by Sarina Dorie
I pulled away. “Mom, it’s fine. There are plenty of high schools in the area. I can intern at one of them. It was just one bad school and one bad day. That’s all. They didn’t listen to me when I said I didn’t do it. It wasn’t fair, but life isn’t fair, so I have to suck it up. Only, I wish someone out there would believe me when I told them the kids were punking me.” That was the logical explanation my therapist would have approved of. It was the rational scenario my mom would believe. Too bad the principal had insisted I had been the one playing a trick on the kids.
Mom cooed and smoothed a hand over my blonde hair. “I know you didn’t do it, honey.”
“Thank you, Mom.” I was hoping I didn’t hear a silent “but” in that sentence.
“But… .”
There it was.
“Have you considered teaching might not be the career path meant for you?”
She was right, of course. I was dangerous. Unpredictable. Pretending I wasn’t a magical freak meant I was putting the people around me at risk. I didn’t want that to happen to school children—or anyone else. What if that sex-ed lesson earlier in the day had resulted in another pornado?
But the idea of giving up teaching art felt like taking a sledgehammer to my dreams.
My voice rose in panic. “I’ve always wanted to be an art teacher. How can I just abandon that? Plus, what artist can actually make money selling her art? Dad was always telling me—”I swallowed the hard lump that formed when I thought of him. “—to pick a career where I could actually make money.”
His death three years ago was still so recent it pained us both.
I suspected Mom knew the moment he’d died. It had been a sunny spring day. She’d been whisking eggs in a glass bowl, making a cheese soufflé for dinner, and dropped it on the floor. She’d looked so frazzled and lost, I’d offered to clean it up for her as she cried in the bathroom. An hour later the police had showed up and told us the news. She’d denied it when I asked her how she’d known.
They’d never caught the drunk driver who hit him. The police told us Dad died instantly.
Was it really a wonder I’d gone from one prescription medication to another? First Missy and Derrick and then my dad. I didn’t think I had caused his death, but the loss of three people I was close to in three years was a lot to get through.
Mom’s voice quivered. “God rest his soul, your father. He was a smart man, and he knew what he was talking about. But he never thought you would pick teaching as your occupation. You aren’t going to be any better off as a teacher than you were as a starving artist. There aren’t enough jobs out there for art teachers.”
“Not in this area, but that’s fine. I’m going to go to a job fair at the end of the year after I get my teaching license. I might find a job out of state.” I kicked at a watch battery on the floor.
She clucked her tongue in the way she always did that told me exactly what she was thinking. “Anytime you step into a high school, bad luck follows you.” She turned back to the pan, scooped out another serving of wet burrito, and slapped it on a plate.
“That’s not true.” Sometimes it was a middle school or elementary school.
Plus, there were plenty of times unexplained phenomena happened that weren’t at all related to schools where I worked. Like Derrick. I pushed him out of my mind. And Jason. I tried not to think about that date gone wrong either. Or Missy. I hated myself for that tornado.
Mom went on in her typically unhelpful way. “It’s your subconscious sabotaging you. You’re punishing yourself with guilt. You became a high school teacher to relive the traumas of your teenage years. Now you keep projecting those circumstances on others. Why don’t you go back to Doctor Bach?” She picked up the battery and a handful of rubber bands from the floor and placed them on the counter.
I slumped into the wobbly kitchen chair with the rabbit hole decorations. I didn’t have the energy to have this conversation right now.
I closed my eyes. “Dr. Bach wanted to pump me full of drugs. He made me feel like a freak. Every therapy session made me more depressed. I’m not going back.”
The occurrences of weird had lessened when I’d been medicated. But so had everything else. I couldn’t even paint with the drugs he gave me. I was a lifeless blob.
Her voice turned high and cracked. “Someone else then. I just worry about you, honey.”
I deflated further. “I know.” It was hard to be mad at her when her bossiness and pushiness came out of a place of love.
“After your father died, I couldn’t bear the thought of living so far away from you. That’s why I moved down here from Oregon City. But now that I’m here, I hardly ever see you.” She set plates on the table and seated herself across from me in the queen’s castle chair. “Why don’t you come over and have dinner tomorrow? I’ll make your favorite—lasagna and garlic bread. We can have cannolis for dessert.”
Satan should have taken lessons in temptation from my mother.
“I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.” I stared at the plate of cheesy heaven in front of me. I loved my mom’s cooking—everyone loved my mom’s cooking—but I couldn’t muster up the desire to feel hungry.
“Maybe we could plan on having a girls’ night instead. We can talk about a new four-year plan for you.” She blew on a forkful of burrito. “If you want to go back to school for a degree in something else, I can help you out. I’ve been saving up. And you can move back in with me to save money.”
My annoyance percolated through my veins, simmering into anger. I said through clenched teeth. “That is sweet, but I’m not getting a different degree.” I would slit my wrists before I went back to living at home. After Dad had died, she’d needed to know where I was at every minute of the day. She’d sent me text messages at midnight, warning me not to eat spinach because there had been a contamination of E. coli on Oregon farms, and every time she’d seen a news report on a school shooting in another state, it worried her that my school might have a shooting. When she saw I had a bottle of wine in my fridge, she started leaving behind AA pamphlets.
Mom pointed at me with her fork. “You know what else would be a good idea—”
“Mom, stop! You’re smothering me,” I shouted. “I had a bad day. I don’t feel like talking about this right now.”
The wounded look in her eyes speared me to the heart. I hated it when I was rude to my mom. It always left me with a sick, icky feeling in my belly. She sniffled.
I glanced up at the calendar on the wall. April twenty-first. Oh, shit. It was the anniversary of my dad’s death. I’d been so distracted by my day at work I’d forgotten about it. No wonder she’d been so high-strung. I felt even worse. I took a few calming breaths.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know this was a bad day for you.” And I wasn’t helping.
“I miss your father,” she said quietly. “You’re all I have left.”
I squeezed her hand.
She nodded at my plate. “Try your burrito. It’s a new recipe. Let me know what you think.”
Ice cream still churned unpleasantly in my gut. I forced myself to nibble on a bite of burrito even though I didn’t feel like eating. We chewed in silence. The sweet onions and tomatoes combined with the salt and savory spices, filling me with comfort. I ate another bite, savoring the sensations of warmth and calm spreading over my body. My hunger returned in full force. I didn’t know how my mom could make such a culinary masterpiece. She was a gastronomic genius.
We ate in companionable silence. The food was too good to permit conversation. Her home cooked meals were the best legal drugs ever. Afterward, Mom did the dishes as I cleaned up the mess on the kitchen floor.
“Tomorrow. Dinner at my place?” she suggested.
“Sure. That would be great.” I smiled.
I didn’t know if that was the guilt talking or complacency after eating such a good meal. I hadn’t wanted to go to her house earlier, but I couldn’t remember
why now. It was only eight o’clock, but I was drowsy and ready to go to bed. The events of the day felt faraway. My troubles felt faraway. All those guilty thoughts and worries that I was a witch seemed ridiculous now.
I wasn’t a witch.
“What do you think about me helping you find a new therapist?” Mom asked.
I shrugged. “Okay, if you want.” There was no harm in letting her look up a couple numbers. It wasn’t like I was agreeing to go. On the other hand, maybe I would go to Dr. Bach. He was such a nice man.
“We can talk about a new four-year plan for you tomorrow over dinner.” She rummaged through her purse. “Oh, and here’s a strawberry-kale smoothie I made for you.” She set the quart jar in the fridge. “It will give you so much energy. You’ll feel great.”
“Thanks.” Kale wasn’t my fave, but it was the thought that counted.
“By the way, I stopped at the pharmacy and picked up your most recent prescription.” She set a tan bottle on the chess board of the table. Next to the tiny salt and pepper shaker, it looked like a queen dominating two pawns.
Normally my mom’s controlling ways would have enraged me. I would have blustered about HIPAA and how they shouldn’t have let her refill my prescription, but I didn’t have the energy. I didn’t care. I was happy. I felt cozy and warm.
Complacent.
“Thanks, Mom, you’re the best,” I said with a spurt of enthusiasm that hadn’t been there half an hour before.
She swallowed, her smile sad. “I would do anything for you.”
If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that was guilt in her eyes. That was silly, of course. My mom hadn’t done anything worthy of feeling guilt. Probably she just felt sad because it was the anniversary of Dad’s death.
Mom hugged me good-bye and left.
I plugged my phone into the charger and retrieved the object of my shame from the cupboard. I no longer felt any sexual desire, only fatigue. For a long moment I stared at the vibrator, wondering why I had wanted to transport myself somewhere else in my wardrobe. I was an adult. It was time I let go of fanciful dreams. I washed the plastic and returned it to the bottom drawer of my wardrobe.
I popped one of the pills my mom had brought me. One of the side effects listed for this prescription was that it curbed sexual libido. Maybe it wasn’t the anti-psychotic ingredients that made it work, but the fact that I hadn’t felt aroused while taking it. If I went back to taking medicine, nothing would trigger my hallucinations. I could conquer my affliction and make sure no one got hurt. I didn’t have to give up on my dreams of being an art teacher.
I would cut magic cold-turkey. Or the idea of magic, anyway.
Yet when I heard the crinkle of paper at my door and saw the envelope shoved underneath, I couldn’t help thinking of my Hogwarts letter. At last, after a day like today, this was the invitation that would take me out of my miserable existence and place me in the magical world where I belonged. That sense of childhood wonder surged through my veins.
No one ever shoved letters under my door. It had to be something good. I leapt to my feet and ran across the ancient shag carpet that all landlords apparently thought was cool.
My optimism burst under the sharp sickle of reality. Stamped in red across the envelope were the words, “Eviction Notice.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Accidental Witch
I was staying with my mom—temporarily. I hadn’t been evicted because of anything I’d done—they’d just wanted to tear down my apartment complex and turn it into condos. Not having a steady income meant my prospects of finding a new apartment outside of student housing were about as easy as finding a Chinese restaurant without MSG. Nothing was available in student housing this time of year, so I was stuck with my mom.
I had a lot of other good things going for me. It just happened it was hard to think of any of those reasons while on haloperidol, my most recent antipsychotic medication. It tended to make me as mellow as my mom’s pot-smoking neighbors. On the plus side, I hadn’t experienced any “hallucinations” on the days I took it. Funny feelings didn’t flutter in my stomach like something was going to explode out of me. Anytime the lights flickered, the wind gusted, or I felt aroused thinking of Legolas from Lord of the Rings, I popped a pill, and everything went back to normal.
I kept the bottle in my purse at all times in case I ever found myself teaching sex education again. So far it was working. No one had died recently. I hadn’t seen anything magical. I’d gone without taking it for several days now.
May was a good month for student teaching. I interned in Eugene, at one of the nicer high schools. The classes I student taught were drawing, painting and digital photography.
On Monday morning, my mentor teacher unlocked the classroom for me before rushing off to a meeting. With a first period prep it gave me plenty of time to go over my lesson, post the information on Google Classroom, and prepare examples with time to spare. By the time I was done, I had a half hour before the next period started. I checked email on my phone for ten minutes, texting a potential client about doing stage magic and caricatures for a child’s birthday party. The sleight of hand skills I used to practice with Derrick had come in handy on more than one occasion when I’d needed to earn extra money entertaining at kiddy parties so I could make rent.
A text came in from my mom: Hon, you forgot your kale-strawberry smoothie in the fridge this morning. Do you want me to drop it off? Where are you today? At U of O or student teaching?
No thanks, I texted back. I can walk down the street and pick up a salad at lunch time.
Her message came back a second after I sent mine out. Are you sure? I have enough time before work. It’s no trouble.
Thanks anyway. I am fine.
She sent another message almost instantly. Tell me what school you’re at today.
I ignored the text and went back to checking my email. Ten minutes later, a text came in from Aunt Linda. Your mom wants to know where you are. You aren’t in my school district anymore, so I told her I didn’t know.
I couldn’t believe my mom.
Thanks, I texted back. I will text her when I’m not busy. A small lie.
If your mom is driving you bananas and you need a break, you can come stay with Uncle Trevor and me for a few days.
Bananas. I snorted at her choice of words.
She texted back. Isn’t it a little suspicious your mom offered to let you move in the day you were evicted—only hours before you found out?
I send her: What are you saying? Do you think she gazed into a crystal ball and saw my apartment was about to be turned into condos?
No, it’s just a strange coincidence. Forget I mentioned it. She probably isn’t reading your mail. Only an eccentric and obsessive mother would do that.
I laughed out loud. Aunt Linda and Uncle Trevor had the same humor as my late father.
Another text came in from Mom. Clarissa, are you teaching? Do you have a minute to call me?
In class right now. Talk later, I replied.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had thought my mom had grown more obsessive in the last month if Aunt Linda thought so too. It was uncanny how Mom had offered to let me move in with her. She’d been so … eager. I wouldn’t have put it past her to contrive a way to get my landlord to evict me. Of course, when I seriously thought about it, I chided myself for my paranoia. Why would my mom want me to get evicted? She had no reason to want her adult daughter to live at home with her.
As I sat texting, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
I pocketed my phone and went out into the hall. What compelled me to leave, I couldn’t say. The art classroom was at the end of the hall before another intersecting hallway. It was mostly empty. A girl with a bathroom pass was opening a pumpkin-orange locker embedded in the wall. The lecturing of a male teacher droned from a nearby classroom.
One of the fluorescent lights flickered at the end o
f the hall. A student rounded the corner, coming toward me. The light that had been flickering stopped, but the next light he passed under buzzed like a fly was loose inside. It went out. The next light flickered.
Every doctor always insisted I didn’t cause the lights to flicker—flickering fluorescent lights probably triggered my condition. It would have been easy to go back to that belief, but I couldn’t allow myself to.
It seemed like whenever I took my medications, drank those healthy vegetable shakes, and listened to my mom tell me how normal I was—how non-magical I was—I wasn’t happy. I didn’t feel like my true self. When Mom was around, I could buy into the belief there was no such thing as magic. Then at work it would hit me: I lived in a world of singing banana penises. I was probably the reason my students turned into toads.
Yet it took all my mental focus these days to think of magic as being real.
I stared at the student heading toward me in the hallway. I knew what it meant when I made lights flicker, but I wasn’t sure about other people. Something outside myself was happening at this moment, and it was somehow related to this student.
The teen was dressed in a baggy shirt and torn jeans. He trudged closer, carrying a bag on his back. His eyes were vacant, his face expressionless. I wondered if he was on drugs.
Something about his eyes reminded me of Missy when she’d wanted to hurt me. The night of homecoming she’d tried to strangle me with magic. If the water pipes hadn’t exploded, she might have succeeded. His eyes burned like embers, but only for a second. A chill skated down my spine.
He carried a guitar case over his shoulder. It was made from black canvas. A soft case. Whatever was inside wasn’t the shape of a guitar. The contents tugged the fabric tight across one side and poked against the fabric the wrong way. Maybe this was just my inner worrywart overpowering me, but I had a bad feeling about this kid and what was in the bag.
My suspicions intensified when the contents shifted and stretched. It moved like something alive.
I forced a smile. “Do you have a hall pass?”
