by A. W. Jantha
Mom notices us even though her eyes are still on her files. “The ones by the toaster are finished,” she says, not realizing Travis has already homed in on the cookies and popped one in his mouth.
“Just testing them out,” he says through a mouthful. “They’re not poisonous.”
I ignore him. “Can we help with decorations?” I ask Mom. Then I turn to Travis and mumble, “If we’re having this party, we might as well try to make it good.”
“I would love that,” she says, circling something in her file. “Give me two seconds.”
Travis pours himself a glass of milk and hands me a cookie without waiting to see whether I actually want it. They’re soft and still a little warm. It’s my mom’s special recipe. Travis stacks three on top of each other and eats them together like a cookie sandwich—in the most literal sense of the term.
Mom caps her pen and looks up. Her face falls. “Oh, Poppy, you’re soaked.”
I pull my still-wet hair to one side. “Yeah...” I clear my throat. My day’s been so weird that if I tell her about any part of it, she’ll immediately think it has something to do with witches. The witches. I look desperately at Travis.
“Saline conductivity!” he says, choking on cookie crumbs. He takes a gulp of milk to wash it down. “We were doing experiments to show that the more salt you have in water, the more easily it conducts electricity. But then my lab partner got bored and threw the experimental fluid on everyone.”
“That seems...dramatic?” says Mom.
Travis shrugs. “High school.”
Mom laughs. “Fair.” She pushes back from the kitchen table and stands up. “That reminds me, it’s a blood moon tonight, so...I want you two to be more careful than usual, okay?”
“That’s what Travis’s chem experiment reminds you of? The blood moon tonight?” I say before I can stop myself. Even though I told Travis my family’s story years and years ago, it still sounds nuts every time Mom or Dad brings it up.
“What?” Mom says flatly. “The blood moon could amplify magic and—”
I cut in. “Mom.” I glance at Travis, who is occupying himself with more cookies and milk, trying to stay out of it. I feel myself blushing. Why can’t my family just be normal? Why do my parents have to believe something so out there that we get in fights over it, and in front of poor Travis? And then I cringe, remembering that I’ve already accidentally spilled my family’s Sanderson secret to someone else—Katie Taylor. The worst possible person.
Mom shrugs and selects a finished cookie. “All I’m saying is that it’s nights like these that make me wish we knew where Winifred Sanderson’s spell book had gotten to.”
“Mom.”
“I know, I know,” she says, arranging the cookies on a tray. “Some kids probably picked it up, but what if they still have it tucked in a trunk somewhere? What if someone finds it or reads from it? It’s not safe to have that thing roaming around.”
“Mom, it’s not roaming around,” I say. “It’s a book.” I pause a second, my mind racing, and then everything clicks into place: “That’s why you’re throwing this party.”
“What?” Mom spins around, takes a bite of her cookie, and leans back against the kitchen counter. She watches me thoughtfully as she chews.
Travis has also paused to watch me.
“This whole party,” I insist. “Isn’t it enough that you tried to get the Sanderson house condemned and locked up the Black Flame Candle in a safe? Do you have to humiliate me and play Big Brother, too? You’re throwing this party to keep me and my friends from getting beamed up into the blood moon, or whatever it is that you think could happen tonight.”
Travis’s eyebrows rise in surprise.
Silence fills the kitchen.
“Okay, I didn’t deserve that,” Mom says. “But you have a point. Yes, I’m trying to make sure as many teenagers as possible are otherwise occupied, including you and your friends, but I promise I never intended to humiliate you. I just want to throw a party and give all your classmates toothaches while keeping anything bad from happening to you. Is that so terrible?”
I grunt.
“I promise they won’t realize that your mother is a little superstitious, or that your father and I and your aunt Dani believe in witches and zombies, okay?”
Sure, watch over me and my friends. But this still doesn’t solve the problem that is Katie Taylor spilling to all the party guests that my family believes in ghost stories, if she hasn’t done so already.
“Or have I already embarrassed you?” Mom’s voice is deliberately calm and even, but I can tell she’s hurt by the way I insist on distancing myself from this part of my family’s history. She hasn’t finished eating her cookie. She holds it by her side listlessly.
I think about what I’d do if I introduced Isabella to Mom and Mom started going on about the blood moon and werewolves or whatever, and the thought of that makes me even queasier. I resolve to keep Mom as far away from Isabella as humanly (or nonhumanly?) possible.
I shrug. “No, you don’t embarrass me,” I tell her. “Besides, it’s just Travis.”
“Hey!” Travis says through another mouthful of cookie.
I ignore him. “But...”
“But you’re afraid I’m going to say something weird tonight in front of all your classmates.”
I don’t say anything, but she knows she’s right.
Mom comes over and tucks a strand of damp hair behind my ear. “I get it, Poppy, I do. I promise I won’t say anything I wouldn’t have wanted my mom to say to me as a teenager.”
I bite my bottom lip. I know that despite their own hang-ups, my parents go out of their way to try to make sure my life is happy and relatively well-adjusted. “Thank you,” I say with reluctance.
Mom breaks off half of her cookie and hands it to me. “Now get some more sugar in you. I need volunteers for pumpkin duty. You didn’t think the house was going to be this decoration-less for the party, did you?” Then she looks at Travis. “And maybe save some cookies for our guests?”
Mom specializes in last-minute party decor, like Martha Stewart hooked to an egg timer.
Travis and I help by doing a clean sweep of the house, and by wrapping pumpkins in black tulle and patterned ribbons and arranging them in the entry hall and dining room under Mom’s watchful eye. In the entry hall, we set up a Pinterest-worthy treat buffet table and dump eighteen pounds of candy into a cauldron that, as far as I can tell, Nana and Grampa stored in the garage to pull out once a year expressly for this purpose. Well, I guess late is better than never.
After the halls are made merry with fright, Travis and I scramble up the long staircase to my room, where we’re supposed to wrap a hundred lollipops with tissue paper and ribbon to make tiny ghost party favors. I draw eyes and a gaping mouth on the tissue paper with a felt pen, then look up to see Travis lounging in the beanbag chair in the corner. We’re both too big for it by now, but I wouldn’t let Mom give it away—it’s my BFF’s favorite place to study and sketch stuff.
On either side of him are framed photos I’ve taken and developed: on the left, chipped paint on the steps of the cemetery chapel with the pale curl of a spring vine climbing through the cracks; on the right, a pile of smooth, round stones with grains of sand sticking to their sides and a small crab standing on top, brandishing its claws like it’s supreme ruler of the world. Above it, there’s a photo of the rusted balcony of the lighthouse with its grimy windows glinting in the sun, and another showing a close-up of the sinewy bark of the redwoods in Muir Woods.
Travis has a look of extreme concentration as he draws on his tissue paper. I like the way the light of the setting sun slants through the curtains and over his face. The shadows spilling down one side are striking, and I fish out my camera again and snap a photo before he can move.
He glances up. “Is that for my fan club website?”
“The Chusetts.” I set my camera down on the bed. “Hey, I’m sorry about my mom.”
; He shrugs. “Family,” he says. “Happens to the best of us.”
But we both know he’s just being nice. His parents are deeply normal, and he’s the oldest of four, including a five-year-old sister whom he adores. They don’t have any skeletons in their family closet, as far as I know. The skeletons in our family closet can dance and sing, apparently.
I finish another ghost pop and pick up my laptop to find reference images for spooky ghost expressions. When I pull up the browser, I find it’s on Isabella’s Instagram. It’s a good thing Travis is better at math than he is at subtlety. There are a couple of selfies, a variety of bonfire shots from the summer, and pictures from various school clubs and service activities. She actually has a pretty good eye. And her reposts of baby sloths, fluffy wide-eyed puppies, delicious-looking pizza and tacos, and Jyn Erso score big points.
I come across a selfie that I’d forgotten she took. In it, she’s sitting next to Travis and me on the bleachers, a cool September breeze tossing my hair together with her dark curls. Travis is trying to push in front of me and I’m laughing and shoving him back. Isabella is laughing, too. She captioned it #NoFilter #NoNewFriends, which is ironic because we only started hanging out a week before that photo was taken, a sudden friendship that came out of left field and that Travis and I accepted fairly quickly, despite my wondering why she chose us, of all people.
“You should just set it as your home page,” Travis jokes.
“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Then I ask, “Hey, why do you think Isabella’s been hanging out with us this school year?”
Travis holds out his latest ghost pop to me. His comic book skills are in full effect and I feel bad for the people who will be getting my ghosts instead of his. “Boo-yoncé,” he clarifies, in case I couldn’t tell from his very accurate drawing. He adds it to his pile on a silver serving tray. “I think she’s been hanging out with us because we’re both interesting people, and she’s an interesting person, and I think maybe the two of you would be even more interesting together if you ever get the guts to ask her out already.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “I’m being serious,” I say.
“I am, too,” he says. “I saw you both making eyes at each other over lunch, even if you think I’m too blind to notice.”
I gape at him. “Isabella Richards was not making eyes at me.”
“Sure, whatever,” he says, dashing off another celebrity face and moving on to his next ghost. “But you and I both know that Isabella Richards doesn’t do anything that isn’t on purpose.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s been shooting for the Ivy League since she was teething,” he says. “That girl has drive. She knows what she wants, and she knows there’s a lot standing in her way. She doesn’t waste time on stuff if she can help it.” He gives me a pointed look. “Which means she isn’t wasting time on you.”
“Or maybe she’s not wasting time on you,” I swipe back.
Now it’s time for him to roll his eyes. “Not you, too,” he says. He’s referring to the fact that when he moved here six years ago, half the school assumed the two of them would end up dating because they’re both black.
But what if he’s right and Isabella was flirting with me?
“You okay, Pops?” Travis asks.
I glance up and see that he looks concerned.
“Yeah,” I say, looking at the damage I’ve done to my ghost, which is spotted all over with uneven circles. “Polka ghost,” I explain, as if it’s totally on purpose.
“More like measles ghost,” he says, and I stick out my tongue at him.
“What I was trying to say,” Travis clarifies, “is that I’ve had a lot of crushes, so I know what one looks like. And to me, it looks like Isabella wants to be more than friends with you.”
“Speaking of which, I haven’t heard much about your love life lately,” I say.
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Travis says, raising an eyebrow. “That might work on Ms. Ahmed, but I know you way too well. We’re talking about you—and Isabella—right now.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. I won’t admit it, but secretly I’m glad he’s not letting me sidetrack him. Getting his angle on the whole Isabella sitch is the best thing that’s happened to me all day.
“Listen, I don’t want to pressure you,” he continues, “but just know I’m here for you, if you end up asking her out and for some ridiculous reason she says no.”
“Thanks,” I say. And I mean it.
“You cool?” he asks. It’s been a weird day for me, and he’s worried.
“Super cool,” I say. I’m thankful I have a friend like Travis. He gets me.
The doorbell rings and I startle. “I really don’t want to go to this party,” I tell him, as if he hasn’t heard me whine about it for the past three weeks.
“It’ll be good for you.” He unfolds himself from the beanbag chair. “It’s time.”
“We can’t go down now!” I protest. “We’ll be the sad people who got there too early.”
He laughs. “Poppy, it’s your house. You can’t show up late to your own party. What’ll you tell people? Traffic on the stairs?” He grabs his duffel bag and unzips it. “I know you’re not big on costumes,” he says, pulling out a black blob. “But you’ll be the only one down there without one.” He hands me the piece of fabric and it blooms into a slightly crumpled witch’s hat with a dramatic curl at the tip. The edge of the brim is a bright red. Next he hands me a small black mask with gold and ruby crystals. “My mom made it for you,” he says. “You’re an undercover witch. One of her top sellers.”
I run my thumb over the intricate pattern of swirls curling out from the eyes of the mask. His mom runs an Etsy shop in her free time, and I know she’s super busy around the holidays, so the gesture means even more. “I love it,” I say. “It’s gorgeous. But my mom will kill me if I wear this. I mean, a witch?”
“Live a little,” says Travis. “She’s throwing a party to celebrate twenty-five years without witches. Show her you’re celebrating, too.” He takes the hat from me and stuffs it onto my head. “It’s boo-tiful.”
“Ha. Thanks.”
“Look, we both know you had words with your mom earlier because you’re feeling guilty about Katie overhearing you. But guess what? It happened, and unfortunately time travel hasn’t been discovered yet, so you’re going to have to live with it. Own it.” He hands me a stick that looks whittled by hand. “Keep calm and carry a wand,” he says, smirking. “Or, you know, try using it to turn Katie into a frog if things get really desperate. And don’t worry. I got your back.” He checks his phone, then picks up his duffel bag and goes to change into his secret costume.
I give an exaggerated sigh as he leaves the room, but when I turn to the mirror over my dresser, I’m smiling. “Thank you!” I call out. “You’re the best, Trav!”
I straighten the witch’s hat on my head and narrow my eyes. “Let’s do this.”
Idescend the stairs from my room to find the entry hall is already pretty full of guests.
Huey, Dewey, and Louie chat with Mary Poppins in one corner while a handful of adults dressed as different presidents are circled up in the adjoining room—I recognize two of the men from my mom’s office, so I pin all of them as lawyers. I wouldn’t put it past them to be discussing a case, but Mom will put an end to that if she sees it. Parties are for partying, she says. Everything else, I guess, is for work. I even spot Dad talking to Miss Chen. For her costume, she’s traded her staple black T-shirt for a white one, which is actually kind of hilarious.
At the bottom of the stairs, I adjust the strap of my camera around my neck. I debated whether to bring it down with me, but it’s kind of the best party accessory, because when conversations peter out, you can point at it apologetically and excuse yourself to take pictures in a less awkward location. Or even fake taking pictures until you come up with an escape plan.
Adena Jones and Patsy Roth, two girls from my grade, are standing at
the treat table near Juan Jimenez, one of Travis’s friends. Juan is dressed as a hot young vampire, and the girls are a good and evil ballerina, respectively—one wearing heavy black eye makeup and a black tutu with red accents, and the other wearing a sparkling tiara and white tutu with silver accents.
I walk over. “Hey,” I say. “Thanks for coming.” I feel a wave of gratitude toward them and the universe that they’re the first kids from school at our party. It would be hard to pick an easier crowd.
“Cool mask, Poppy!” says Adena.
“I love your hat!” adds Patsy. “Classic!”
“Thanks!” I say.
“These cookies are awesome,” Juan says around a bite.
I laugh. “Yeah, dark chocolate chip cookies are, like, the only things my mom bakes.”
Travis comes up behind me with an extra cup of cider, which I accept as I study his secret costume for the first time. A bloody unicorn horn spirals through one shoulder, and his lab coat is carefully scorched along the bottom hem. His coat is also dirtied by splotches of green and purple and yellow, and a very realistic vampire bite drips fake blood down his throat. He’s draped a stethoscope around his neck, as well, probably borrowed from his father, who’s a PA.
“Mad scientist?” I ask.
“Mythical creature researcher!” he says proudly. He rips open his coat and all of us cower as if he’s about to flash us. Instead, he reveals a black T-shirt with the middle ripped out and a horrible worm monster climbing out of his stomach.
Adena actually screams when she sees it, then laughs nervously at herself.
“I need to feed!” Juan shouts, grabbing Travis by the shoulders and going for the unmarked side of his neck with his mouth. The two of them exaggerate their wrestling, moving into a slow-motion fight that Travis eventually loses. The girls and I exchange smiles.
