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What the Spell Part 1

Page 5

by Brittany Geragotelis


  “How much do you know about the Salem witch trials, Brooklyn?” she asked me.

  I wasn’t sure where this was going but didn’t bother saying so. The Salem witch trials had been too big a topic to ignore while I was growing up, because it was one of the only things my parents had shared with me concerning the witching world. Anything my parents had conveniently left out, I’d been able to learn from other twitches online who studied witch history in their coven classes.

  “I only know what you’ve told me and what I’ve been able to find on the Internet,” I said. They nodded for me to continue, and I racked my brain for the details. To placate my parents, I regurgitated what I knew about this infamous time in our history. “Um, sometime in the late 1600s, a whole bunch of people in colonial Massachusetts were accused of practicing witchcraft. In the end, around twenty people were killed for allegedly being witches. Since then they’ve been exonerated to the nonwitching world, but we know from our own magical history that some of those who were killed actually were witches. Several were innocent bystanders.”

  “Correct. And do you know what caused the hysteria in the first place?” I shook my head no. “Well, it all started when Samuel Parris, a member of the Cleri coven, became hungry for power. He wasn’t the most powerful of the group—that was Bridget Bishop—but he had aspirations to make the Cleri the most prominent coven in the witching world. When he realized that Bridget and most of the other Cleri didn’t feel the same way, he betrayed them by starting the rumor that they—and several other people in the town—were practicing witchcraft.”

  “Why would he do that? Especially when it could come back to bite him in the—”

  “As far as we know, Samuel Parris targeted the witches in the group that he knew wouldn’t fall in line with him. And he knew that if he just got the rumors started, the townspeople would take care of the rest,” she said. “You see, sweetie, power can be dangerous if put in the wrong hands.”

  “Wait—let me get this straight. You think I’m gonna go all power crazy like that jerk-wad Parris and sell other witches out?” I was starting to become a bit hysterical, but could you blame me? From the sound of it, my own parents were comparing me to a murderous, lying psycho. I couldn’t help but be hurt. “Geez, I’ve had my powers for, like, a day, and you’ve already got me starting the next witch trials? Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “That’s not it at all,” Dad cut in. “You’re missing the point of the story. Samuel wanted the power so badly that he was willing to do anything to get it. We’re just saying that the more you use your powers, the more attention you’ll draw to yourself. And the more attention you draw to yourself, the more dangerous things can get. Not everyone has a heart like yours. And people can still be very afraid of things they don’t understand.”

  “It’s been over four hundred years since the Salem witch trials. Don’t you think people have evolved a little? I mean, think of how popular vampires, werewolves, and zombies are nowadays. You don’t think people would be psyched to find out there are actual witches out there? No way would people have the same reaction today that they did back then.”

  My parents shot each other a look.

  “Did Grandma Sparks ever talk to you about her sister Evelyn?” Dad asked. As if on cue, Mom opened the book that was lying on her lap and then passed it over to me. The page was full of photos, all black-and-white and old-looking. The first showed two kids, both in little white dresses, bangs pulled back on top of their heads. The taller of the two was smiling, but the other wore a frown.

  The progression of pictures showed the two girls growing up. One captured the younger child making a funny face at the camera while her sister’s back was turned. Another showed the two facing each other, arms outstretched and appearing to concentrate. I had a sneaking suspicion the camera had caught them midspell in that one. The last was of both of the girls, just a little bit older, hugging each other tightly.

  I shook my head. “I didn’t know Grandma had a sister,” I said quietly, continuing to study the pages. “Why didn’t she say anything?”

  My dad cleared his throat and fidgeted in his seat. “Well, I imagine talking about Evelyn made her a bit . . . sad,” he said finally. “See, Evelyn was younger than Grandma Sparks by several years, but she was always the more outgoing of the two of them. She had big dreams—plans to go out to Hollywood one day—and she wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge.”

  “She sounds pretty cool,” I said, smiling as I turned to a picture of Evelyn blowing a kiss to the camera.

  “You’re actually like her in a lot of ways,” he said. By the tone of his voice, it didn’t seem that he was all too happy about this. “Evelyn adored magic. She loved casting and wasn’t ashamed of it. She thought spells should be used for just about everything, even if it was something simple she could have done herself. But the ease with which she used magic made her careless, and before long, she was doing spells in public.”

  “Until finally, one day, someone caught her,” he said sadly.

  “What happened?” I was almost scared to hear the rest of the story, but at this point, I was totally sucked in.

  “She must have thought no one was watching when she did the summoning spell that day, but she was wrong. Someone was watching. A reporter, and he wanted to expose Evelyn to the world. When he confronted her, she realized what she’d done and tried to dissuade him. She told him he was seeing things. That he needed a good night’s sleep. That it was just a trick of the light. But he wasn’t a fool. He knew what he’d seen and he knew that breaking the news that magic actually existed would change his life.

  “Evelyn managed to get away from the reporter and fled in her car, but he eventually caught up with her. He pulled up next to her in his car, honking his horn and swerving to try and get her to stop and talk to him, but she refused. Finally, the reporter came up with a plan. He figured that if she really was a witch, he could push her off the side of the road and she would have to perform another spell in order to save herself. And when she did that, he would have proof of her abilities and then would have something to go to his editor with.

  “So he sideswiped her car. The first time, Evelyn managed to swerve and missed the brunt of the impact, but when he did it again, the road had narrowed and there was nowhere for her to go. This time, the car broke through the guardrail and careened down an embankment before slamming into a tree. The reporter grabbed the bulky video camera that he kept in the trunk of his car at all times and rushed down the hill to the car, slipping and sliding the whole way. When he finally got to the bottom, the car had caught on fire and the flames were spreading quickly. He peered through the fumes and saw Evelyn just waking up. Her head was bleeding and she seemed dazed. She began to panic, realizing what had happened, and pulled at her door and seat belt to no avail. The guy yelled at her to use her magic to get out, but by this time she was too hysterical to listen. Instead, she just kept trying to claw her way out. Finally, the two locked eyes, him behind his camera and her behind the flames and glass. There was a moment on the film where it looked like Evelyn was about to do something. Say something. A spell most likely. But it was too late. As they sat there looking at each other, the car blew up.”

  Something wet hit my hand and I looked down. I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying. I wiped my face hastily and waited on the rest of the story.

  “So, she died? All because of some guy’s career?” I asked, disgusted.

  “Power can drive even the sanest person to do insane things. It’s an incredible motivator,” my mom said. I saw that her eyes were red and gave her a sympathetic look.

  “How do we know all of this?”

  “Well, after Evelyn’s death, the reporter went on trial for her murder and that’s what came out during the case. They even used the footage he’d taken that day as evidence. Grandma Sparks and the rest of the family were there and, based on what they knew about Evelyn, realized their biggest fear had come to fruiti
on.”

  “What happened to the reporter?” I asked, balling up my fists. “I hope he got what was coming to him.”

  “Well, considering his whole defense was built on the fact that he claimed Evelyn to be a witch, they found him incompetent to stand trial and sent him away to spend the rest of his life in a mental health facility. From what we know, he stayed there until he died, living with what he did that day and being tormented by the fact that nobody believed him.”

  We sat there in silence for a few minutes as the story hit each of us differently. Finally I spoke. “Good. I’m glad he suffered. What he did was horrible and irresponsible and—”

  “And none of it would have happened if Evelyn hadn’t been so careless with her gifts,” my dad said gently.

  “You’re blaming her for what happened?!”

  “He’s not blaming her, sweetie. We’re just trying to make you see that magicking is a big responsibility. One that shouldn’t be taken lightly, or abused. Our history has shown that using your powers too much can become dangerous. That’s why we raised you in a low-magic household. We just want you to be safe.”

  Logically I could see that she and Dad truly believed what they were saying, but as far as I was concerned, they were going overboard. They’d never been comfortable with letting me use my powers, and they were still trying to control me. And despite the horrible story I’d just heard, the way they babied me made me want to scream.

  “First off, just because a few people had bad experiences using their gifts doesn’t mean I’m going to make the same mistakes,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice even. “And second, that was, like, fifty years ago. A lot’s changed since then. I think people are more open to different lifestyles. I mean, Harry Potter has his own theme park.”

  “Harry Potter’s not real,” my mom reminded me, sounding annoyed. “And even Harry had his enemies. Prejudice and fear are still very much alive today, Brooklyn. Our family isn’t prepared to take on that kind of battle.”

  “Nor do we want to,” Dad said firmly. “Look, Brook, the bottom line is this: we’re not saying you have to stop using your magic. Though we don’t necessarily agree with all the decisions you make in that respect, we promised that you could use your powers once you turned sixteen. And we will keep that promise, unless we think you’re endangering yourself or others. We just want you to think about how you’re using your gifts and understand that there can be serious consequences to your actions.”

  “I got it. Restraint good, magic spree bad,” I said.

  “We’re serious about this, Brooklyn,” Dad warned.

  “So am I. Really. I get what you’re saying and I promise I’ll be more careful with my spells in the future.”

  Luckily, being more careful didn’t mean I had to quit entirely. I could be careful while still having fun, for sure.

  Walking into school the next day wasn’t as much of a shell shock as it had been the day before. I was even getting used to the way people looked at me. It was easier to tune out the whispers and pointing now. Even the little voice in my head that used to tell me that everyone was saying negative things behind my back began to get quieter.

  It wasn’t like I was popular yet by any means, but at least I existed, which was a huge step up from the previous week. People knew my name now, and guys made flirtatious comments as I walked by. The attention I was getting just reinforced to me that my magical makeover had been a good thing—despite the lecture I’d received stating the opposite the night before. I could ease up on the magic for a while, now that I’d gotten what I wanted.

  Well, kind of.

  As I walked up to my locker, I saw that I already had a visitor. The first thing I noticed was the dark hair that swooped into a point at the top of his head; I didn’t even have to see his face to know it was Asher. Despite our last interaction, my heart began to race as I got closer to him.

  “Hey,” I said, trying not to fumble as I worked my locker combination.

  “Hey,” Asher responded. I didn’t dare look at him, for fear that he’d see how nervous he made me. I could feel his eyes on me anyway. “So, what was that yesterday?”

  “What was what?” I asked, even though I knew what he was talking about.

  “You sort of took off fast.”

  “Oh, yeah, well, it was sort of a weird day for me,” I said, not wanting him to know that I’d been hurt by his response to my new look.

  “Oh. Okay,” he said, oblivious to what was really going on in my head. Then, as if it had just dawned on him, he added, “You changed your hair.”

  “It’s a little blonder, I guess,” I said, still shocked that he’d noticed me enough before to know that I looked different now. Excitement bubbled up in my chest as I thought about what this might mean.

  We both stared at each other for a second and then looked away. This time Asher chuckled and I looked down at the ground.

  “You look good,” he finally said.

  My cheeks burned with heat as I let the compliment wash over me.

  “Thanks,” I said shyly.

  I closed my locker door but wasn’t ready for our conversation to end just yet. I began to walk away, and then slowed as I waited for him to catch up with me. Without my having to ask, he joined me and we walked side by side a few steps before starting to talk again.

  “So—and please don’t take this the wrong way—what’s with the new look, anyway?”

  I looked down at myself, even though I was well aware of what I would see. Slender legs that were a little longer than before, tucked into jeans that made my butt look rounder—but in a good way. And when he looked at my face, which I could tell he was doing now as we walked, he’d see my kissable lips, perfect skin, and beautiful green eyes. We’d already talked about the hair, so he’d obviously noticed the changes there, too.

  “I wanted to see if blondes really do have more fun.”

  “And do they?”

  “Jury’s still out. I’ll have to let you know in a few days,” I said with a mischievous smile. As I said it, I wondered if I’d accidentally changed part of my personality when I’d done the other spells. I’d never been this bold with a guy before, let alone with someone I had an enormous crush on. But there I was, flirting with Asher. My biggest crush. A guy who was both mysterious and bold, classically good-looking but one of a kind. He had a motorcycle, but he wasn’t a bad boy. He was perfect.

  “So, there was no breakup?” he asked.

  “Breakup? Why would you think that?”

  “Well, girls tend to perform extreme makeovers on two occasions: when they’re going through a bad breakup or if they’re hiding from the law,” he said seriously. “Now, you don’t look like a girl who committed a crime in the past few months, so the only logical thing left is a breakup.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “Neither. You really need to work on your theories of women,” I said. “Though, I will admit the breakup thing tends to be right. Where did you learn that little secret?”

  “I have a younger sister, Abby. If I’m nice to her, she tells me things.”

  “Ahhh, gotcha,” I said, trying to place the name of his sister with a face. But no one came to mind. About 2,500 kids went to our school, though, so it was possible not to know everyone that walked the halls. “No breakup, just a birthday. Sweet sixteen. And it was time to try something . . . different.”

  “Well, you look great—not that you didn’t before,” he said, stammering. “Anyways, I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Mr. Jacobsen before class to talk about a project. Talk to you later?”

  “Sure. Yeah. That would be fun.”

  He gave me that lazy smile of his before heading off ahead of me.

  Yep. The magic was totally worth it.

  The bell had just rung, signaling that it was lunchtime, and I headed off on my usual walk down to Ms. Zia’s. I was slightly nervous about seeing her after the uncomfortable conversation we’d had the day before, but I figured I’d mumble an apology
, she’d probably do the same, and then we’d go back to our regularly scheduled friendship. As long as we didn’t get on the subject of my new look or The Elite, I was thinking we’d be safe.

  I was running through the apology in my head when all of a sudden something clamped down on my left arm. I turned my head to see what it was, but then the same thing happened to my other arm. I was quickly turned around and dragged against my will in the opposite direction.

  “Hey! What are you doing!” I screeched.

  “Come with us, please,” a familiar girl’s voice said to my right.

  “And stop making that noise,” a guy added to my left. “You’re going to make my ears bleed.”

  I did what he said, and then looked up to see Eliza on one arm and Wheatley on the other.

  “Where, uh, exactly are we going?” I asked, still bewildered by the whole situation.

  “The caf, duh,” Eliza answered.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s lunch,” Wheatley answered, looking at me like I was even dimmer than people assumed he was.

  “I just meant . . . why am I going? With you guys?” I asked as the two weaved us in and out of the crowd and navigated us toward the double doors ahead.

  “We want to talk,” Eliza answered. “Get to know you better. You know, what you like, what you do outside of school. We want to know absolutely everything about you.”

  “Yay,” I said, trying to fake enthusiasm. Inside, I was panicking at the thought of being given the third degree. There were so many questions they could ask that I didn’t have answers for. Well, I had the answers, I just couldn’t tell them.

  “And maybe once you get a little more comfortable around us, you’ll tell me who did your work. I promise I won’t tell.”

  I didn’t even bother arguing with her this time, because it obviously hadn’t worked the first time. Eliza was just going to have to believe what she believed for the time being, because I had way bigger things to worry about.

  Like the fact that I was on my way to meet with The Elite. Again.

 

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