by L. Philips
“I don’t know, that’s kind of cheating,” Landon says. We eye each other.
“I think it’s two different things.”
“I think you’re just lazy and don’t want to come up with more. Come on, Sam, this is your future you’re talking about. Don’t half-ass it.” Landon’s eyes are twinkling and I know he’s mocking me, but he’s also got a point.
“All right, all right,” I grumble. Regardless, I pull my notebook out of my bag and write it down. “Sense of humor. Got anything else? I mean, what would you want?”
Landon thinks. “I don’t know. Someone attractive. I’m shallow like that.”
I look down at my list. “I already have sexy on here. I can’t put attractive.”
“Why not? Being attractive is totally different than being sexy.”
“And yet you wouldn’t let me use sense of humor twice,” I say. “Why is it different?”
“Think about all the ugly, old rock stars that date hot models. Mick Jagger, for example. Sexy, but not attractive.”
I ponder this, humming lightly. “Okay, I can buy it. And that gives me seven. Just three more.”
“What about rich?” Landon asks. He’s halfway through his second muffin and he uses what remains to point at me. “I mean, if you can ask for anything, why not ask for a guy who can take you in his helicopter to New York for a weekend?”
Point taken, I mull it over, and oddly enough, it’s Landon that my thoughts turn to. Landon, and all the nice things in his house, the nice cars in the garage, the plethora of books in his bedroom. It’s all awesome, but like his car, he’s never had to work for any of it. He’s never had to make an effort. And because of that, he doesn’t really have any goals.
“He doesn’t have to be rich,” I conclude, inspiration hitting me. “But he does have to have ambition. I don’t want a guy who doesn’t have goals.”
Landon nods, eyes narrowing. “I like it. You’re brilliant, Sam. Just two more things now,” he says, taking my notebook from me and writing ambitious under attractive on the list. “Think, Sam. What else?”
My thoughts are picking up speed and I feel giddy, and a little lightheaded. Ha, maybe the magic is working already.
“What about fun?”
“Fun,” Landon repeats, as if the word should be so much more than it is.
“Yeah, I want to have a good time with him. He should be fun. Don’t you think?”
“I think it’s kind of lame, but we’re desperate at this point.” He gives me another smirk but adds it to the list. “One more. Let’s dig a little deeper than fun. Dream big, Raines.”
I think hard about the things I consider important in my life, things like bands I love, or writers I admire, politicians I agree with. “I want him to like the same things I like,” I tell Landon.
“Okay, so . . . you want him to have the same opinions you do?”
“No, not really. That would be boring. I just want him to have good taste. I don’t want him to think that The Hangover is a brilliant film or that pop music actually qualifies as music, you know?”
Landon’s dusty-blond brow arches. “So you want him to be an indie snob like you?”
“I want him to have taste,” I say again, as if saying it louder and slower will clarify.
“Good taste,” Landon repeats to himself as he adds it to the list, and, praise Jesus (or the Goddess, whatever), I’m done. He tears it out of my notebook and hands it to me. It’s like this:
Perfect 10
1. Sexy
2. Talented
3. Style
4. Nice eyes
5. Thick hair
6. Sense of humor
7. Attractive
8. Ambitious
9. Fun
10. Good taste
As I scan the list, I hear Landon chuckle softly. I look up. “What’s so funny?”
Landon shakes his head, eyes sparkling with humor. “It’s just that a guy with all of these things? As rare as a unicorn, my friend. I’m pretty sure it might actually require magic to find someone like that.”
“And you will be so jealous when I do.”
Landon only chuckles again. “I suppose I will. So you’re ready?”
“Yes. List is done, spell is done. Now all we need is the cemetery and a bunch of superstitious bullshit.”
Landon’s smile is devilish, and if this were two years ago, I’d have a hard time not kissing that smile. Hell, I’m having a hard time now. “And don’t forget the most important thing, Sam . . . a witch.”
Three
The witch sits across from me, gnawing on Cheez-Its, practically bouncing up and down with excitement on the cafeteria table bench. Today is the day, Friday the thirteenth, and all Meg can talk about is the positive energy in the air and how perfect the night is going to be for my spell. She eyes me, mouth full of orange bits, and says, “Don’t you feel anything, Sam?”
“Hunger,” I say, picking up my sandwich, which is my mother’s specialty: chicken salad with cranberries in it and a kick of horseradish. With the crusts cut off, of course.
Meg sighs a deep, disappointed sigh. “Aren’t you excited at least?”
“I am, actually,” I say through a bite of chicken. “And nervous. Really nervous for some reason.”
Her eyes widen and she breaks into a squeal and I immediately regret my decision to be honest. “You’re nervous because you want it to work! I knew it! You want to believe. And you will, you’ll see. I’ll have you doing rituals with me in no time.”
“Whoa, slow down. I don’t want to form a coven or anything.” I shrug. “Just hoping for a boyfriend.”
“Speaking of . . . let me see the list.”
I slide the list in her direction and she reads, mouthing along with the words. Finally, she looks up, nodding. “It’s good. I can almost imagine him, can’t you? Someone tall, dark, and handsome perhaps. Broad shouldered, muscled. A deep, sexy voice and eyes you can sink into . . .”
I wave my hand in front of her face, highly amused. “Earth to Meg. This is my future boyfriend, remember? Not yours. And I said nothing about being muscled.”
“Maybe you should have,” she mumbles, then giggles at herself. “How about the spell?”
I grab my notebook and turn it to the page where I’ve scribbled the spell. It’s a mess, currently. Like what most of my first drafts look like until I clean them up for the final, with words and even whole sentences scratched out, but it’s there in its entirety.
Meg slides the notebook back toward me. “I actually don’t want to see it. Whatever you say is personal and completely up to you. I don’t want my influence all over it. Just wanted to make sure you had it done.”
“It is, except I don’t know how to start it.”
Meg cocks her head. “What do you mean?”
Before I can say any more, Landon slides in next to me and scoops up one of my celery sticks like a master ninja. His lunch period is different from ours since he’s in band (and don’t let him hear you make a band geek joke; he can get vicious about it), so he’s skipping out on rehearsal to visit. I push the rest of the celery toward him and he eats ravenously.
“One o’clock is way too late for lunch,” he says. “I’m a growing boy, for pity’s sake. What are you two up to?”
“I’m teaching Sam how to be a witch,” Meg replies earnestly, then turns back to me. “Go on, Sam. What were you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t know how to begin the spell. Like, is it like a letter? Dear Goddess, please grant me three wishes?”
Landon snorts. “Is Meg’s goddess a genie?”
“You know what I mean. What do I call her? How do I start?”
Meg’s smile for me is a little smug. She’s truly enjoying her mentor role. “I’ll begin for you. You’ll see. As for what to call
the Goddess . . . She goes by many names, Sam. She’s got a very long history. But if I can make a suggestion?” I nod. “Since you’re asking for something regarding love, and you wrote your spell in Latin, why not call Her Venus? The Roman gods are probably the ones you’re most familiar with.”
I look at Landon to see if he agrees and all he does is take another bite of celery. “Don’t look at me. The only goddesses I’m familiar with are Marilyn Monroe and Beyoncé.”
“And you,” Meg goes on before either of us can laugh at Landon’s joke, “I don’t like it that you’ll be there. Not one bit. So you have to be quiet the entire time. No jokes. No sarcastic remarks. And you’ll have to focus your energy on what Sam wants or you’ll ruin this whole thing.”
“Gee. Way to make a guy feel welcome,” Landon grumbles, and I squeeze his knee under the table in apology.
I try to steer the conversation forward. “So we’ll meet at midnight at Saint Catherine’s?”
Meg nods and just then the warning bell rings, and our fellow classmates get up to throw their trash away like good little Pavlovian dogs. We stay seated.
“I’ll bring some candles and a few other things we’ll need. You bring the list and your spell. I’ll also need a lock of your hair and a vial of your blood.”
Landon and I both freeze.
“Blood?” I ask, voice climbing up an octave in alarm.
She grins a positively evil grin. “Just kidding about the blood. Gonna need your hair though. Just a couple strands should suffice.” She glances at Landon, who still has a horrified look on his face. “What? I can’t make voodoo jokes like you?”
Landon says nothing but squeezes his eyes shut, like he can’t believe that this is the world he’s living in. Meg gives him a playful punch on the shoulder and says, “See you at midnight,” before walking off, her whole witchy being vibrating with expectation and “positive energy.”
Landon opens his eyes. “If this works, she won’t let either of us forget it, you know.”
“Nope,” I say. “So we’ll just have to join her coven and learn how to read tarot cards.”
“At least if there’s a virgin sacrifice, we’re both safe.”
I burst out laughing, then get up to face the rest of the school day. “See you at midnight.”
“It’s freaking freezing out here,” Landon complains through chattering teeth.
“Yeah. I told you to bundle up. This is Ohio. In October. Remember?” I shake my head at him even as I’m removing my jacket and helping him into it. Doesn’t matter to me. I wore a thick sweatshirt and a thermal under that, so the cold night air can’t touch me.
He zips my jacket, an Adidas and thrift-store find, and rubs his arms for warmth. “Thanks. So where’s Meg?”
“Right here.”
We turn and Meg’s walking up the narrow drive of the cemetery straight toward us. We agreed to meet at a small mausoleum at the top of one of the hills because (a) it’s very secluded up here, and (b) we all know exactly where this mausoleum is. Even though Meg’s Wiccan now, and Landon and I are as atheist as they come, the stained-glass window in the back of it is nothing short of gorgeous. It’s got Jesus in bright crimson robes, hands lifted upward in prayer, a halo of yellow and orange encircling his head.
So, I guess we’re going to be doing a little magical—excuse me, magickal—ritual right in front of that.
“Got the blood?” Meg asks as she reaches us.
“Ha-ha. You’re so funny,” Landon says, then mumbles, “White magic my ass . . .”
Meg rolls her eyes and throws the backpack she’s wearing to the ground. Something inside it clinks. “We need to set up candles in a circle, using the big one to point north. Sam, pluck out three pieces of hair and fold them into the list, in thirds, then thirds again. We have to invite the Goddess into our circle first, then you can start your spell.”
I take the list out of my back pocket. I copied it on a fresh sheet of paper for the occasion, using my best handwriting. I give it one last glance, then pluck my hair and fold it into my list as she requests, wincing only a little. Meg kneels and starts removing things from her pack. A book of matches, four glass-encased red column candles, a black leather-bound journal, a paperback book entitled The White Arts, and a ball of red twine.
“Why all the red?” I ask, surveying the items with distrust.
“Duh, Sam. Red is the color of love.”
“Right,” I mumble, because obviously I’m a moron, and Landon covers his mouth to keep from laughing.
“You,” Meg says, looking up at Landon and jabbing something pointy in her hand at him. “Since you insist on being here, you need to purify yourself.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because we all have to. I did before I came here and Sam will during the ritual, but you’re the one that needs it most. Your connection with Sam’s past could seriously screw up the whole intent of this spell.” Meg jabs the pointy thing at him again. “I mean it. Light this and wave the smoke all over you.”
Landon casts me a wary glance before taking the little cone of incense from Meg’s hand. He’s got a lighter in his pocket, so he waves away Meg’s offer of matches and flicks the lighter until he gets a flame.
As the smoke dances out from the point of the cone, Landon makes like he’s rubbing it all over his body. It kind of wraps around him like he’s the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland. The smoke itself smells like roses and sandalwood, which I figure must be on purpose. Roses equal love, right?
“You too, Sam.”
Landon doesn’t meet my eye as he passes me the cone, knowing that if we make eye contact we’ll both collapse into a fit of laughter that Meg won’t find humorous in the slightest. I do a funny little dance trying to get the smoke all over me too, then Meg takes it from me and sets it in the circle of red candles she set up next to the mausoleum. The larger one is indeed pointing north, and it just so happens to also be the highest candle on the hill.
“Don’t touch each other anymore, okay?” Meg instructs us, then looks sharply at me. “You don’t want his essence on you, Sam.”
Landon opens his mouth to make what I’m sure is a wisecrack about putting his “essence” on me, but I shoot him a murderous look before he can form the words.
Meg continues on, oblivious. She hands me the leather-bound journal, opened to a page written in her own handwriting; the ink, of course, is red. “Read this to invoke the Goddess, and then once we get a sign that She’s present, you’ll step inside the circle and that’s when you’ll read your spell. You’ll read it three times then dip the list into the northern flame and let it burn in the wind. Got it?”
I’ve got it. Also, I must be out of my freaking mind.
I nod to Meg. “Sure. When should I start?”
“Do you feel ready?”
I think this is when I’m supposed to contemplate my inner readiness or examine my conscience or something, but I’m positive my conscience can handle a Wiccan ritual. “Yes,” I say very seriously to satisfy Meg’s concern.
“Okay then,” she says, pausing to build anticipation, “let’s begin.”
I look down at her journal, realizing for the first time that these aren’t words from one of her many instructional manuals, but something Meg’s written herself. I’m a little humbled by that, strange as it is, and that changes something for me, shifts the tone of the whole ritual. I begin to read as sincerely as I can, concentrating on what I’m saying and trying to absorb the meaning of each word.
When I’m done with what Meg wrote, I feel strangely calm. Around me, the cemetery is still and silent, as if holding its breath. Then, as I turn to ask Meg exactly what kind of sign we should be looking for, a sudden gust of wind tears over the hillside, so strong that it rattles the chains locking the mausoleum doors together and makes the heavy branches above our heads groan as if in pa
in. The tiny hairs on my arms rise up and a chill works its way from the back of my neck down to the base of my spine.
I’m no coward, but suddenly this whole voodoo-ritual-at-midnight-in-a-graveyard thing seems like it might be a stupid idea.
“Shit,” Landon hisses behind me as the wind continues. I glance over my shoulder at him. His eyes are wide and darting all around us. His unease doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation.
Meg, too, is looking around us, but she has a hand held out, signaling us to stay put and be quiet. Then, as if it had never happened, the wind stops. My hair settles back down against my scalp and Meg lowers her hand.
“She’s here. Oh my god, Sam, that was amazing! Did you feel that?”
“Yeah,” I answer but look to Landon as if he can provide confirmation that I’m not crazy, that really just happened. All he can give me in return is a dazed nod of his head.
“Go. Read your spell!” Meg shoves me toward the circle, but she’s too full of adrenaline from the Goddess’s sign and I’m too stunned, and I end up stumbling. Landon catches my hand and pulls me upright before I completely lose my balance. We both glance over at Meg, afraid she’ll yell at us for touching, but luckily she’s too busy watching the trees, looking for another sign.
“Thanks,” I whisper to him, and our eyes meet for a second. His irises are mostly gray in the moonlight, and I see a healthy dose of apprehension in them before he lets go of my hand.
I step inside the circle and, to my relief, there’s no wind and no other strange sign. I half expected lightning or a hooting owl or something.
Unfolding the Latin spell, I take a deep breath and begin to read. Somehow, seeming sincere isn’t much of a challenge now. My voice is loud and strong and echoes off the side of the mausoleum. Meg can’t understand my words, but I’m sure Landon catches most of my meaning as I read:
“Venus—
Find for me a perfect fit,
A boy of beauty, talent, and wit,
Someone to love, and to love me,
As you will it, so mote it be.”
