“I don’t know. I thought I’d have to, I don’t know, prepare or something.”
Malcolm’s laugh was loud in his ear.
“This isn’t the Eagle Scouts, Charlie. It’s not like you have to earn a badge before you advance. All you have to do is show up. Leave the rest to me. The preparation will be afterwards. That’s when you’ll have to learn everything.”
Later, long after he had hung up the phone, Charlie sat in the window seat looking out at the dark night. The trees stood tall, like sentinels, in the yard. An occasional car would drive down the street, its headlights casting a cone of thick yellow directly in front of it. Somewhere out there, a witch and her group were trying to hunt him down. Somewhere out there Grace was planning stuff, stuff that could hurt the people Charlie was getting to know better.
Even though he had been surprised and a bit scared when Malcolm said it would be this Sunday, he knew it had to be soon. Things were coming, and Charlie needed to be ready for them.
“Hen weixian,” he heard the girl from his dream say out loud, as if she were standing there in the bedroom next to him, looking out into the darkness.
CHAPTER 45
The Warehouse
AND THAT WAS HOW CHARLIE found himself on Sunday night sitting in the second row on a metal folding chair with ten or so other kids in the middle of a large warehouse in South Seattle. About thirty adults stood along the walls behind him. They sipped at their Starbucks cups, whispering in each other’s ears and stamping their feet to stay warm.
The warehouse, near Boeing Field, was as big as an airplane hangar. Apparently it had been used at one point to repair planes. Now it belonged to someone in the community.
The adults were excited, waving to each other and smiling. The kids just seemed scared. Some of them talked to each other. Most sat silently, bouncing their legs or kicking the floor. A few of them looked over their shoulders to check out Charlie, with borderline curiosity, then stared back at their shoes. Or the ceiling. Or their fingernails. They seemed to range in age from about ten to sixteen or seventeen. He didn’t recognize any of them from school.
He could barely breathe.
Beverly had driven Charlie to the warehouse that evening. The day had begun bright and sunny, but the sky soon turned gray and filled with thick billowy clouds. Charlie watched the storm clouds in the afternoon approaching across the Sound from the Olympics, and just as they seemed to hit the shore on the Seattle side, fat raindrops began to drop on the deck. It had rained a slow steady downpour for the rest of the day and into the evening.
His aunt drove through their neighborhood and headed down the long hill that led to the West Seattle Bridge.
“I love heated seats when the weather starts to turn,” she said, shivering as she patted the leather upholstery with a free hand.
“Beverly, does anyone ever not get popped?”
“What do you mean, honey?”
“I mean, what if someone just can’t, you know, get popped? Like maybe Malcolm can’t open them?”
“You make it sound like those two or three clams in the bucket that never open, the ones you’re supposed to throw away,” she had smiled.
“I’m serious. Does it ever happen?”
“Yes, it does. Rarely. And I mean, very rarely, Charlie. Sometimes it’s too late for somebody. The window of opportunity closes, and they can’t be popped. Or you hear old stories of witches trying to forcefully pop people. Legends of someone resisting being popped. If they resisted hard enough, it wouldn’t happen.
“And also,” she continued, “sometimes a community is wrong. Sometimes someone just doesn’t have the blood legacy in them. No matter how hard people try, they just don’t have it.
“But,” she continued, a thoughtful look passing over her face as she drove, “does it ever happen that someone who hasn’t missed the opportunity, who is open to it, and has the legacy in their blood, still doesn’t get popped? I guess it could. But I don’t know of anyone.”
“But it could happen, right?”
Beverly looked at Charlie, then pulled over to the side of the road at the base of the hill. She turned off the windshield wipers and cut the engine.
“Are you worried that you’re going to be a dud? That it won’t work on you?”
“Well, no … well, yeah, I guess so. What if it doesn’t work on me?”
“I guess we’ll have to deal with it then. But let me put it this way: I would be very surprised, very surprised, if that’s what happens. I tell you what. I would even be willing to bet you that it won’t. I would even be willing to bet you, oh, say, two hundred dollars that you’ll get popped.”
His aunt’s wager tickled him. He could feel an inch or two of pressure, coming from his worry that he wouldn’t become a witch, release from his shoulders, his neck.
“Two hundred dollars? That’s not very much. I thought you said you, or we, had a lot of money.”
“Okay, Mr. Smarty-Pants, how much should I bet you? A thousand dollars? More?”
“No, something else. Let’s see …” he said, enjoying the game. “How about if I win, if I’m not popped, I never have to do dishes again.”
“Done!”
“And I never have to weed the garden.”
“Done!”
“And I never have to, uh, wash your car, put my clothes away, or ever go grocery shopping.”
“Done, done, done! And I’ll make you breakfast in bed every morning for the rest of your life,” she added
“Done!” They both laughed. Charlie relaxed a bit into his warm leather seat.
The silly bet proved to him how much confidence his aunt had in the process much better than if she had just told him not to worry. He knew she wasn’t the kind to serve breakfast in bed every morning.
Earlier in the day he had called Diego. He needed to tell him that he wouldn’t be in school the next day. Or the next. Or maybe even all week.
“Yeah, it’s stupid, but I have to go back to California to get some stuff. And help my mom.” He knew it was the right thing to do, lying like this to Diego. But he didn’t like it, especially after so much honesty with the boy in the past two days.
“Seriously? You get to miss school? Not fair.”
“I thought you liked school.”
“I do. But I like adventures too.”
You have no idea what kind of adventure I’m about to take, Charlie had wanted to say over the phone.
“Anyway, when will you be back?”
“Not sure. Friday at the latest. Maybe Wednesday or Thursday.”
“You driving down?”
“Nah. Flying. You know my uncle’s a pilot, right? We get to fly really cheap as a family.” Was this what it would be like from here on out? That being a witch meant you always had to lie, always had to make sure you kept your stories straight? He didn’t like it.
Charlie had never been on a plane in his life. He hoped he sounded legitimate to Diego. If the boy asked him anything about the plane or what airport he was flying to, Charlie knew he would be in trouble.
“Is it weird to say that I’ll miss you?” Diego had asked, his voice quiet.
“What? No, no, that’s cool. I, uh, I’ll miss you too.”
“You’re just saying that ’cause I said it.”
“Come on. I mean it.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Charlie answered, realizing that telling the truth about how he felt was even harder then lying.
The group of kids sat waiting in the warehouse. Some of them looked over their shoulders and waved to their parents. One boy had to keep getting up to go to the bathroom.
Beverly had explained that there would be a lot of adults there.
“To help out.”
“Help out with what?”
“Well, Charlie, when people get popped, everything can get a little weird. It’s like taking the lid off of a pressure cooker. There’s a lot of heat in there, and you never know what could happen.”
“No, not bad stuff. More like, it wouldn’t be a good idea to have thirty kindergarteners over to your house for a birthday party without other adults around to supervise. One person couldn’t be everywhere at once, keeping an eye on things.”
“So the adults will be there to keep an eye on us?”
“Something like that. Listen. When someone is popped, a lot of power comes out. There’s more power present when you are popped than you’ll ever experience as a more mature witch. We just want to make sure everyone stays safe.”
“Why isn’t Randall coming?”
“What? Oh, Charlie, this event is only for us.”
“You mean, like ‘us’ us?” he asked, pointing his finger at her and then back at himself.
“Yes, just for ‘us’ us.”
Beverly walked in front of the kids and got their attention.
“Listen up, everyone. Malcolm just texted me to say that he should be here in about five minutes. Does anyone want a juice box or water? Or some snacks? We’ve got plenty of …”
With that, they all stood up and rushed over to a small table filled with drinks, fruit, and potato chips.
“Hope this isn’t a bad idea. Do you think they’ll all keep it down? I don’t want to have to clean up …” Charlie heard a man behind him say.
“Ron, will you shut it? Please? Just shut it. You can be so insensitive sometimes,” a woman whispered back. Charlie didn’t want to think about what the man meant.
“Hi, everybody,” a voice called a few moments later from the small doorway at the corner of the building. The larger entrance with a garage-style door and a hydraulic hoist remained closed.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Malcolm as he greeted a few of the adults nearest the door. He carried a travel mug and sipped at it as he walked. He came to the front of the chairs and asked the kids to sit down and join him.
“Was everyone able to make it?” he asked the adults standing in the back. They replied with nods and yeses.
“Okay. Now, why don’t we begin? Does anyone have any questions?”
“I do,” said a thin wispy-haired girl sitting two chairs down from Charlie. She had thick-lensed glasses, a large scab on her chin, and looked to be about twelve or thirteen years old. Charlie hoped she didn’t get teased too much. Kids back in Clarkston would have pounced on her nerdy looks.
“Approximately how long do you think this will take?” she said.
Malcolm smiled. “Why, do you have somewhere else to be, Princess? Maybe a club opening?”
The adults laughed. None of the kids did. Charlie couldn’t figure out if it was out of a sense of solidarity or just plain nerves that kept the other kids from joining in on the joke.
“No,” answered the girl, her neck turning red and blotchy. “I just … I just want to know what’ll it be like, is all,” she said, her voice dropping off to a whisper at the end.
“Like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. Other questions.”
“I’m not really sure if I’m ready. What if it isn’t time for me yet?” asked a pudgy boy in a navy-blue sweatshirt who looked to be about Charlie’s age.
“You are, kid. No worries about that. You are all ripe as late August peaches.”
“If there are no other questions …”
“My daughter Madeleine has to take allergy medication,” said a woman in the back. “It’s usually before she goes to bed. Should I give it to her now, or …”
“Yes, now would be fine,” said Malcolm, his smile wearing thin.
The woman walked up to the group of kids, rummaging around in her purse.
“Mom, please!” whispered an older girl with red hair tied in a braid. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“I know, I know, it’s what I’ve been put on this planet to do, apparently. Here,” she said, handing her daughter some capsules and a bottle of water.
The girl swallowed the pills, handed the bottle back to her mother, and turned away in a huff. However, soon after swallowing, Charlie saw her turn around and mouth the words “thank you” to the line of adults against the back wall.
“If there are no further interruptions,” Malcolm said, “let’s begin.”
CHAPTER 46
Chicken and Egg
MALCOLM STOOD ABOUT TEN FEET in front of them and closed his eyes. His lips began to move. Occasionally he would hold one hand or the other out in front of him, then let it drop. He looked a little like a crazy guy on a street corner talking to the voices in his head.
Or to God, Charlie thought. He had heard those crazy people sometimes thought they were talking to God.
“Could be God,” said the girl sitting to his right. “Or he could just be one of those crazy people on the street corner.”
Charlie looked at her. Her lips were pursed tightly together, trying to stifle a laugh. Had he spoken aloud? Malcolm had said witches couldn’t read minds. Then how …?
He snorted and then laughter bubbled out of his lips before he could hold it back. They giggled together with their hands clamped over their mouths.
Charlie, stop it! he tried to tell himself. This is not appropriate for the popping ceremony!
“How did you do that?” the same girl asked him.
“Do what?”
“Make your nose and ears move like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like this,” she said. Her ears began to wiggle, and the surface of her nose undulated as if tiny ball bearings were moving back and forth beneath her skin.
“Cool! Gross!” Charlie exclaimed.
One of the boys in the front row stood up and said to no one in particular, “Come on, Lisa, let’s blow this taco stand!”
The boy started to walk forward, but as he moved, he flickered like a light bulb about to go out, changing from a young kid to a much older man in a white suit with silver hair, then back to a kid again. Charlie wondered who Lisa was.
“Looks like Steve Martin is the evening’s entertainment,” said the girl next to him. She was right. The kid kept switching back and forth, between himself and what looked like Steve Martin.
Charlie found himself leaning against the wall, quite far from the rows of folding chairs. The cement felt cool on his face. He didn’t know how he had moved across the floor so fast. But he didn’t care.
“I really like it here,” he said, then looked up to see a few adults nearby, watching him.
“That’s great,” one of them said.
“I know, huh? It’s so great. But not as great as up there,” Charlie said, pointing to the ceiling.
He began to crawl up the wall. It was much easier than he would have thought. Not like an insect, or a rock climber. It was like …
“A wall champion!” he said, then wondered why he had never done this before. It was such a nice thing to do and such a useful way to get around. An electric guitar solo exploded in the air as his own personal wall-climbing soundtrack.
When he reached the top of the wall, he saw that the pudgy kid in the navy-blue sweatshirt had climbed up with him. The music had stopped.
“Pretty good view, hey sailor?” the kid said, then winked.
“I’ll say,” Charlie replied. But he found himself crying, tears streaming down his face in torrents.
“What’s wrong? Did someone die?” asked the kid.
Images of a black-skinned family were running through Charlie’s head. They were hard-working, dressed in old-fashioned clothes. He saw them building the airplane hangar that he was in. He knew they had built it with a government contract and then had leased it to Boeing Field after the war. It had given them pride, a good income, and status among their community.
“The first Negroes to win a government contract, the Tanner Family built this warehouse in 1938 with determination, commitment, and excellence in design. Seattle is proud to call them citizens,” Charlie said, his voice sounding like a narrator from a documentary on public television.
&nbs
p; He placed his hand against the blank wall in front of him. A soft orange light began to glow between his hand and the cement. When he pulled his hand away, a gold-plated plaque was embedded in the wall.
It read: The first Negroes to win a government contract, the Tanner Family built this warehouse in 1938 with determination, commitment, and excellence in design. Seattle is proud to call them citizens.
“That was the right thing to do,” said the kid next to him. He was crying too. “We need to honor all of our heroes, no matter their skin color.”
Soon Charlie was floating in midair, suspended high above the folding chairs. A boy and a girl he didn’t recognize were in front of him, also floating. They were holding hands and facing each other. He watched as they leaned back and away from each other, bringing their knees up to their chests, and then pushed against each other’s feet, executing backwards somersaults while never letting go of each other’s hands.
“Looks like I’ll have to get in on this little party,” Charlie said. Soon he was turning endless somersaults with the boy and the girl, sometimes holding hands with them and sometimes doing them all by himself.
At one point they all held hands with their bodies stretched like skydivers in formation, as a strong wind blew up at them, making their cheeks shake and their eyes water.
Then the wind stopped.
“But what I’ve always really wanted to do is trick waterskiing,” said the girl, as she began to fade away like the Cheshire cat.
Charlie found himself alone in midair, high up near the ceiling. He looked down at the floor. He saw adults running here and there as the thin wispy-haired girl, whom Malcolm had called a princess, shot sizzling bolts of white electricity from her hands. The bolts didn’t seem to hit anyone, but small flames erupted wherever they landed.
A sudden sense of heaviness descended on him, and he began floating downward against his will. Below him, several adults stood with arms outstretched as if to catch him.
“Don’t you touch me!” he shouted at them. “You’re all a bunch of faggots and lesbians! Where’s my Aunt Beverly? She’s the only one I let catch me. Where is Beverly?”
The Boy Who Couldn't Fly Straight: A Gay Teen Coming of Age Paranormal Adventure about Witches, Murder, and Gay Teen Love (Book 1, The Broom Closet Stories) Page 25
