by Ariella Moon
I kept to my room. But the tension seeped through the walls and commando-crawled under the door. My gift for rhyming spells evaporated. My stomach cramped. I tackled my three-week homework backlog and hoped a cure for the grimoire would magically manifest. It didn't.
At least the spell book didn't worsen. On Monday before I left for school, I stashed it in an oversized boot box and hid it in the closet. "Do not set the house on fire while I'm gone," I warned as I traced a pentagram on the closet door.
Evie cornered me on my way to Drama. Even though I had seen her earlier in the day, it still took me a second to recognize her. On Halloween Eve she had switched back to her real hair color, strawberry blond, and had stopped wearing her late father's camouflage cap. She appeared so normal, it threw me.
"Any news?" Evie asked.
"Not since we had English together, or lunch. It's not like I can call home and ask the spell book how it's feeling."
Evie bumped her shoulder against mine, something no one else would dare do. "Silly." She leaned closer and whispered in my ear, "I meant, any action on the love spell?"
"No, Prince Charming has yet to make an appearance."
Evie scrunched her brows. "What about Amy? Any word?"
I shook my head. My cell phone was off, and I planned to keep it off. This way I could pretend Amy was fine, and there was zero chance she'd come home and I'd zip-line back to withering in her shadow.
I must have scowled, because Evie said, "Maybe Amy's life wasn't as perfect as you thought."
"You haven't seen her case full of water polo trophies and academic achievement awards. She was president of everything at this school. Miss Popularity."
"Does she know anyone at M.I.T.?"
"She's met her roommate. I'm sure she's making other friends."
"Maybe." Sadness seeped into Evie's expression, and I knew she was thinking about her dad. "What if Amy's roommate hadn't called for an ambulance? Imagine how you'd feel if Amy had died." Evie's voice cracked on the word died. Before I could formulate a response, she peeled off, her chin down, and headed for Yearbook.
I felt awful, as if I had kicked a kitten.
"What did you do? Put a hex on her?" Pilar, the female lead in the recent school production Of Mice and Men, opened the door to the multipurpose room. She blinked down at me with her huge doe-like eyes.
For once, I dropped the tough girl act. "Nah. Fresh out of hexes today."
"Good." Pilar held the door open as I slinked past. "Because we'll probably get assigned a new play today."
"I'm sure you'll ace the audition." Maybe if I were nice to Pilar, I'd stop feeling like I had "Worst Sister and Friend" stamped on my forehead.
"Do you think so?" Pilar gushed, her shoulders surging toward her hoop earrings.
"Absolutely."
"Wow. Thanks." Pilar bounded for the stairs leading up to the stage.
Our teacher, Mr. Peters, yelled from the back of the auditorium, "Everyone to the stage!"
Weighed down by guilt and my black combat boots, I clumped up the stairs and stole the first available spot at the edge of the proscenium. I shoved my heavy backpack behind me to use as a backrest.
Moonfaced Mr. Peters handed Pilar a stack of assignment sheets to pass out. "Shakespeare, ladies and gentlemen!" Half the group groaned. "Read and summarize three of the five plays I've listed."
My fight-or-flight instinct jumped to life. The meter needle arced toward flight. I glanced at the red exit signs dotting the auditorium.
"Anyone who plagiarizes from the Internet or store-bought study guides will receive an automatic F."
The assignment sheets made their way down my row. A sinking feeling settled over me. This would entail massive reading. Difficult reading. Practically English-as-a-foreign-language reading. I wiped my clammy palms on my tights so my sweat wouldn't stain the paper.
"Summaries are due on Wednesday. I have some copies of the plays here. The rest, you can score at the library." Mr. Peters upended his nylon messenger bag, and it vomited stapled booklets onto the stage.
Students swarmed the pile like yellow jackets at a barbeque. I hung back. Studying my chipped black nail polish, I affected a bored expression. Let everyone think I was too cool to join the mosh pit. Hopefully they wouldn't guess the truth: Chaos scared me.
When the scramble ended, I plucked the leavings off the floor: The Taming of the Shrew and Romeo and Juliet. An anti-feminist manifesto and a romantic tragedy… just what I needed. Maybe I could get A Midsummer Night's Dream from the library.
"How long do the summaries have to be?" a hulking kid named Nazario asked.
"One to two typed pages per play, double spaced, one-inch margins." Mr. Peters resettled his tortoiseshell glasses on his pudgy nose. Something in his eyes made me nervous, as if the summaries were just the opening salvo. "You may use the rest of the period to work on the assignment. Let's get going, people."
I exhaled a long breath. I could do this. Getting anxious would just make the reading more difficult, like with Evie and her math anxiety. Only no one knew I had a problem. Teachers used to tell my parents I didn't try hard enough. Then they'd tsk-tsk over how they knew I must have loads of potential. After all, look at Amy.
I pushed back the sleeve of my black pullover sweater and examined my watch. Twenty-five minutes until I could escape to Art. With a sigh I grabbed my backpack, clumped down the stairs, and headed for the back of the auditorium. I snagged a seat far from the other students and pulled out my ear buds. The only way I'd be able to struggle through sixteenth-century English would be to concentrate in silence. Let them think I'm listening to music. I hunkered down, ready to do battle.
Chapter Four
"Your transcripts have been lost, Mr. Cooper?" Mr. Rush, the principal of Jefferson High School, eyed me over his cluttered, aluminum-edged, wood veneer 1960s-era desk.
"Yes, sir." I contorted my face into what I hoped resembled a concerned expression. "Some problem when the school switched to a new computer system. They'll send you copies of the handwritten transcripts as soon as they track them down." Which will be never, because I've moved thirty times, attended eleven elementary schools, six middle schools, and two other high schools before I landed here.
"Hmm."
Dude. Just believe me. I pulled a folded list from my jeans pocket and handed it to him. "These are the classes I was taking." I perched on the edge of my seat while Mr. Rush unfolded the binder paper and studied the list.
"English Two. Geometry." His gray-flecked brows furrowed beneath his comb-over. "Latin 2?"
I straightened my spine. "Yes, sir."
"Hmm. Physical Education, Biology, Digital Design, and 3-D Art." Mr. Rush lowered the paper. "We should be able to accommodate you." He pushed a button on his desk phone and said into the receiver, "Mrs. Scroggins, could you come in here, please?"
He'd barely hung up when the secretary in the outer office whisked in, all no-nonsense and businesslike. Mr. Rush handed her the list. "Please see if we have room in these classes for Mr. Cooper."
Mrs. Scroggins's bangle bracelets clacked together as she took the sheet. She smelled faintly of cloying spice perfume, and her high heels clicked against the scuffed linoleum as she retreated to her computer.
"The young lady who signed you in is your legal guardian?" Mr. Rush stared at me over the forged gas bill and Kali's signature on several school forms. "Your parents are both deceased?"
"Yes, my cousin is my legal guardian." I shifted in my seat. Mention of my parents, my real parents, reopened a fathomless ache where my heart used to be. I shoved it aside — a box I'd open later. Focus. "Sorry she couldn't stay to meet you. She had to get to work." And she's not actually my cousin. But Kali's the only member of the "family" who has ever helped me out. Or worked.
"You've listed a Bronwyn Stephens as your emergency contact, but I see no phone number."
"My aunt lives in Los Angeles. I don't have her number with me." I wish I did. She's my only li
ving relative, and I have no idea how to find her.
Mr. Rush frowned. "Phone numbers do not seem to be your strong suit, Mr. Cooper." He handed the forms back to me. My heart dropped to my knees. "Give me an email address where we can send your guardian school bulletins."
My heart slid back into my chest. "Sure." My hand trembled as I pulled a pen from my messenger bag and wrote down my email address since Kali didn't have one. I handed the paperwork back to Mr. Rush. Without a glance, he added it to the stacks of folders and files piled on his desk. I held my breath until Mrs. Scroggins returned, a computer printout and stack of textbooks in hand.
"You lucked out, Aidan. I was able to squeeze you in to each class on your list except Digital Design. The only electives I could fit into your schedule were Chorus and Drama. Which one do you want?"
"I'm tone-deaf."
She thrust a schedule in my hand. "I figured you'd prefer Drama. Don't worry. They hardly ever do musicals."
Relief rushed every cell in my body and lit them like Christmas tree lights. "Thanks."
Mrs. Scroggins's eagle-like features and drawn-on eyebrows softened. She shoved aside some papers on the desk to make room for my stack of textbooks and a booklet on school policies. I stuffed them into my frayed messenger bag, feeling like a pirate stashing stolen bounty.
Mr. Rush checked the clock ticking on the wall. "Last period is about to begin. You might as well start tomorrow."
I stood, scraping back my chair. "May I start now?"
Mr. Rush's eyes widened, and he blinked in Well-I-Never-Thought-I'd-Live-To-Hear-This surprise. "Sure. Admirable attitude." He extended his hand." Welcome to the home of the Wildcats, Mr. Cooper. And stay out of trouble."
"Yes, sir." He had a nice handshake — firm, not crushing, like he didn't need to prove his authority.
He dismissed me with a nod. I hustled out of the office before he discovered I was a fraud and changed his mind about letting me attend his school. Spine straight, I strode through the outer office and nodded to Mrs. Scroggins as I bee-lined for the door.
I can do this. I inhaled the crisp November air. Officially enrolled, I shifted into recon mode. Each school had its own unwritten rules about what or who was cool. Each new campus felt like a war zone, only I never knew who was the enemy.
Enemy. The word dredged up memories of my old life. Dad's wild schemes, his poor choices in "business associates," and the alcohol he'd consumed when everything had gone sideways. Those were my enemies, and the breast cancer that had stolen Mom. Dad should have manned up after she died, not spiraled into the bottom of a wine bottle.
A broad-shouldered kid wearing a varsity jacket bumped into me, jarring me back to the present. "Hey, watch it," the jock warned.
I saluted him. He blinked and moved on. In each school, I figured out the players by reading their energy.
Just like the day I met Kali on a bench in San Francisco. She appeared to be a step up from the homeless kids — relatively clean, eyes still bright with hope and curiosity. She admired the box I had embellished. It was just a small, splintered wooden box I had found outside some high-end shop. I had glued little treasures on it to cover the broken part, items I had found in the park and the gutter — crystals from an earring someone had lost, some birch twigs with lichen, a polished stone — those sorts of things. I liked Kali's energy. So when she said she knew where we could get some free food, Dad waved me off and I followed her.
I'm always reading the energy. It's exhausting.
I surveyed my surroundings. The campus had a decent vibe. Flat. Sprawling. Nothing like my last school, which had steep steps leading up to Greek revival columns and a marble arch over the main door. Jefferson was a mix of new construction and older, beige classrooms. Outdoor halls created by overhangs deflected the California rain.
I checked out the kids walking from sixth period to seventh. A clutch of girls lingered at their lockers, shivering in their short skirts, fuzzy leggings, and clunky Sherpa boots. A serious-faced girl with long blond dreadlocks hurried past me. A high-maintenance-looking brunette caught my eye and winked. "Hey."
"Hey." I flashed her my best heartbreaker smile and kept walking. Ahead, three guys — junior jocks, by the look of them — gave me the once-over. Since they didn't have a gang vibe, I held their gazes until, one by one, they glanced away. They wore jeans and zip-up hoodies over collarless shirts. Cool. I had dressed right. I blended in.
My stomach rumbled with familiar emptiness. Tomorrow at lunch, I would turn on the gypsy charm. Chicks always shared. Bless them.
I ducked behind the side of a building so no one would see me study the school map. I located the art classroom and walked as fast as I could without drawing attention. As I reached the door, the bell blared. I expelled a long breath. Ground. It doesn't matter if they love me or hate me. I won't be around long enough to care. A quick shoulder roll, then I eased inside. I hoped my deodorant hadn't given out.
The classroom smelled of clay, fresh sawdust, and tempera paint. A glance told me the kids did their art at high wooden tables, in groups of two or three. The loud chatter gave way to curious whispers as I handed my paperwork to the teacher, a thirty-something Hispanic dude with a welcoming smile.
"Aidan. ¿Que pasa?" He extended his hand and gave me a firm handshake. "I'm Cruz Castellano." He pulled a two-page syllabus out of his desk drawer and handed it to me. Red paint had dried beneath his fingernails, and a splash of white had splattered his brown forearm beneath his rolled-up sleeves.
"This outlines your project options. Basically, I want you to create something representing either your worst nightmare or a memorable dream. I'll show you where the materials are after you've had a chance to look over the assignment. Sit wherever you'd like. Class, meet our new student, Aidan Cooper."
"Hi, Aidan." The group sounded friendly, slightly wired. I knew they were checking out my thrift store jeans and noticing they weren't designer.
"Come join our table, Aidan." A couple of blond celebutante wannabes batted their mascara-laden lashes at me.
I flashed them a thanks-but-no-thanks smile and walked past. Their energy reeked of wild parties and recklessness. Papo's third rule jetted in my brain: avoid trouble. Ditch anyone or any scene liable to attract the cops, or worse, the Feds.
I kept moving, surreptitiously reading the energy in the room. Surprisingly, the person with the cleanest vibe was the waif-like goth hiding in the back. She ignored me. For a second, her black-and-purple hair and the silver stud piercing her right eyebrow threw me. I had never met a goth with such light energy. Which meant either I had lost my touch, or the chick was throwing a glamour.
An MP3 player on the teacher's desk kicked to life. Santana's smooth guitar licks electrified the class. Stools were kicked back and bodies swayed as students resumed work. An African-American kid put down his paintbrush and played an air guitar.
I focused on Goth Girl. Something about her face, delicate and fairy-like beneath her goth makeup, drew me in. "Hi."
She glanced up through spiked bangs. Kohl lined her ice-blue eyes and swirled in curlicues near her temple. Our gazes locked like a lightning strike. Whoa.
She drew in a quick, audible breath. "Hey." Her voice had an edge, like she expected trouble.
"Is this seat taken?" I gestured toward the empty stool beside her.
"Nah." Her narrow shoulders, encased in a baggy black sweater, rose and fell in a disinterested shrug. The color was harsh against her pale skin. She appeared exhausted, as if she had been up partying or something. "Go for it."
The fluorescent lights caught her silver necklaces. A pentacle dangled from one chain, a Star of David from another, and a spiral goddess from the third.
"Not fair," I said as I lowered my messenger bag to the littered linoleum floor. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."
"Sarah Miller, but everyone calls me Salem." She extended her hand, the pads of her fingers caked with clay. Still tingling from the jolt, I battled t
he urge to bring her fingers to my lips. I shook her hand instead.
"Why do they call you Salem?"
She rolled her eyes. "In the fifth grade I crossed out 'Remember the Alamo' on Tommy Deitch's notebook and wrote 'Remember Salem.'"
"The witchcraft trials." I nodded. Under my breath I muttered, "Magdalena would love you, even if you are a gadjé."
Her brow crinkled, and she narrowed her eyes into a ticked-off squint. "Gadjé?"
Way to blow it. I glanced around to see if anyone had overheard us. No one seemed to have noticed. I pressed my hand against my heart. "Grandmother is Old World. Unless you come from her village, you're considered a gadjé, a foreigner." I failed to mention Magdalena's "village" was a 1967 VW van.
Salem's brow remained wrinkled, and I squirmed under her brutal stare. "Aidan sounds Irish."
I rubbed my hand against the back of my neck. "It is Irish. I'm named after my maternal grandfather." I use it like breadcrumbs, in case Bronwyn ever tries to find me.
Salem plucked a toothpick off the table and incised a vine design on the female figure she was modeling in clay. "Gadjé sounds Russian or something."
Romanian, I mentally corrected. I had to pick the table with the smart chick.
I imagined I felt the sting of Papo's hand against my temple and heard his voice inside my head — Nico, you idiot! Never forget my second rule. We are Gypsies only in the booth, only when we sell our wares. Outside the festivals and faires, be careful. Pass for something else. You know what will happen if your true identity is discovered. As if I could forget. The last thing I wanted was to be thrown into the foster care system or sent into a group home. I'd rather deal with the enemy I knew than the one I didn't.
"Mixed blood." I stared down at Salem's artwork, avoiding her gaze. She had sculpted a figure about seven inches tall with its arms raised like parenthesis above its head. Even unfinished, it throbbed with power. "Nice work."
