A Witchly Influence

by Stephanie Grey

  I sat in my new chair. “I’m sure it’s fine,” I answered. I really didn’t know nor had I thought about it before now, but I thoughtfully bit my lip and the fireplace was safe to use.

  “I’m just having the hardest time getting this match to light,” Siobhan said, feigning frustration. She held it out for Percy. “Would you mind?”

  Percy joined her by the fireplace and struck the match easily. Siobhan looked at him like he was her hero and I stifled my snicker. She was really something else when she was on the hunt.

  He threw the match over the logs and I saw Siobhan’s nose wiggle as the flames immediately roared to life. “Wow, that’s quite a talent you have!”

  Percy’s cheeks reddened. “I didn’t do much.”

  “Sure you did,” Siobhan insisted, looking deeply into his eyes. “You made me warm.” She smiled.

  I wanted to puke. With his back to me, I motioned at Siobhan to wrap up her charade. She nodded.

  “I’d love to buy you dinner as a thank you,” she offered sweetly.

  Percy cleared his throat. “That’s not necessary, but I’ll be happy to take you to dinner.”

  Siobhan pretended to think, nervously running her hands over her silky hair. “All right. Carmen, would you like to join us?”

  I almost said yes just to screw with her. Instead, I said, “No, I have too much work to do here. You two go and have fun.”

  Percy held out his arm like a gentleman. “Shall we?”

  Siobhan looped her arm over his. “We shall.”

  I watched them leave, Percy closing the door behind them with a small wave to me. Siobhan needed to hang around more playwrights instead of artists to give them inspiration. She was a star performer.

  With my home completed and the party just a couple of days away, I decided it was time to get to work. I knew I needed to speak with Finn, but I also needed to find Abby Windsor. Lenny had told me she was a teacher, so I spread out a map in front of me, marking all of the middle schools in town.

  After looking up the phone numbers for each school, I scribbled the number next to their location on my map. Taking a deep breath, I punched in the numbers and a high, tight voice answered.

  “Grover.”

  “Hi, yes, I’m calling to ask about the next parent-teacher night. Will Ms. Windsor be there?”

  “Who?” came the shrill reply.

  “Ms. Windsor.”

  “We don’t have one of those at this school,” the voice snapped before hanging up on me.

  “No wonder the kids love going to school these days,” I muttered to myself. I marked out Grover Fields on my map and reluctantly dialed the next number on my list.

  Several frustrating minutes later, I was staring at my last two options. I chose West Craven Middle School and was relieved when the receptionist kindly assured me that yes, Ms. Windsor would be at the conference. I thanked her and hung up, circling the school on the map and, taking the photo of Abby, I placed it beside the circle. I checked the clock. School would release soon and there was no time like the present to get started.

  I drove to West Craven and parked across the street. The bell rang and students began to pour out of the brick Y-shaped building, Abby leading them in the front. The picture Lenny had given me had been recent; she matched it perfectly. She stood by the buses and I watched her guide kids to the correct bus, help a child who dropped his backpack, and switch her weight back and forth from each foot as she waited for the last bus to leave. When the last one took the final busload of children, she walked back into the building.

  Feeling stupid, I realized the teacher’s parking lot was in the back of the building. I held out my hand and a small, discreet tracker in the shape of a fly appeared. It buzzed, ready for action, in my palm. “Follow her, okay?”

  The tracker fly buzzed in response and flew across the street. It landed on the top of her brown hair, which she swatted immediately. I cringed, expecting her to have squashed it. The fly buzzed, offended, and landed on her shoulder instead. She couldn’t feel it through the thick cotton of her plum-colored sweater.

  I unfolded my map and spread it out once more, this time across my passenger seat. I was pleased to see that my tracker was still with her. It was showing me that she was in the parking lot. I waited a beat longer and saw her exit on the map, then looked up and saw her turn right out of the lot. I followed her slowly, hoping she wouldn’t notice. Though, didn’t only spies notice people following them? Abby was no spy.

  Abby turned into a small shopping center and parked her Ford Focus. I chose a spot nearby and watched as she twisted to reach into the back seat and retrieved a bag and bright purple yoga mat. She slid a headband over her short hair and walked inside a studio that offered hot yoga classes.

  I swore under my breath. Tess had once dragged Enid and me to a hot yoga class after she insisted we enjoy a Mexican restaurant that had just opened. Enid had to put a silencer charm on her own butt because she couldn’t stop farting. I began to laugh at the memory. Poor Enid.

  Snapping my fingers, a similar gym bag popped up on my lap. “Ahem,” I said and a yellow yoga mat slid out from underneath my seat. “Thank you.” The yoga mat wiggled. I grabbed the bag and mat and followed Abby into the studio.

  An incredibly thin woman greeted me. “Welcome to Hot Yoga for You! You’re new. I never forget a face.”

  “I am,” I said. “I’d like to try out a class today.”

  “Good for you! Classes are twenty-five dollars each, but we offer a punch card for one hundred dollars that allows you to come to five classes! That’s like one whole free class!” She ran her fingers over the keyboard and asked for my name.

  “I thought introductory classes were free,” I said.

  A dark look crossed her face, but she quickly shook her head and smiled even wider. “We’re so confident that you’ll love us, we know you’ll want to sign up today!”

  “Uh-huh,” I said doubtfully. Even with Enid’s amusing gassy derriere, I hadn’t particularly enjoyed the yoga itself. At that moment, Abby exited the bathroom and I rummaged through my bag, fished out my wallet, and handed the lady my credit card. I could always erase my information later if needed.

  The lady returned my credit card and asked me to sign my receipt. She reached underneath her desk, found a membership card, and punched a hole in it. “Enjoy!” she said cheerfully. Then she turned away, waiting for the next sucker to come through the door.

  I changed quickly and found a spot next to Abby in the back of the studio. We both stretched, me mirroring her movements but never looking her in the eye or speaking to her.

  The yogi entered the studio, walking lightly on his feet. He was tall with a dark beard that was fashionably unkempt, his long hair pulled back into a bun. He wore loose, striped linen pants and a matching top. I thought it looked like a set of pajamas I owned as a child. “Hello, my beauties,” he said, his voice low and husky.

  I discreetly rolled my eyes. This man was the epitome of a yogi stereotype.

  His eyes were roving over the students and landed on me. “I see we have a new student,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “Carmen,” I answered.

  “Everyone, turn to Carmen and welcome her into our fold.”

  Suddenly, everyone was looking at me and, in unison, said, “Welcome, Carmen!”

  “Thanks. Good to be here,” I said awkwardly. These people reminded me of Children of the Corn.

  “Let’s get started on this beautiful day,” the yogi began. “Let’s all be a tree.”

  I looked at the others for guidance and placed my left foot onto my right inner thigh. This was actually easier than I thought.

  Abby grunted next to me as she struggled to find her balance. Her foot dropped back onto her mat. “Crap,” she whispered.

  “This pose makes me want to make like a tree and leave,” I whispered.

  She looked at me and laughed under her breath. She regained her position, adjusted the headban
d that held back her short hair, and we went through the next hour sweating and trying to hold poses that were almost impossible. Or maybe I was just terrible; I hadn’t decided how much I wanted to wound my own ego yet.

  “Lie back into corpse pose and breathe in, then out,” the yogi said soothingly.

  I was flat on my back, my eyes closed. “Now this is more my speed,” I whispered.

  “Mine, too,” Abby whispered back.

  “Do I hear talking?” asked the yogi. “This is a time for peace and inner understanding. Breathe in, now out.”

  “Yes, thank you for pointing out how I need to breathe,” I said softly.

  Abby giggled.

  The yogi ignored us, but another woman shot us a nasty glance.

  When the class was finally over, I rolled up my mat and put it in between the handles of my gym bag. “Sorry if I got you into trouble,” I apologized.

  Abby looked around the room and back at me. She smiled as she removed her sweat-soaked headband and stuffed it into her bag. “This is meant for rejuvenation, but these people take it a little bit too seriously.”

  “I noticed. Laughter is good for the soul, too. Do you think they know that?”

  Abby laughed. “I doubt it.”

  I held out my hand and she shook it. “I’m Carmen. Carmen Devereaux.”

  “Abby Windsor. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You, too. Hey, I know we’re a hot mess, but do you want to get some coffee?”

  Abby’s face brightened. “That’d be great! I know just the place.”

  I followed her to a small coffee shop nearby aptly named The Coffee Company. It was nestled between an antique store and custom frame shop. Inside were several square tables with comfortable chairs and a beautifully carved coffee bar where orders were taken. The aroma was a mixture of vanilla and various coffee beans. Light jazz played in the background.

  “This is my favorite place to get coffee,” Abby said. “I can’t stand that other chain. They have no individuality. Who has a siren for a logo? You’re supposed to stay away from those.” She shook her head and stepped up to the counter to give her order, a peppermint mocha. “‘Tis the season!” she said, raising her cup.

  I ordered a simple vanilla latte and we sat at one of the tables. “I don’t remember this place being here when I was growing up,” I said, looking around the room.

  “You’re from here?” she asked. She took a sip of her mocha and winced at its heat. She set it gingerly back down on the table and pushed it away from her so it was out of the way while it cooled.

  “I am,” I admitted. “I’ve been gone for about fourteen years now. I just moved back.”

  “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I’m thirty-two,” I answered.

  “Me, too!” she said excitedly. “Wasn’t it a little harder to turn thirty-two than it was to become dirty thirty?”

  I laughed. “It was! There are no more milestones to hit until fifty.”

  “What brought you back here?” she asked.

  “You know, the typical story. I went to Notre Dame for school and met a boy. I married him, he cheated, I divorced him, and I moved back home.”

  “Oh,” Abby said quietly. “I’m really sorry to hear that. That couldn’t have been easy for you.” She checked her mocha again and, finding it to be the right temperature, took a drink.

  “It’s all right. His cheating made it easier to get over him. Now I have family that seems to be coming out of the woodwork telling me that I never should have married him.”

  Abby laughed. “Isn’t that how it goes, though? I dated a man for four years and I was head over heels for him. My parents and friends told me over and over again that he was no good for me.”

  “Why did you break up?” I asked. I could smell her peppermint mocha and was regretting my plain vanilla latte.

  She blushed and looked sheepishly down at the table, not meeting my eyes as she spoke. “He had just gotten out of the military when I met him and was living back home with his parents. He was looking for another job. The man is a really great chef, actually. When he cooked for me, I thought he would be great at a restaurant.” Her voice grew softer as she became more embarrassed. “He never did get a job. He continued living at home and mooching off his mom and dad. When we went out, I paid. One day we were at the movies and trying to decide between two new releases. He insisted we see both and was kind of being a jerk about it. You know how much movie tickets are these days. I didn’t want to pay that much for four tickets and he wasn’t offering to foot any of the bill. It was then that I realized he was a loser who had no ambition and would be content for the rest of his life letting others take care of him. I already take care of children all day. I didn’t want to take care of another one.”

  “You work with kids?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

  Abby looked up, proud. “I do. I work at a middle school with special needs children.”

  I raised my brows, surprised. Lenny hadn’t told me that. “You must have the patience of a saint.”

  She shook her head. “Some days are more difficult than others, but they’re so rewarding. These kids get looked over so often by so many people who either don’t want to or don’t know how to deal with their differences. I want them to learn and to feel normal when they’re in my classroom.” She took another drink of her mocha, draining it. “I’ll get off my soapbox now,” she said, putting her cup on the table.

  “It’s not a soapbox. It’s not like you’re preaching to me how I should become a vegan now that I’ve taken a hot yoga class.”

  Abby’s face broke out into a smile. “They’re so serious there, but it’s the only hot yoga studio in town.” She poked at her stomach. “I’ve been hoping the heat would help reduce this. I also take a cardio kickboxing class. Those people are intense, but in a more fun way.”

  Why hadn’t she gone to the other class today? I would’ve enjoyed that way more and not been out one hundred bucks. “There’s a difference in what healthy looks like on people. That receptionist? She’s painfully skinny. I wanted to ask her if she wanted a cheeseburger. I may be body shaming here, but when I can see your collarbone and hip bones sharply jutting out, maybe it’s time to eat solid food and ease off the liquid diet.”

  “She’s probably a size zero,” Abby interjected bitterly, unconsciously glancing down at herself.

  “Can she run for a mile or more and not get winded? Can she stand there and hit mitts and make her training partner have to step back because she was throwing a little too hard? Can she do a push up or pull up? Can she lift more than ten pounds?” I asked.

  Abby thought for a moment. “Probably not,” she finally said.

  “I bet that you can,” I pointed out.

  She sat up a little straighter in her chair. “I can do all of those things.”

  “That’s right. So which is healthier? A size zero that can do some yoga poses in the heat or a size fourteen that can do all of those things and only gets better each day?”

  “Are you some kind of inspirational speaker?” she asked curiously.

  I chuckled. “No, I am definitely not,” I said. “I work at a permit office,” I added. I assured myself that, technically, it wasn’t a lie considering there was an android in my image and personality doing my old job.

  “Like building permits?” she clarified.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “That sounds like a really exciting job you have there,” she said, laughing. “How did you get involved in that?”

  “I got a degree in architecture. I didn’t want to actually be an architect because people in those firms seem a bit stuffy, so I went with permits where I could review the plans. It’s not a bad living. When I leave the office, the job can’t follow me home.” Sometimes the job had followed me home. Requests would get confused or pushy and pop up randomly inside my refrigerator and I’d have to tell them the right address before they’d leave and show up on my desk a
t work.

  “Did you get another job like that or are you looking for something else?”

  “It’s all mostly online now, so I can work from home.”

  “That’s nice. Some days I wish I could stay at home, but then fall break or Christmas break or a snow day shows up and I get time to myself. It’s not from the kids. It’s from the other teachers. They can have cliques just as bad as the students,” Abby said darkly.

  I watched her carefully for a moment. “Do the other teachers leave you out of things?” I asked cautiously.

  Abby bit her lip. “They do,” she admitted. “I’ve always been kind of an outcast myself. I don’t look like you, so I never really fit in with the popular crowd. I know that I’m a little overweight. That’s always been a struggle for me. I’m not good with men. Sometimes, when I go to school, it feels like I’m in high school all over again.”

  I swallowed, unsure of what to say next. “Looking like me won’t get you in the popular crowd,” I began. “Being tall with such pale skin, hair, and eyes opens up for a lot of teasing about being a vampire. I was awkwardly thin until I started playing volleyball and my muscles finally figured out what tone was. Suddenly my height was an advantage and, with my teammates, we did really well in matches. I gained more confidence and people saw that and quit teasing me. It seemed like it wasn’t going to be worth it for them to tease me when I would just brush it off easily. You just need to remember that you’re an adult, you’re a great teacher, and you take care of yourself. Be confident in yourself because you’re the one who made yourself successful. Those other teachers will open up to you, I bet, if they saw that in you. Show them the real you, the one you are showing me.”

  “You sure you’re not some kind of motivational speaker?” Abby asked jokingly.

  “Why? Would you pay me a lot of money to hear me speak?”

  She laughed, her eyes crinkling. “Those speakers do seem to make a lot of money, don’t they? We paid an anti-drug and alcohol speaker to come to the school and he charged us six thousand dollars.”

  “What? I would have done it for five hundred less.”

  “See? Wrong line of work.”