The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Home: A Gay Teen Coming of Age Paranormal Adventure about Witches, Murder, and Gay Teen Love (The Broom Closet Stories Book 2)

by Jeff Jacobson

  Diego’s hand slid below the waistband of Charlie’s pants, fingertips brushing the skin just above his hipbone.

  A loud crash sounded across the room. Diego jumped up off the bed.

  “What the …?” he exclaimed. He walked over to the far side of the room. Charlie sat up and saw three of the framed photographs from Diego’s altar lying on the ground near several large shards of glass.

  “That was weird. I must have bumped them when I lit the incense,” he said. “Oh well, I’ll take care of them later.”

  Charlie knew they hadn’t fallen accidentally. He thought that all of the post-popping, out-of-control-stuff was over. Maybe it wasn’t.

  All the excitement he had been feeling drained out of him as fast as it had come on.

  Diego walked back to the bed.

  “Now where were we?” he said.

  But Charlie was sitting up, his legs hanging over the side of the bed. “Diego, have you ever, uh, have you ever, you know, done it?”

  “What? You mean, had sex? Nope, not unless you count me and la mano mio,” he said, holding up his hand.

  Charlie felt his cheeks grow hot.

  “I was hoping we might, you know, if you wanted to …” Diego started, then stopped when he saw the look on Charlie’s face.

  “I don’t think I’m ready,” said Charlie. A part of him really wanted to. It just felt so good with Diego. But another part knew that if going to the GSA meeting seemed fast, then having sex with Diego would be like a rocketship ride to the moon. And he also worried about what would happen. If pictures broke when Diego touched him with their clothes on, what if they went further? Images of the Ramirez’s home engulfed in flames flashed through Charlie’s head.

  “Hey, of course not. If you’re not ready, then fine. I wouldn’t want you to do anything you wouldn’t want to do.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “What? Mad? Charlie, come on. Of course I’m not mad. I’m not going to pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do. I mean, yeah, I want to. You’re totally hot and it feels really, really good. But only if you do too. If not, then well, I liked what we were doing. Or we could even just hang out,” he said, smiling. “I mean, really hang out … and talk and stuff.”

  Diego lay back on the bed and pulled Charlie up beside him, so that his head lay on the boy’s chest. He could hear Diego’s heartbeat in his ear. He breathed in the boy’s familiar scent, a combination of butter, raspberries, and warm skin. Charlie had begun to equate the smell with both excitement and contentment. He thought a lot about that scent this last week.

  Diego began to talk about his mother, his uncle’s apple farm, and the trouble he and his cousins used to get into, all the while stroking Charlie’s messy hair and the back of his neck. Soon his eyelids grew heavy, and it wasn’t until his phone rang in his pocket and he woke with a start that he realized they had both fallen asleep, cuddled together on Diego’s bed.

  “Dinner’s just about ready, Charlie,” he heard Beverly say into the phone. “Come home soon, okay? You don’t want to miss these shells. And tell Diego he doesn’t know what he’s missing,” she said, her voice teasing with laughter.

  CHAPTER 7

  A-Plus

  “VON’T YOU COME VITH ME down to my spooky lair?” Beverly said in a fake Transylvanian accent as they walked downstairs to the basement. Their slippered footsteps echoed on the cement floor as they passed by the garage and stopped in front of a door that Charlie had never opened.

  “You may think it odd that I lock this door with a key. I have so many wards on this room that Esmerelda of the East couldn’t get in here. But my mother, your Grandmother Margaret, used to do the same thing. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.”

  She selected a small key from her key ring.

  “How do wards work? How do they keep people away?”

  Beverly’s hand stopped midway to the lock as she considered the question.

  “There are many different kinds. Some of them are what I think of as a soft deterrent. If someone were to pass by, say, they might not see the door. Or the door might look so unimportant and uninviting that they’d just ignore it and move on.

  “Others are more aggressive. They work to keep the door shut. If anybody pulled on the door, it wouldn’t budge. If a witch were able to break through the first layer of wards, then things could get a little more serious. My dad forgot to remove one of them when he had some friends over one night, some folks from the community. One of his buddies had asked if he could get something out of Dad’s den. They all heard a yelp, and the next thing they knew, Jerry was flattened against the wall, trussed up like a rodeo calf. I think they’d all been drinking a bit too much. They used to crack each other up, telling that story again and again.”

  She inserted the key into the lock, passed her hand over the knob, and moved her lips. Charlie felt a small wave of heat flush over his arms and chest. He wondered how many times in his life his mother had done something like that in their own home. Had she set up wards? He wouldn’t have been able to feel them. Now he could, after being popped. He felt a confusing mix of emotions—antipathy, frustration, sadness—when he thought about her. In a way that was becoming habit, he pushed them away.

  Beverly opened the door and stepped inside, motioning for Charlie to follow.

  While he certainly hadn’t expected a dark and creepy dungeon, what he saw still surprised him. The room was larger than he had imagined, at least forty feet long by thirty feet wide. At the top of the wall opposite the door, warm light spilled through a set of windows. Soft beige carpet covered the entire floor. A table ran down the middle of the room. It reminded Charlie of Mrs. McMeniman’s craft table back at home, though Beverly’s sat much lower to the ground.

  A white shelving system covered the entire length of the left-hand wall. Large mason jars filled most of the shelves, though there were also several white boxes, the kind his mother used to store tax documents. These were labeled in clear handwriting with things like “Aunt Lula’s Papers,” “Photos of Dad,” and “Ideas.” Charlie wondered what was in the small yellow box sitting off to the side marked “Lithuania.” The mason jars contained brightly colored powders, round objects, dried flowers, red and brown liquids.

  Black-and-white photographs hung on the right-hand wall. He recognized a younger version of his mother in a few of them, and a younger Beverly too. To the right of the photos was a closed door. Probably some sort of closet.

  A low cement shelf jutted from the far wall near the floor. On it sat a small speaker system, a vase with dried flowers, and a stone sculpture of a heron.

  “Randall calls it ‘Bed, Brooms, and Beyond,’” Beverly said.

  She walked over and turned on the speakers. “Stevie Nicks and I like to hang out here together, though sometimes we invite Joni Mitchell too.”

  Soft vocal music began to play. Charlie didn’t know who his aunt was talking about but figured they must be singers she liked.

  “Want some tea?” Beverly asked.

  She opened a cupboard on the far left side beneath the shelves and pulled out an electric kettle, two mugs, a teapot, a small mesh ball, and a brown paper bag. She slid a cushion out from beneath the table and sat down, crossing her legs, then motioned for him to join her. He sank down onto his own cushion’s softness.

  “I’ve made my own tea before, but I can never get it to be quite like this stuff,” she said, handing him the brown bag to sniff.

  He inhaled. He smelled the strong scent of orange, along with mint. There was another smell he couldn’t identify.

  “It’s called ‘Spring Spice,’ and we get it at—oh my god, Charlie, we haven’t taken you to Pike Place Market yet! This whole time and …”

  “What’s that?”

  “Only the oldest-running farmers market in the nation, thank you very much. Parts of it can be really touristy, but people forget that it’s an actual farmers market. It’s right downtown. Great produce, amazing flowers,
and a shop that sells this tea. Rand and I love to spend hours at the market. We get all kinds of different foods and sometimes sneak up onto the roof of the Inn at the Market as if we were guests and watch the ferries cross Elliot Bay.”

  She slapped at his arm and laughed. “How can you let us be such bad hosts? Charlie, I know a lot has been happening. It’s not as if you’ve had a normal ‘Welcome to Seattle’ kind of introduction to this place. But really! There are so many beautiful things to see here. There are great hikes. Waterfalls to explore. Do you ski? Oh, and we haven’t even talked about the Olympic Peninsula yet. I want to show you so many things!”

  Her enthusiasm was infectious, and he found himself carried away by images of mountains, the water, a large market. Just as he was wondering why she had never mentioned any of these places and activities before, she said, “I think I was worried I’d be one of those fussy people who try to shuttle you all over the place as if life is one big bus tour. But it looks like I’ve just been neglectful!”

  The kettle boiled, and she busied herself filling the tea ball with the spiced leaves.

  “What do you do down here?” Charlie asked.

  “This is my workroom,” she said. “Most witches like to have a place where they can work. I make many things down here. Teas, for instance. Not any that taste this good. And you’d think I’d be able to recreate it. How could it be that hard? But I swear there’s a secret ingredient that the shop owner won’t tell me.”

  “Couldn’t you just, you know, use the scrying bowl on them and get the answer?” he asked, remembering their lessons at Malcolm’s cabin.

  She laughed. “Of course I could. But you know, I enjoy mystery. It’s more fun not knowing, and trying to figure it out. Plus I like teasing the people at the shop. Every time I go in, one of the clerks says, ‘Hide the recipe. The spy’s here!’”

  She placed the ball into the teapot and poured in hot water.

  “Let’s let that steep for a bit. Do you like yours strong?” she asked.

  He had no idea if he did or not. He hadn’t drunk much tea in his life.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Anyway, this is where I work. I dry flowers and herbs down here. I make teas and lotions. I also wrap birthday and holiday gifts, which may sound funny to you because it’s not very witchy. But it’s quiet. I like being down here,” she said, spreading her arms wide and indicating the walls around her.

  “I also make other things. I’m sure Malcolm talked to you about the objects we can make.”

  “Like broomsticks?” Charlie asked, intrigued.

  “Yep. Like broomsticks. And your bracelet. If you can imbue an object with a certain task, it will remember that task. That frees you up to cast other spells. A witch can only keep track of so many things at once.”

  She poured a stream of gold-colored liquid into a mug and handed it to Charlie.

  He sipped at it carefully. He first tasted the bitterness of the black tea itself, but then the flavors of mint and citrus spread throughout his mouth.

  “I know it might not be as good as a sugary soda, but …”

  “I like it. I haven’t had anything like it before.”

  “I swear those people who make it are witches in their own right. I’m just kidding. I know for a fact that they aren’t. They just make really good tea. I’m pretty sure they use basil too, but how do they keep it tasting so fresh?”

  He liked how the warmth of the tea spread down his throat. For the moment, he wasn’t worried about Diego, or catching up on his schoolwork, or even learning more about witchcraft. He simply enjoyed the tea and the company of his aunt.

  Beverly took a long sip from her mug, then set it down on the table. “The responsibility now falls mostly on me to help you develop your skills. Other adults will also teach you. But I’ll be overseeing everything. I thought we could do some practice now. Try some things out. See how it goes. What do you think?”

  “Yeah, that would be cool,” Charlie said, eager to learn the things that Beverly could do.

  “Okay, but we have to promise each other that if either of us doesn’t like it or gets mad at the other, we get to raise our hand and say, ‘I don’t like this.’ Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Good. My own father could be a bit of a tyrant—he’d breathe down our necks, complaining that we never practiced enough. Plus, he corrected everything, no matter how good we did. ‘How do you expect to be top-notch if all I do is give you praise?’” she said, imitating her father’s deep voice. “I don’t want to do that to you.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Remember the very first thing I showed you?”

  “You mean with the candle?”

  “Yes. Would you like to try that?”

  He nodded. She stood up from the table, opened up a cupboard behind her and took out three white round objects.

  “Are those Ping-Pong balls?”

  “Yep. They’re better to practice with. They won’t break, and it doesn’t hurt if they hit you in the face. Also, there’s no fire to worry about. We’ll work up to candles,” she said, smiling.

  She set the three balls on the table.

  “Okay, here’s how I like to think about it. First, you have to relax. Clear your mind of other thoughts. Did you practice that with Malcolm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Then, you have to open your senses and focus on the object. See if you can hear its music, its sound.”

  “Um, am I supposed to do this now, or …?”

  “Let me just walk you through it first, okay? Then you can try.”

  He nodded.

  She held up her fingers. “So, number one, clear your mind. Number two, listen to the object’s sound. Then … ,” she paused, brow furrowing, searching for the right words.

  “Then, I like to imagine that I’m offering it an invitation. As in, ‘Hey Mr. Ping-Pong Ball, how about hanging out with me for a little bit, maybe float around some?’”

  “You have to think that every time you do a spell?” It sounded like a lot of work to Charlie.

  “Well, no, not now. It becomes second nature after a while. But I did when I first started. It helped me learn how to reach out to things.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then I picture in my mind what I want it to do, like an offer. And if it wants to, then I say the Words, and that’s that.”

  “What if the thing doesn’t want to?”

  “Then it would be difficult. Think about it this way: if I ask it to float in the air, like this …,” she said. One of the white balls lifted up off the table and floated between them.

  “Hey, you didn’t even say any Words!”

  “No, I didn’t. Or I did it so fast in my mind that it wasn’t necessary. But Charlie, I’ve been doing this for decades. It takes practice. This is to help you start off doing something that will seem strange at first. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” he said, not sure if he did understand. But he was eager to try.

  “So,” she continued, looking at the ball, “it’s easy for the ball to do this. It’s made of light material. It’s designed to be hit by a Ping-Pong paddle. What I’m asking it to do is ‘imaginable,’ if you will.

  “But,” she said. “If I wanted to turn the ball into tea leaves, that would be much harder.”

  “Why? I mean, that guy turned himself into a dog, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but first of all, I bet that’s one of his unique abilities. Not all of us can do that. Second and most importantly, the ball can’t quite ‘imagine’ itself—and I use that term loosely—as tea leaves. I’m not suggesting the ball has a brain. I mean that its material is far from being a singularly organic substance. It’s made of a polymer. Those things are very different. It’s doable but takes a much longer spell and a lot of concentration. It’s not the kind of thing you want to try in the beginning.”

  “Okay. I think I get it.”

  “Good. So why don’t you give it a go?”

/>   He watched as Beverly’s white ball floated back down to the table. He decided to concentrate on one of the others, so he picked the one closest to him.

  “Just clear your mind first,” his aunt said, her voice soft. “I’ll turn the music off so it won’t distract you.” She looked over her shoulder, and the music faded away.

  Clear my mind, clear my mind, he repeated to himself.

  Instead of clearing it, his mind flooded with thoughts: Did I pick the right ball? Will I be able to make the ball lift off the table? What if I never figure this out? How long does it take most witches to do this? Will I be slower than everybody else? Does Beverly think I’m slow?

  “Maybe picture the inside of your mind as completely black as you take a deep breath,” she suggested.

  He saw a cave, a dark cave, and imagined it expanding until the walls were the borders of his brain.

  But was the cave somewhere in the Northwest? If so, it was probably wet inside. So he made moss appear.

  But that might not be the right kind of cave. How about a dry cave? That would be better.

  But were there bats?

  “Or just emptiness,” his aunt offered. “Just let there be emptiness.”

  This was a lot harder than he had thought it would be. Ever since he had activated the broomstick on Saturday and performed correctly some of the other tasks Malcolm had given him, he had thought he was home free. Why wasn’t it working today?

  He concentrated on listening to the ball. He heard nothing except for some kids shouting to each other outside. Could he feel the ball inside of himself? That had been a suggestion from one of the adult witches up at Malcolm’s.

  The suggestion hadn’t worked then, and it wasn’t working now.

  “Deep breath in and out. In and out,” Beverly said.

  He didn’t know he had been holding his breath. He exhaled through his mouth. The air hit the three balls on the table and pushed them toward Beverly.

  “Well, that’s certainly one way to do it,” she said, stopping the balls from rolling off the table with her hand.

  He laughed. “You sounded like Randall when you said that.”