Wicked Cool (The Spellspinners)

by Diane Farr

  “You can’t come with me,” I said. “All the places you’ve been are too visible. I’ll have to skatch to my bedroom.”

  I was immediately sorry I had said that. From a normal boy, I would have gotten sly looks. Maybe a crude remark. From Lance, I got a rush of images that made my toes curl.

  I forced myself to scowl at him. “Knock it off,” I said. “And remind me to never show you my bedroom.”

  The ghost of a smile flashed across his features. “We’ll discuss that another time,” he said. “Right now, all I’ll say is, you still haven’t thought it through. You skatch to your bedroom and then what? She catches you tiptoeing downstairs, after you told her you were at the library?”

  “Oh.” He was right. That wouldn’t be good. This skatching business was full of hidden pitfalls. I thought again. “The tool shed,” I said finally.

  “Have I seen it?”

  “Probably. It’s behind our house a ways. I think it used to be a chicken coop.”

  He nodded. “I’ve seen it. So where are we headed? Behind it?”

  “Yep. Let’s go.” I grabbed his hand and skatched. And found out the hard way what happens when you drag someone with you who isn’t quite ready. That’s what I get for hurrying.

  It was like somebody had chained my hand to a cannon ball, and then shot the cannon.

  Ow.

  We hurtled through space with a huge yank and tumbled in a heap behind Nonny’s tool shed. The only good thing about it was, it was quick. Not instantaneous, like it normally is, but still quick. We landed hard, and both of us swore. Lance was pissed at me, and this time I thought (for once) that he had good reason.

  “You couldn’t wait one more second?” he growled. “All I had to do was picture the friggin’ tool shed.”

  “Don’t growl,” I said. “I’m sorry, okay? My bad. Now get off me.”

  “Jeez.” He got up, groaning. It was the first time I ever saw him move less than gracefully. He must have really hurt. Frankly, I was too taken up with my stinging wrist to focus on Lance. “If you had tried that maneuver with anyone other than me, you could have broken something, you know? Or worse. Jeez.”

  “I said I was sorry.” I stood up and leaned against the shed. “Owie wow wow.”

  “Yeah.” He was leaning over, bracing his hands against his knees while he recovered, like a tired basketball player. “You know what your problem is, Zara? You’re careless.”

  “I am not careless!”

  “For a spellspinner, you are. You’re excitable. You’ve got to cool down, sweetcheeks. Emotions are dangerous. They’ll trip you up every time. In your case, they make you act before you think.”

  I glared at him. “Don’t you ever call me ‘sweetcheeks.’ ‘Babe’ is bad enough.”

  I can’t believe we were arguing about pet names behind the tool shed. And I still had to face Nonny. “Why did you insist on coming with me, anyway?”

  He straightened up and sighed. “Think, Zara. I promised to take care of you. How would it look if you came home alone? If I don’t see you to the door, she’ll never let me see you again.”

  I stared at him. His self-possession was amazing. “I don’t know how you keep track of these things.”

  “One of us has to.” And it’s clear you never will.

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. Let’s go face the music.”

  Here’s the thing about beautiful manners. They’re disarming. I mean, bottom line, I know Lance doesn’t give a hoot whether Nonny likes him or not. And of course, being what we are, we could see each other whether she approves of it or not. But he knows that Nonny’s approval matters to me. So here he was, going out of his way to make a good impression on her.

  Even though his motives were completely selfish, I was grateful.

  Too bad it didn’t work.

  We ducked around the house and came up to the front door as if we’d walked from town. (Yeah, right. With me in high-heeled slides, no less.) Nonny opened it before I could reach for the latch. She blocked the doorway, glaring up at us. She looked pretty fierce.

  “Hi,” I said lamely.

  Lance stepped smoothly into the breach. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Norland. I shouldn’t have taken her so far from home.”

  “It was a public place,” I offered. “Like you said.”

  “And after you mentioned the library at breakfast this morning...” Lance gave a sheepish little shrug. “I guess it just seemed like the place to go.”

  Wow, he was right. Nonny had mentioned it at breakfast. I had totally forgotten that. It was almost scary, the way Lance made it seem like our going to the library was practically Nonny’s own fault. He picked up on my amazement and sent me a flicker of response ... a sly message: Watch and learn, Zara. Watch and learn.

  But Nonny wasn’t buying it. “I am seriously displeased,” she said. She sounded like Queen Victoria. Looked kinda like her, too. She was so short that she had to tilt her chin up to stare Lance down, but stare him down she did. “I think it will be a long time, young man, before Zara goes anywhere else with you. In groups, yes. But not alone.” She pulled the door farther open and jerked her chin at me. I stepped inside like a meek little soldier. Nonny looked right back at Lance. “Do you need to borrow a phone? No? Then good night.” And she closed the door in his face.

  I sent him a thought. I watched. What did I learn?

  Hey, at least I tried.

  I didn’t have time for a big telepathic discussion. I had Nonny to deal with. And it wasn’t easy. Her feathers were way ruffled, and it took a lot to smooth them back down. The worst part? I had to keep fudging the truth. I hate that, and I’m not very good at it. The more I tried to allay her suspicions, the more suspicious she got. I finally had to plead exhaustion and escape upstairs. I really was exhausted, so at least that had an authentic ring.

  I was halfway up the stairs when she said, “Meg called.”

  I froze in mid-step, then whirled around to face her. Nonny’s face was set in tight lines, expressionless.

  I wish I could read her mind the way I read Lance’s. There are times it would come in totally handy.

  Of course, that would probably mean she could read mine. So forget it.

  “What did she want?”

  “Call her back and ask her.”

  I couldn’t pick up a single clue from Nonny’s face. “Um ... what did you tell her?”

  “I told her I didn’t know where you were.”

  “Did you tell her I was with Lance?”

  She frowned. “I’m not going to lie for you, Zara. Let’s get that perfectly clear before this goes any further. If Meg asks me a direct question, and I know the answer, I’m going to tell her. You got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But ... but you won’t volunteer anything, will you?” I was pleading with her, and she knew it. I thought I saw a touch of softening in her face, like she was relenting a little. “You didn’t tell her I was with Lance.”

  “No,” said Nonny. “I didn’t.”

  Relief swamped me. “Thank you.”

  “Good night.” She moved away from the bottom of the stairs and I turned and went up. It felt great to close my bedroom door behind me. I actually sagged against it for a minute, grateful to be alone. To be safe. To be done with all the hard questions and tricky relationships.

  But the thing about hard questions and tricky relationships is, they don’t go away when you close the door on them. That’s what makes them hard and tricky.

  I’ve been scribbling all night, and you know what? I still have to face everything—and everybody—in the morning.

  15

  Another day, another crisis.

  It’s difficult, from where I sit tonight, to remember how I felt this morning. I’ll try to set everything down in the order that it happened. And I’ll try to recapture the way I felt at each step. Which is hard, since hindsight is 20/20. And I’ve got a whole lotta hindsight now.

  The day start
ed quietly enough. I spent the morning at home, trying to make a peace offering to Nonny while she was at work. I dusted everything there was to dust, polished the parlor furniture and Windexed all the mirrors in the house. I had a lot on my mind, so it was actually kind of therapeutic. For a while, anyway. I kept going over and over the things I had learned in my day with Lance. Mentally collating, you know. And figuring out where the holes were in Lance’s stories.

  There were quite a few.

  For one thing, Lance said there are ‘always’ forty-nine spellspinners, but how can that be true? I mean, think about it. He said we were mortal. So when a spellspinner kicks the bucket, there must be forty-eight until the next birth makes it forty-nine again. In other words, why would the Council get its knickers in a twist about me?? A fiftieth spellspinner, big deal. It’s supposedly never happened before, but even if that’s true—and it’s hard to imagine how it could be—so what? Forty-nine, forty-eight, fifty, whatever. Who cares??

  I don’t get it. And when I don’t get things, I want Meg. She’s my sounding board. She’s smart as a whip, but it’s an unusual kind of smart—she’s good at figuring things out. Most smart people are either logical and detail-oriented, or creative. Meg is both. She picks up on every little detail, but she also sees the big picture.

  Too bad I’m not allowed to tell her anything.

  And, oh yeah, if I mention Lance Donovan she’ll get all snippy.

  Other than that, sure, it would be great to talk to Megan.

  (Thus my thoughts, as of this morning.)

  Nonny said that Meg had called the house yesterday, but none of the missed calls on my cell phone were from Meg. I finally broke down and texted her. It took tons of willpower, but I did NOT call. She would see my text if she bothered to look. So I had returned her call from yesterday, that’s all. There. I was done with it. (I told myself.)

  See, I was still feeling a teensy bit resentful. I thought she shouldn’t get so mad at me over nothing. Practically nothing, anyway. Especially since I was trying to do her a favor. Even if she thought I was butting in, she should give me points for meaning well.

  By lunchtime the house looked like something out of Sunset magazine and there wasn’t a single ’nother thing to do. Plus I was depressed. Lance comes into my life and presto, Meg and Nonny are both mad at me. That can’t be a coincidence.

  Meg was deliberately giving me the cold shoulder, but it seemed to me that she wasn’t enjoying it any more than I was. I thought about her, wandering along the creek all lonely yesterday, and I actually got tears in my eyes. I can’t stand to think of Meg feeling lonely, and it being my fault. And it was my fault. I was keeping secrets from her. That’s almost as bad as lying. I decided I deserved the cold shoulder from Meg, for tons of reasons. I felt really, really bad.

  And then I remembered that she didn’t know all the reasons why I deserved the cold shoulder. And she was giving it to me anyway.

  So then I got mad again.

  My life is way too complicated lately.

  And where was Lance, through all this? I wasn’t picking up anything. Not a murmur, not a ripple.

  At the time, I didn’t know why. Now I do. Looking back, I feel like an idiot for not guessing the truth.

  Anyway, bottom line, it was lunchtime and I was all alone. I felt completely friendless. Which sent me into a major pity party.

  I ate six cookies and the last half of a bag of butter toffee peanuts. Then I felt guilty, because (a) my lunch had had no nutritional content whatsoever, and (b) butter toffee peanuts are Nonny’s only indulgence and now there weren’t any left in the house. So I grabbed a few dollars from the sugar bowl—Nonny keeps small change and emergency cash in an antique, milk glass sugar bowl with a lid—and hopped on my Schwinn. I headed into town, intending to repair the damage to Nonny’s butter toffee peanut stash.

  And here comes the big, traumatic incident.

  As I passed Foster’s Freeze, guess who I saw out of the corner of my eye, sharing a banana split? Lance and Meg, that’s who. I about crashed my bicycle. Seriously. I almost ran off the road.

  I swung right around in a big circle, whipped into the Foster Freeze parking lot, and skidded to a halt. I was off that bike so fast, I didn’t even bother to put the kickstand down. I let my beloved Schwinn fall to the ground while I marched up to Lance and Megan. They were at one of those ugly metal tables with the swiveling barstool-seat-thingys. Side by side, with their knees touching.

  A painful scene ensued. I admit that I started it, but that’s all I’m admitting. I guess I came slightly unhinged. But hey, I’m under a lot of pressure lately. And the provocation was intense.

  I didn’t even look at Meg. I went straight up to Lance. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  He stood up—those beautiful manners again—and indicated a vacant metal seat. “Zara, how nice to see you. Care to join us? I’m buying.”

  This only made me madder, if such a thing is possible. “Don’t push me, Donovan. We had a deal.”

  “Did we?” His eyes glittered mockingly. “What was it?”

  “You know darn well.”

  At this point, Meg horned in. She jumped up, so I guess she was hopping mad. “Don’t you dare ignore me. What deal, Zara? What’s going on? What deal are you talking about?”

  I stared helplessly at her. Meg’s honest brown eyes were narrowed with fury. I couldn’t say a word.

  And then I picked up Lance’s mocking, sneering message: Go ahead, Zara. Tell her.

  And suddenly, I could and I did. Because I was sick of keeping secrets from Meg. And because Lance thought my friendship with Meg would break under the weight of the truth, and I wanted to prove him wrong.

  Like I said, I was slightly unhinged.

  “I told you not to push me,” I told Lance. All fierce and stuff. “But you pushed me. So here goes.” Then I tossed my hair back over my shoulder and faced Meg squarely. “Here’s what the deal was. I agreed to spend a day with Lance. That’s where we were yesterday. Together. And now he’s supposed to leave you alone.”

  Meg’s face went slack with shock. And then, holy cow, for a second I thought she was going to hit me. I had never seen her so angry. Or so hurt.

  I can’t read Megan the way I read Lance, but I know humiliation when I see it. I had humiliated her.

  I won’t repeat the things she said. I don’t want to remember them.

  Even so, I think our friendship would have survived, because once she’d had time to think it over she would have blamed Lance just as much as she blamed me.

  The thing is, Lance realized that. And he came up with a diversionary tactic, to make sure Meg’s focus stayed on me—Zara—as the Designated Bad Guy.

  Looking back at it, I have to admit it was brilliant. Evil, but brilliant.

  As usual, he kept a completely cool head while Megan and I were all distracted with our emotions. And then he did the exact right thing to split Meg and me up forever.

  First, he stood by, out of the line of fire, and let me and Meg rip into each other for a while. (We were basically arguing the gist of “I’m trying to protect you” vs. “I told you to butt out.”) Megan had just said something along the lines of “You’re making a complete fool of yourself,” and I was starting to tell her why the shoe was on the other foot ... when Lance stepped in. Protectively. I mean, as if he were protecting Meg.

  Protecting Meg! From me!

  The nerve of this guy!

  Well, naturally, I stared at him in total amazement. Not to mention outrage. (All this is happening in, like, two seconds or less.) And Lance takes advantage of my momentary focus on him to say, “Zara, you need to back off.” Only he didn’t actually finish. He said as much of that sentence as he needed to say, to make it clear what he was about to say. But while he was saying it, he was reaching out his hand toward me—again, as if he were protecting Meg. Holding me off or something.

  There was a flash of blue light. And Lance went flying.
>
  He landed on the ground between the table and the entrance to Foster’s Freeze. And he lay there on the asphalt, supposedly stunned and in pain. And saying, “Aaah ... aaah ...” like I had hurt him.

  Only, of course, I hadn’t done anything at all.

  !!!!!

  I can’t blame Meg for buying his act. As far as she knows, I’m the only person on the planet capable of emitting lightning (or whatever it was) at will. Besides, he was so convincing that I almost believed it myself. Talk about a knee-jerk response! But when something like this happens, it’s always been my fault. So for a split second, I probably had a stricken, guilty look on my face. And that was enough to frame me for a crime I didn’t commit.

  Meg gave one horrified cry and rushed to Lance’s side. It was like a movie. She knelt on the ground beside him, making soothing noises and trying to determine whether he’d been injured and, if so, where and how. Her little fingers flew frantically over his prostrate body, looking for blood or broken bones or I-don’t-know-what. And while she hovered over him like a ministering angel, Lance managed to look dazed and confused.

  And I stood there like a goop, genuinely dazed and confused.

  Flummoxed, even.

  I still can’t believe it. If I had been in Lance’s shoes—which I would never, ever be in the first place—I wouldn’t have thought of this ploy in a million years. I’m not that devious. And you know what? I hope I never will be.

  Lance opened his eyes and looked up at Meg. “What happened?” he said, all bewildered-like. “What did she do?”

  There was a whistling sort of crack sound. And Lance threw his head sideways. He was pretending I had slapped him, somehow, from ten feet away. What an actor!

  “Stop it,” I cried.

  Meg rounded on me like a mother bear with a threatened cub. She snarled at me, she really did. “You stop it,” she said.

  My hands balled into fists at my sides. “I’m not doing anything!”

  Lance grabbed Meg’s shoulders. “Megan,” he said, all raspy and anguished. “Are you okay?”

  Meg visibly melted. “Of course I’m okay,” she said. Her voice wavered a little. “It’s you she’s after.”