Rise of the Moon: Arcana Book One

by JB Caine

  "Don't even joke about something like that. I'd never trust anyone else to see this before my pitch."

  "You don't need to even worry, girl. You've got this. There's no way Adams would choose her over you when you're this passionate about your script. I'll come over right after I drop Ty off at home, okay?" Tyler was Treigh's younger, but much taller, brother.

  "Thank you so much! I'm freaking out."

  "Breathe, just breathe. It's going to be fine. Just get through the day, and we'll go over all of it tonight. Adams won't know what hit him, and Gemma will be crying in a corner when you're done with her."

  Just getting through the day was a task in itself. My classes were a blur, I was distracted and distant, and my play became my sole focus. After school, I drove home as fast as I dared, and waited anxiously for Treigh to arrive.

  I pulled into the driveway beside the small yellow and white house that was truly my mother’s dream home. When you tell people that you live in Florida, they imagine one of two things: either you live on the beach, or you live at Disney World. The truth is that most of Florida isn’t like either of those things. A lot of it is swamp, a lot of it is cookie-cutter suburbs, and a lot of it is cattle ranches. St. Augustine isn’t really any of that either. I mean, there is a beach, but that’s not where my mom chose to settle. We were nicely situated a little bit north of the historic district in the oldest city in the United States. Our little bungalow-style house was nestled amongst huge ancient oak trees, not a palm to be seen.

  I climbed out of my car and, instead of going in the side door to the kitchen, I walked around to the oversized screened porch on the front of the house to watch for Treigh. After an excruciating half hour, his silver Altima cruised around the corner and parked on the street in front of my house. He strolled up the front walk, shaking his head and talking to himself in frustration.

  “Have the voices finally gotten to you?” I asked him.

  “Girl, this child is going to be the death of me. I’m going to go prematurely gray trying to keep peace between him and my dad. Being a big brother can be a colossal pain in the rear.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No, girl, I live it, and that’s bad enough. Suffice to say that if that boy has a bedroom door when I get home, I’ll be surprised.”

  “Ew. Slamming?” Last time Tyler Allen had taken to slamming doors on his father, he’d come home one afternoon to find out that his bedroom door had been removed from its hinges and stored in the garage until his attitude improved.

  “So much slamming. But enough about that. Let’s hear about your story plan.”

  I summarized the story I had in mind...a woman against the establishment, a tragic tale of the cost of being one’s authentic self, no matter the cost. When I finished, Treigh gushed approval.

  “Okay, you’ve sold me, my love, but Adams is going to be a tougher customer. How are you going to stage this? You have to think business here. Economy of effort...maximum effect with minimum sets and expenses.”

  He was right, and that’s why I needed his input. The story was good, but Gemma’s would be good, too. I needed to set myself apart with impressive, yet simple stagecraft. Treigh wasn’t in drama, but he hung out with enough of the cast members to know the mechanics of the business. Leave it to him to remind me of the practical aspects of the pitch. He’d make quite a marketing manager someday, I was sure.

  After running through the pitch a couple of times and ironing out some staging ideas to make the most of lights as a way of creating different locations instead of building multiple sets, Treigh gave me a big hug and went home to see if his little brother had managed to smooth things over, or was grounded until Judgement Day.

  My mom showed up with Chinese take-out, bless her. We plopped down at the kitchen table and I told her all about my play, my pitch, and my competition with Gemma. Unlike a lot of teenagers, I really didn’t have a lot of conflict with my mom. Maybe that’s because it had always really been just the two of us. She and my dad had never been married, and he really had never been all that involved in my life, other than holiday cards and some money now and then. The truth was that I’d never met the man, and he seemed to have no interest in meeting me either. I wasn’t actually bitter about it; I sort of liked feeling like I had her all to myself, and though I had never pressed the subject, because ew gross, I got the impression they hadn’t been much more than a fling. According to Mom, he lived in London, and she had no pictures of him.

  “So, why do you think this girl decided to enter the playwriting competition all of a sudden?” my mom asked.

  “She said she’d already competed in all the other categories.” I couldn’t keep the saltiness out of my voice, and I didn’t really try to.

  “Do you think she’s feeling as competitive as you are?”

  “Honestly, Mom, I don’t know. I can’t get a good read on her. We’ve had a class or two together for the last couple of years, and she seems civil enough, but I always feel like there’s a whole behind-the-scenes agenda I’m not quite getting, you know?”

  “Maybe she doesn’t have an agenda.” My mom, ever the optimist.

  I shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. But she’s kind of the Queen Bee of the junior class. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just jealous.”

  “You don’t need to be jealous of anyone. You’re the most interesting teenager I know.”

  “Not that you have any bias on that subject at all,” I smiled, and hugged her over the eggrolls.

  “Nope. None at all,” she grinned back.

  Chapter 3

  Wednesday night, I found myself waking up nearly every hour, itching with anxiety about my script pitch, and nervous that I might oversleep. At just after five a.m., I gave up and dragged myself out of bed. I started the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand it. Even though I'd showered before bed the night before, I felt like I needed the water thrumming against my skin in order to push me into full consciousness.

  As I stood under the water, the protagonist in my play pulled at my attention, forming and changing and evolving into the tragic heroine I imagined her to be. Esther. Hebrew for “hidden or secret”. A woman alone, a woman standing against society, fighting for her right to be herself by remaining hidden...a poetic irony, I thought. As I turned off the water and stepped out into the steamy bathroom, I imagined that I WAS Esther, and I felt my character's inner strength, fueled by solitude and the judgement of others.

  I wiped the steam off the mirror and looked at my face. My dark hair and brown eyes stood out starkly against my fair skin in the steam from the shower. I towel-dried my hair and combed it out deliberately, imagining Esther doing the same, but hundreds of years distant in time. I smiled. I would bring Esther to life and tell her story. She was an unstoppable force, like me.

  An hour later, I found myself staring in another mirror, a full-length one this time. I evaluated my outfit, simple but carefully chosen to assert my uniqueness, a silent message to Gemma and anyone else who tried to challenge me. I had selected my Emily the Strange “Lost For Life” tank top and my favorite pair of ripped blue jeans, with red plaid tights underneath. My trademark black Doc Martens with roses embroidered on them not only made me feel invincible, they also boosted my petite frame by over an inch. My black hair and kitten bangs were glossy and straight, and my “war paint” (as I called my makeup) was pin-up perfect. I wore three silver pendants: a pair of angel wings, a dragon claw holding an onyx sphere, and a crescent moon.

  I liked how I felt: Strong. Confident. Unapologetically unique.

  I headed down the stairs and toward the kitchen, hoping to grab something on my way out the door. Surprisingly, my mother (who was very much not a morning person) was already up and bustling about, and the kitchen was filled with the energizing scent of peppermint tea.

  “Good morning, sunshine!” my mother greeted me. “I made a travel cup of tea for you! Take a couple of your Aunt Kitty's biscotti, too. You'll need your
energy today!” My powerhouse of a mother, Maddy Alvarez, had paid several visits to my room the night before as I had been repeatedly rehearsing my pitch in front of Treigh. She hadn’t said much, but she clearly knew something was up, and that it was something I considered important.

  The kindness of the supportive gesture electrified my already buoyant mood, and I grabbed my mother from behind in a fierce hug. "You're the best, Momma!" I cooed. I grabbed the thermal cup and biscotti and swept out the door toward the car.

  “Don't you just look like you're feeling yourself today?” Treigh greeted me as he swept into Trig. “I’m loving your whole vibe right now. You must be feeling pretty good about this afternoon, huh?”

  “You know, I really am,” I replied. “I think I'm really going to make an impression on Adams. Gemma thinks this is a play about witches, and it is, sort of, but it's really about a woman being true to herself. I think Adams will appreciate that.”

  “Gemma who? No, seriously. You are going to kill this. I just know it.”

  “Thanks for all your help last night. I feel so much better having gone through it a few times. I'm not usually one to have the stage to myself, you know? I was sort of panicking.”

  “Hey, that is what I am here for.” The bell rang to signal the start of class, and we took our seats. Mr. Nash stood up from his desk with a stack of papers in his hand.

  “Well, guys, I've graded Tuesday's quiz, and it's pretty clear that some of you aren't really understanding how to do derivatives...”

  Treigh groaned and slumped in his seat as Mr. Nash made his way up and down the rows. He plopped my paper down, and I nodded at the circled 82 on top. Behind me, Treigh had a sharp intake of breath, and as I turned to look, he was beaming, holding up a 64. I passed, he mouthed at me, doing a miniature victory dance in his seat. I shook my head and turned around, grinning. Hooray for Thursday.

  An hour later, I found myself staring across the room at Gemma, my mouth agape as I eavesdropped shamelessly on the conversation she was having with Alex and Trina, one of her other devoted followers.

  “I mean, it's set in a high school and everything, so it's relatable, but the main thing is that it's about female empowerment. About this girl not wanting to follow the crowd's expectations, you know? I think Adams will appreciate that...”

  How. Is. This. Possible? My mind froze. What were the odds that Gemma had chosen the same central theme for her own play? Tiny doubts began to creep into my mind. What if Adams agreed that a modern setting was more relatable? What if he thought a play set in Puritanical Salem was too obscure? Or worse yet, too cliché? All my work and preparation...what if somehow the decision came down to some arbitrary whim about settings?

  I raised my hand abruptly. “Mrs. West? Can I please go to the restroom?”

  Mrs. West looked up from her computer, surprised. “Well, yes, Lia. Make it quick, please.”

  Without another word, I snagged the lanyard that held the bathroom pass and bolted out the door. The fight or flight response had my pulse pounding in my veins, and I felt the need to walk...somewhere...anywhere. Just out of that room where Queen Gemma was holding court. I wandered past the restrooms, past the vending machines, past the administrative building, and found myself on the sidewalk that led past the back of the art classrooms. There was a small patio where art students brought works of sculpture on which to spray paint or sealant, and I stopped in front of the projects that were drying in the October sun.

  As with most high school art classes, the majority of the art was unremarkable, but I stared at it anyway, mostly as a diversion while I tried to calm my nerves. I passed my eyes over the brightly-colored coil and pinch pots which would, no doubt, become gifts for parents or grandparents, lacking any other practical use.

  At the edge of my vision, a glint of light drew my attention. I turned toward it and found myself looking at a tall and slender vase that someone had carefully constructed which stood out from the thick and clumsy pottery around it. The glaze swirled in varying shades of blue, from sky blue to a deep indigo, and it had been painstakingly inlaid with a mirrored mosaic pattern. As I looked closer, I could see that the tiny mirror chips formed a silhouette of a crescent moon wrapping around solidly half of the vase. I reached up and fingered the crescent moon pendant hanging around my neck. Coincidence? Probably. And yet, focusing on the pair of moons filled me with a sense of calm, of serenity. My panic slowly abated and, after counting ten deep breaths, I straightened my posture and made my way back to class.

  Though the initial burst of confidence I had felt at the beginning of the day had faded, so had the anxiety that had gripped me during English. I went through the motions of my day, as distracted as the day before, mentally preparing for my script pitch. Treigh walked me to drama class, repeatedly reassuring me that my pitch would crush Gemma's and blow Mr. Adams’ mind. While I appreciated Treigh's enthusiasm and encouragement, I really just wanted to give my pitch and be done with it.

  Mr. Adams started class by making all the musical performers audition to ensure that their singing skills were up to par for competition. Fortunately, the class had taken his warning to heart, and only the skilled singers had chosen to enter in a musical category. At last, the time came for the playwriting pitches.

  “Gemma,” said Mr. Adams, “let's hear your proposal.”

  “Certainly.” Gemma stood up and took a step forward. She took a deep and, I was just sure, shuddering breath. Could it be that the Queen herself was nervous? “My play is called Reversal. It's set at a high school not at all different from this one. Over the course of the 20 minutes, we will follow in the footsteps of Savannah, who appears to be a typical high school girl. Throughout the day, she will face people who will represent the challenges a typical girl faces: body image, gender stereotyping, social expectations, and academic pressure. These people will be archetypes, of course, but each interaction will show the pressure girls are under in today's society. At the end, she will choose to accept some and defy others.”

  My stomach churned. Gemma's concept was good. Really good. What a cruel twist of fate.

  “An interesting concept, Gemma. Cast size?” Mr. Adams scribbled a few notes on his iPad.

  “Six specific roles, and an unspecified number of extras.”

  “Do-able. Props and costumes?”

  “Nothing that we wouldn't have just lying around. Classroom stuff, books, that sort of thing.”

  “So you have several settings, or just one?”

  At this, Gemma hesitated. “Well, several, I guess. Classrooms, hallways, the cafeteria, the restroom.”

  Mr. Adams took off his glasses and chewed on the tip of the frame. “And how would you portray those changes? What kind of set are we talking about here?”

  “Umm...maybe we could paint some moveable panels that could flip around to create different backdrops while the stage crew trades out the chairs and things.”

  My pulse quickened. Gemma hadn't considered the need for simple stagecraft. There was no way Mr. Adams was going to have all those sets built for a 20-minute play.

  “Okay, Gemma, thanks. Very solid idea. Lia? Let's hear what you've come up with.”

  As Gemma slowly returned to her seat, her eyes locked with mine for just a moment. The jubilance that must have been evident in my eyes was in sharp contrast to the defeat in Gemma's, and in that instant, I genuinely felt sorry for my rival.

  “That really sounds like a great script,” I said to her as we passed each other. Gemma smiled wanly. We both knew how the contest between us was going to end.

  Chapter 4

  You’ve heard the saying, be careful what you wish for? Well, there’s a lot of wisdom behind it. I had defeated (though narrowly, if I’m honest) my competition, and my idea had won the right for a spot on the stage. Now I had a month to write the script and get the thing staged for Districts. Which means I really had like a week and a half to write a 20-minute play. Suddenly, I was feeling slightly overwhelmed.
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br />   People just assumed that because I was into the Goth look that I was also an expert on everything even vaguely supernatural. They weren’t totally off base, but I was really more of an expert on vampire lore than witches. Somehow, that didn’t seem very helpful at the moment. Even though the story was about a witch, yes, it wasn’t about the kind of witch one typically sees in literature. No special schools for magic. No late night cavorting with the devil. None of that. I wanted Esther to be more like a modern-day neo-Pagan: a nature-worshipper who believed in the ancient elemental magic of the earth. The problem was that that meant research. And research would take time I didn’t have.

  I found myself lying on my bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling and wondering where to start. I had Googled witchcraft and Wicca and Pagan and ancient rites, and I was overwhelmed with information, unsure of which direction to follow. It was thus that my mother found me.

  “Lia, honey, do you have any dirty laun--good heavens, are you okay?”

  “Momma, I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’m writing about a 17th-century witch, and I don’t know anything about witches. I don’t know how to make my play feel authentic. I’m stuck.”

  “Witches? Like real ones?”

  “Yes, like Wiccans. Or whatever the 17th-century equivalent is.”

  “Do you know any Wiccans?” my mom asked.

  “I know someone who claims to be a witch. But she doesn’t really know anything about the religion at all. She just wears a pentagram and watches a lot of Supernatural.”

  “Huh. Good show.”

  “Yep. But not helpful.”

  “Well,” Mom started slowly, unsure whether she should go on, “I might know someone.”

  I sat up. “You know a witch?”