered him. “Lucy’s doing" — he made air-quotes with one hand —
“magic. With numbers.”
“Saved,” Tom announced as he typed in file name. “And filed." He hit Enter.
“Do you think it’ll work?" Ben asked her as he went around the room to pinch out the candles and to pour the salt into the ziplock bag Lucy had provided.
She shrugged. “Most of it seems to. I think we’re okay.”
“The room’s warmer,” Gweneth said, looking around in mild surprise. She rubbed her arms and smiled.
“Yeah,” Aaron agreed. “It is." For just a second he looked frightened, but then he gave a crack of harsh laughter. “Do you think the numbers did it?”
“Or the ladies?" Bruce chimed in, winking at Lucy.
“Hey, Bruce, give it a rest,” Ben said.
“Don’t say anything,” Gweneth recommended. “You’ll only encourage him.”
“Eee-u-w,” said Lucy, and put the last of the squat candles into the plastic shopping bag.
* * *
“So, do you think the ... formula worked?" Ben asked as he went with Lucy to dispose of the salt and candles. They were almost a mile from the Foster house and the world was beginning to seem ordinary again.
“I hope so,” said Lucy; they were crossing Sagrada Familia Park, the shadow of the school that shared its name providing shade from the bright morning sun. There were a few families occupying the benches at the picnic tables; the small church attached to the school was in the middle of Mass, and some of the responses could be heard indistinctly through the open windows high in the walls.
“Did Bruce do anything to change the ... formula, coming in like that?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy admitted with a little frown.
“Well, the formula seems to have worked, in any case.”
Lucy chuckled. “You’re no more comfortable with the word spell than I am, are you?" Ben started to apologize, but Lucy cut him off. “No, I like formula. I think I’ll start using it. I’ll feel a little less medieval if I do that." She smiled at him. “Thanks for coming up with it.”
“Pleasure,” Ben said, turning dark pink. “What about Bruce?”
“I don’t know, truly, I don’t,” Lucy confessed. “But I don’t see how it could make a difference, but I really haven’t had much experience with these things — these formulas — so I can’t say for sure."
They had reached the big trash bins; Ben lifted the lid of the nearest one and Lucy dropped the bag of salt and candles into it. Ben let the lid drop, saying as it clanged down, “I sometimes feel like I’m living a game, you know? Since you explained about the ... the formulas, I can’t shake the sensation that someone, somewhere, is rolling dice and we’re the ones — ”
“Doing the action?" Lucy ventured. “Maybe so.”
“But I hope not,” Ben added as they turned and started back toward the Foster house.
Lucy gave him a long stare. “Me, too.”
17
“Hey, Lucy, what was that chill all about? It was weird-wonked, wasn’t it? Doesn’t it creep you out to think of it? Aren’t you uber-grossed?" Gweneth asked her on Wednesday as they hurried from the gym to the cafeteria; this was the first time Gweneth had broached their strange experiences on Sunday in the Foster’s garage. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“I don’t know what it was, or what causes it, but it’s happened before,” Lucy told her; she decided not to mention what had happened when she was casting a spell — she didn’t want to admit that she had cast magic spells for her own purposes, or what she had used them to get.
“And?”
Lucy shrugged. “The room got cold. I don’t know why." They were both eager for a chance to get something to eat: Lucy had been doing water-rescue all during gym, and Gweneth’s volleyball team was getting was getting ready for the state championships that would take place next week, just before finals.
“You don’t know?" Gweneth was startled. “Doesn’t it bother you? I mean, don’t you think it’s — ”
“Yeah. It does bother me. But I don’t know what to do to stop it, or even if I could stop it, whether I should." She tossed her hair to demonstrate her indifference to this predicament.
“Are you scared?" Gweneth asked as they joined the rest of the sophomores crossing the central quad, bound for the cafeteria.
“Not really, not now,” said Lucy, surprised at her answer. “I think it’s something to do with energy for the ... formula.”
“Formula. Is that what you call it?" Gweneth moved a little faster and Lucy increased her stride to keep up with her.
“Ben came up with it. I like it.”
“Better than spell, I guess — less zogged,” said Gweneth as she hurried through the open double doors. “You get a table. I’ll get in line, and we can trade guard duty when I get back.”
“Okay,” said Lucy, intercepting a glare from Alison Saunders who was near the head of the line; she sighed and tried not to be upset by this blatant display of antagonism from her old friend, though she had told Isadora at their last session that she didn’t like having to deal with so much hostility from Alison. Ever since Lucy had accepted Nate Evers’ invitation to Ditch Day, Alison had stopped talking to her, as had all the cheerleaders except Lorelai Stevenson, who had to, since they shared a table in Environmental Science. Lucy sat down and opened one of her books at random — it turned out to be Frankenstein much to her dismay — and began to read.
“The tamale pie looks poisonous; the rest of it looks okay,” said Gweneth a few min
utes later as she took the chair opposite Lucy’s. She had a wedge of lettuce with a side of dressing, a bowl of chili, a bag of tortilla chips, and a large banana-strawberry smoothie.
“Nice of them to advertise, so we’ll know,” said Lucy. She closed her book and made her way to the end of the food line. She was selecting a tray and a fork when Tricia Guzman leaned over from the pay line.
“Don’t make too much of Ditch Day, Lucy." She took her change and picked up her tray. “It doesn’t mean anything. Nate’s just having fun." With that, she flounced away to the table where Alison and Catherine waited for her.
Lucy resisted the urge to call after her, to find out what didn’t mean anything, but she faltered, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Instead she made her way along the food line — she agreed that the tamale pie looked poisonous — chose the grilled chicken thighs with salsa, picked out a fruit-flavored bottle of tea, paid, and hurried back to Gweneth.
“You coming by the Geeks any time this week?" Gweneth asked as Lucy sat down.
“Maybe on the weekend,” said Lucy.
“After Ditch Day, you mean?" Gweneth sipped on her smoothie. “You’re going to be busy before then?”
“Yeah. After Ditch Day.”
* * *
Melinda finished putting the evening dishes away and watched while Lucy ironed her favorite pair of dark-chocolate cut-offs “You said you’re wearing your olive-green top?”
It was almost eight on Thursday night. The dishes were washed and draining, the leftovers from dinner were tucked away in the refrigerator, and the house was unusually quiet.
“Yeah." Lucy continued her task; much as she disliked ironing, she wanted to look good the next morning. “And one of my athletic bras. It’ll look okay.”
“What about your hair? Are you going to wear a scarf?" Melinda actually sounded interested, which took Lucy by surprise.
“I think so. Probably the magenta one, and I’m taking my magenta tote.”
The kitchen went silent — Lucy’s father and brothers were out at the early showing of Dinosaur Rampage, even though it was a school night — and there was only the radio playing 60s and 70s rock and blues to claim their attention.
“Sandals or hiking boots?" Melinda asked.
“Hiking boots. The ranch is pretty ... ungroomed. Sandals aren’t enough."
“You’ve been there before?"
“A couple of times. Dad took us there three years ago, for the day, in July and August. We did some fishing and some hiking and swimming. The twins went on a nature walk with the naturalist, along with a lot of younger kids." She thought back to that time a little wistfully. “They had a hayride and a barbecue in the evening.”
“You enjoyed it?”
“Well, it’s in the mountains back of Aptos, in a long, curving valley with a stream running through it and a lake with rowboats and canoes, redwoods on the hills all around, a vineyard on the western slope, and a working ranch with cattle and sheep at the far end of the valley. What they call the resort part takes up about thirty acres — maybe forty. The Woodbine Ranch has a pretty setting and it’s got helpful people working there. Cosmo Bender’s been doing Ditch Days there for twenty years." She tossed her head. “I’ll have a good breakfast before I leave.”
“And you have to be gone by — ?”
“Seven. The buses leave at quarter to eight." Lucy did her best to offer a placating smile. “I can fix my own breakfast, Melinda. You’ve got enough to handle tomorrow.”
Melinda nodded slowly. “The assistant district attorney who’s prosecuting the case says that he wants his four witnesses to review their statements and to answer some more questions. There’s also going to be a lineup.”
This sounded exciting to Lucy. “A lineup? With one-way glass and everything?”
“So I gather,” said Melinda, who was plainly not looking forward to it. She gave a preoccupied sigh.
“Aren’t you excited?”
“No,” Melinda said. “Seeing someone get murdered isn’t like watching TV." She cleared her throat softly.
“I guess not,” Lucy allowed, feeling abashed for sounding so callous. “Do you know when the trial will start?" She finished her ironing and unplugged the iron, then went to the sink to drain the water remaining in the steam chamber. She tried to think of something sensible to say, to show she was really interested, unusual as that might be. “Do you think it’ll be in June?”
“Probably at the end of the summer, maybe not even then. These things move slowly, there are motions and things to be filed, and discovery to review,” Melinda said, and went to turn on the kettle for tea. “All this is assuming they’ve got the right guy, and all of us witnesses agree, and there is a slot for the trial. If we don’t, or if their evidence says they haven’t, who knows when the trial will be.”
For the first time Lucy saw the dark circles under Melinda’s eyes and realized they were the result of the coming trial and all the burdens that had fallen on her because of it. “Will it interfere with your job?" she asked, and felt like an old-fashioned dunce for such a stupid question. How could it not?
“Yes. It already has,” she said.
“But it’s for the court. Doesn’t that make a difference? Are you supposed to be given time off if you have to go to court?”
“That’s jury duty, not testifying,” said Melinda. “I’ve put in for a leave of absence, so I can keep the job. I don’t want to get fired. It means half-pay for six months, but that’s better than nothing." She took a deep breath. “They’ve agreed to hire a temp, but only for six months. If the trial drags on or doesn’t get started for a while — "
“That’s kind of hard, isn’t it?" For the first time, Lucy felt a twinge of sympathy for her stepmother. “I mean, it’s not up to you to determine when the trial starts, is it?”
“No, it isn’t, but — ” She stopped, her frown deepening. “I don’t know who’d hire me if I lose this job."
“But you’ve got good credentials, don’t you?”
“So do a lot of women looking for work, and men,” said Melinda. “These days a degree is no surety.”
“Even a master’s?" Lucy was astonished.
“Yes. Even those of us with master’s degrees in Biology aren’t bulletproof in terms of jobs. I like the one I have now, the pay is good, and so are the benefits. Working from home two days a week makes it all a lot easier." She almost succeeded in smiling before turned back to the stove as the teakettle shrilled. “Don’t borrow trouble, Lucy. There are ways to deal with my situation. So far everything looks like it’ll work out.”
In order to change the subject, Lucy remarked as she folded the ironing board down so she could put it in the laundry room closet, “We had our end-of-semester weigh-in and measuring today. I’ve grown just over an inch since last year. And gained a couple of pounds." This last admission left her feeling ill at ease, as if she were acknowledging a failure.
“So you’re — ”
“— Just over five-four. One hundred nine pounds." Lucy wasn’t certain how she felt about either of those figures.
Melinda’s face softened. “Don’t fret about any of it, you’re still changing as you grow. You’ll probably be taller this time next year. You’re fit, you’re healthy, and that’s more important than looking like some anorexic model, who probably isn’t either fit or healthy.”
“That’s what Ms. Baxter says,” Lucy told her skeptically; Ms. Baxter was the head gym teacher, who taught track, tennis, and supervised three other teachers as well as conducting the annual weigh-in and measuring. “She says that every year to every girl, or so the other teachers tell us.”
“Pay attention to her,” Melinda recommended. “You’re very pretty. Don’t doubt that.”
Lucy made a noncommittal sound. It seemed to her that her stepmother was doing what all mothers do with their teenage daughters: trying to convince her that she looked good to bolster her confidence. Last fall, a comment like that would have
made Lucy furious, now she heard Melinda out with only resignation. “Thanks,” she made herself say, too brightly.
“Do you want any tea? It’s chamomile,” Melinda said as she slipped a teabag into her cup.
“No, thanks,” said Lucy, clipping her cut-offs to her pants hanger. “I think I’ll go finish my homework so I can get to bed early. I have to leave early, remember.”
“Okay. Sleep well,” said Melinda.
As she climbed the stairs, Lucy couldn’t decide how she felt about the conversation she had just had with her stepmother. It had seemed unexpectedly pleasant, even a little artificial, but it was also comforting, a realization that confused her, and stayed with her until she turned off her light. As she drifted into sleep, she reminded herself to tell Isadora about this development at their next session.
18
Friday dawned cool and slightly overcast, wraiths of fog looming over the western hills like pale, insubstantial fingers grasping at the ridge. Lucy woke at quarter after six, did her morning stretches, showered, dressed, dug her magenta canvas tote out of her closet, put the few supplies she thought she would need into it, grabbed her sunglasses, and hurried downstairs to make breakfast, leaving her mother’s ring behind. She scrambled two eggs and stuffed them into a croissant, wolfed it down with a fruit smoothie while standing next to the stove, rushed off to brush her teeth, grabbed a couple of vitamins, and headed out of the house at nine minutes to seven.
She got to school at seven-thirty and found about twenty of her classmates there ahead of her. She looked around for someone to talk to, and saw only Kristen Conklin waiting alone on the steps, away from the cheerleaders and the artsy clique, who had dibs on bus number four.
“Lucy,” Kristen called, waving to her.
With a faint sigh, Lucy went over to her. “Hi, Kristen,” she said, trying not to notice the venomous stares the cheerleaders directed at her.
“We’re both early.”
“Yeah,” said Lucy, adjusting her tote slung over her shoulder.
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