“Oh, dear, this was before your idiot father left,” she said, using the “pet name” she called my father any time he came up in conversation, which wasn’t too often. “You couldn’t 9780373210305_TS.indd 206
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have been more than three or four.” Christine took another swallow of her martini.
“So we played together,” I said nervously. “Well, I guess that’s not too weird. I mean, I knew Matt in kindergarten and we dated freshman year.”
“Oh, dear, that’s not the interesting part.” Christine chuckled. “When it was time to leave, you let out such a scream.
You said that you knew Brendan would be there, and that’s why you wanted to go to that park. Both of you threw such tantrums about leaving each other.” She laughed, lost in the memory—and I was glad it was dark in the kitchen. There was no way she could see my face, which I would bet was drained of all color.
“Oh, well, I guess we liked each other at an early age,” I said, laughing nervously.
“You sure did.” She chuckled. “Your idiot father didn’t appreciate it, though, when I told him the story.”
“What do you mean?” Although part of me wanted to run into my room and hide to process all this new information, a bigger part of me realized I might never get Christine on a talking tear like this again. I wondered how many martinis she had sampled while trying to make the perfect drink.
“He never appreciated all your quirks,” Christine said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“What
quirks?”
“Emma, dear, you know those little twin things you and your brother would do, speak in your own language and things like that.”
“I remember him yelling at us to speak English.” I thought back to him scolding us in the middle of Kmart for babbling in what we were later told was our twin-speak, which sounded normal to me.
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answered the phone, he hated that. Your mother used to do it, too.”
I felt my blood run cold. “What did you say I used to do?”
“Oh, you know, dear. Someone would call the house, and you’d announce, ‘It’s Uncle Dan!’ before anyone answered the phone. Your idiot father swore you and your mother had a caller-ID box hidden somewhere and were ganging up on him.”
I was suddenly aware that I had been clenching my hands into fists, leaving little half-moon marks in my palms from where my nails were digging in. I tried to count to ten, then to five, to steady myself from the thoughts that were coming together in my head.
“Well, dear, it’s late and I’ve got to get to sleep,” Christine said, draining the last of her martini. “Have a good night.”
She kissed me on the top of the head and shuff led off to bed, leaving me f labbergasted in the f loral chair.
Brendan and I had a connection when we were toddlers?
I was able to “predict” things when I was a kid?
I apparently inherited that ability from my mom?
Two words from Angelique popped into my head: born witch.
I raced for my purse to check my phone, which I’d ignored since going to Brendan’s house. Still no reply from Angelique.
Damn it! I had fourteen texts from Ashley asking how my date with Brendan went, and nothing from Angelique. I had a lot to discuss with this girl. Where was that absentee little witch?
The next morning, I had my answer to Angelique’s where-abouts before I even left the apartment for school. Angelique’s mom had used the school’s emergency contact sheet to call Aunt Christine and ask if I could bring Angelique’s 9780373210305_TS.indd 208
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books home that night. Seems even witches can fall prey to the f lu.
I had lied to Ashley the night before, saying I had to get to school early to hand in a late assignment. I hated fibbing to her, but I couldn’t handle her constant stream of questions this morning. I had a lot to mull over.
After putting my headphones on, I stuffed my gloveless hands into the pockets of my wool coat as I walked down Park Avenue. First, stripping away anything supernatural about our romance, Brendan was my boyfriend. And whenever I was with him, I conveniently forgot anything but what it felt like to be in his arms—whether that was part of being “cursed,”
I didn’t know. But when I was with him, I didn’t care about little things like my soul being at risk.
And then there was the whole born-witch thing. I stared down at my hands, f lexing my palms as if I expected to feel some kind of new strength emanating from them. Instead, they just felt chilly. I stuffed them back into my pockets and continued walking.
I had never thought I’d be the kind of person to give up everything—hell, anything—for a guy. I had seen my mother make all the wrong decisions to keep Henry around. But, I reasoned, Brendan wasn’t just some guy. And I didn’t feel like I was giving anything up. I felt like I was getting so much more.
With each step toward the school, I knew I was coming closer to my destiny—with Brendan. All that remained now was how to figure out how to keep that destiny—and me—safe.
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I arrived at school a full hour early, so I pulled out my books and slid into the empty history classroom, trying to distract my fuzzy thoughts with Latin’s first declension. Jenn only greeted me with a grunted hello, and after catching a look at her red-rimmed eyes, I realized she was in too much pain to ask me how my weekend was. I was relieved; truth was, I had no idea what to answer. Did some homework, watched An-chorman again, and I more or less spent the weekend with my soul mate—but you know him as Brendan.
I survived through history and math class, but as Jenn and I made a silent, slow stroll to English, I started internally freak-ing out. What do I do about lunch? Angelique isn’t here…do I sit with Jenn and Cisco, or is there any chance Brendan will want to sit with me?
Of course, Brendan wasn’t in his seat when we got to English. How should I say hello? Is this too much of a statement to make? I didn’t know what to do, remembering how I embarrassed myself the Monday after we had hung out together at the Met. Only this time, his rebuttal would absolutely f latten me.
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in above the chattering in the classroom—and feeling extremely disappointed when Mr. Emerson hurried in with a sour look on his face. A minute afterward, Brendan sauntered into the room in his signature state of hot disarray. His tie was barely knotted, and his hair was tousled, of course. I bet he didn’t even own a hairbrush. Our eyes immediately met, and this scenario felt all too familiar to me. Only this time, his soft lips curled into a deliciously naughty smile that made my heart skip.
“Hey, beautiful.” Brendan’s voice was a low rumble as he slid into his seat and turned to face Mr. Emerson. I took a deep breath, trying to wipe the cartoonishly wide grin from my face. I glanced around and noticed that Brendan’s sly little greeting hadn’t gone unnoticed by one particular classmate.
But instead of Kristin’s usual bullets-from-the-eyeballs glare that she seemed to reserve just for me, she had a weirdly smug, satisfied look on her face.
I rested my head on my chin, listening to Mr. Emerson ex
plain points he thought the class had gotten wrong in our Midsummer Night’s Dream papers as I stared at the back of Brendan’s head, thinking how, just a few hours before, I had been running my fingers through that unruly mop of hair.
As English ended, Brendan turned to face me, throwing his left arm cavalierly over my desk. “So Emma, want to get out of here for lunch?”
“Absolutely,” I said, relieved, and started shoving my notebook into my backpack.
“Awesome, there’s this great little restaurant just a few—
Oh, hi, Mr. Emerson.” Brendan’s tone changed from f lirty to formal, and I looked up to see our English teacher standing over Brendan with a disapproving look.
“Miss Connor, Mr. Salinger, you’re wanted in Principal Casey’s office. Now,” he said, his voice stern.
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Brendan took a deep breath and stood up, casting a reassur-ing glance my way. “Mr. Emerson, if this is about the prank the basketball team allegedly pulled on Regis High School, I can assure you, Emma had nothing to do with—”
“Save it, Salinger. Just get yourself down to Principal Casey’s office, now!” Mr. Emerson boomed, his ruddy face turning nearly purple from the exertion. Brendan looked at me and shrugged, holding out his hand for me to take. I cautiously grabbed it, hoping my palms weren’t sweaty.
I had daydreamed about walking down the hallways of Vince A with Brendan Salinger holding my hand plenty of times. Only in my fantasies, we were never walking to the principal’s office.
Brendan kept his grip on me as he led me down the f lights of stairs to the first f loor, where Principal Casey’s office was, off to the right of where Gray Lady Gary held court. If he noticed the stares and whispers from our classmates, he ignored them. I, on the other hand, wasn’t able to block out the voices even though I followed his lead and looked straight ahead.
“Holy crap, Salinger is holding that new girl’s hand! Isn’t she a witch or something?”
“Salinger and Emily Conrad? Where did that come from?”
“Brendan finally dates someone and it’s her? I’m like, way prettier than she is,” clucked a high-pitched voice to my left.
“Stupid skank. She had no idea who she was messing with.”
On that last comment, I turned to see who said it—and my eyes met the cold glare of Kristin Thorn.
I never thought I would be so relieved to reach the principal’s office in my entire life.
But to my surprise, we weren’t the only people there.
Aunt Christine sat in one of the cracked leather chairs, and a 9780373210305_TS.indd 212
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stunning blonde woman—with piercing green eyes—sat on the opposite side of the room. And in the center sat Anthony—
and an equally menacing, older version of Anthony, whom I could only assume was his father. His very angry, very large father.
“Please sit down, Mr. Salinger, Miss Connor,” Principal Casey said, a steely smile on her tangerine-lipsticked lips.
I sat in a folding chair next to my aunt while Brendan sat next to his mother, rolling his eyes. I darted my own eyes toward Anthony, who stared straight ahead with an almost beatific smile on his face. I expected him to slap a halo on his head, his angel act was so good. It didn’t take a genius to see where this was going.
“So, Mr. Salinger.” Principal Casey’s voice was steel as she typed something into her laptop. “What do you want to tell me about last Monday?”
She spun the laptop around, and there was an internet video of…me. On this grainy—and from what I could recall of the fight, heavily edited—short video of the encounter, I stood against the door in the quad, and Anthony had his back to me. You couldn’t see that he was about to deck me from this angle.
Then Brendan, so fast he seemed blurry, came into frame.
He grabbed Anthony in a choke hold and f lipped him over his shoulder, dropping the blond on his back. In spite of the tense situation, I couldn’t help but be impressed by his strength. The video ended abruptly, and Principal Casey played the ten-second clip again before slamming her hand on the desk.
“You can imagine my shock when I was emailed this link this morning. Unprovoked attacks, at my school? Brendan, what do you have to say for your behavior?”
“Clearly, Brendan attacked my son.” Mr. Caruso jumped in, showing all the finesse of the shark lawyer I’d heard he 9780373210305_TS.indd 213
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was. “The proof is right there on video. It disappoints me, as I’ve known the Salingers for years.
“I’m sorry, Laura.” Mr. Caruso’s voice was greasy-smooth as he addressed Brendan’s mother. “But there’s only so much we can do as parents. What more proof do we need, especially with your son’s history?”
“So it would have been better if I did nothing?” Brendan asked angrily. “I should have stood there and let your son beat up a girl? There’s no way in hell you can tell me I’m in trouble for that.”
“If that’s the case, you should have gotten a teacher, Brendan,” his mother said, smoothing her proper tweed Chanel suit.
“Oh, yeah, like Dr. Ouilette could have stopped Anthony,”
Brendan said, picking the name of the petite physics teacher who maybe weighed a hundred pounds—if he was soaking wet and holding a fifty-pound weight.
“Regardless, Brendan, we do not condone violence at Vincent Academy,” Principal Casey began. Brendan cut her off.
“I don’t condone it either. I stopped it. So we’re on the same team here,” he said winningly. Principal Casey looked at me pointedly.
“What’s your role in this, Miss Connor?”
“Um…” I began, looking at my aunt nervously, trying to decide if she looked mad enough to ship me back to Keansburg. I didn’t want to bring up Ashley and throw her into this mess, as well. To my relief, Christine just looked annoyed—
not angry.
“Does it matter?” Brendan cut in. “She didn’t lift her hand to anyone—she didn’t break any rules. Emma doesn’t need to be in trouble.”
“It would help if we knew why she caused this, Brendan,”
his mother said, her manicured hand on his arm.
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I felt like I had been slapped. I hadn’t tried to cause any problems—for anyone. I was only trying to help Ashley. I was only trying to do the right thing.
“From what my son has told me, it was a lover’s quarrel,”
said Mr. Caruso, turning to Brendan’s mother. “I’m sorry, Laura, but my son and this girl were once involved, and Brendan was jealous, so he attacked him.”
“Lover’s quarrel? Ew, no way!” I blurted out, unable to help myself. I saw Brendan’s mother give me an icy glare, while her son just tried to hide a smile.
“Well, right now, we can’t see much from this video other than Brendan clearly attacking Anthony,” Principal Casey said.
“This has gone on way too long,” Aunt Christine said curtly. “Have you watched the whole video? If not, I suggest you log in to Facebook—there’s several versions there, uploaded by most of the students who were in the yard that day and not this superb Thelma Schoonmaker–quality editing job.”
“Yo, screw that,” Anthony yelled, breaking his silence as his father’s smug smile faded to a thin grimace. “It’s right there!
Kick Brendan and that slut out o
f school. She doesn’t belong here anyway.”
Principal Casey gave Anthony a hard look, then invited Aunt Christine to her side of her desk, where she logged in to Facebook. I was amazed. I had to teach Christine how to use her DVR, yet she’s savvy enough to have a fake Facebook account?
Christine did a quick search, and within moments, the entire—unedited—fight replayed on the monitor, including the part when Anthony shoved me and nearly knocked me over. You couldn’t hear what the fight was about over the colorful commentary in the crowd, but you didn’t need sound to 9780373210305_TS.indd 215
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know what was going on. I had no idea how terrified I looked as I tried to f latten myself against the door in the quad. And here I thought I’d looked tough.
Principal Casey pursed her orange lips and folded her hands in her lap. “Well, clearly, this changes things,” she said. “Mrs.
Salinger, Mrs. Considine, can you please take your children outside for a moment.”
Christine put her arm around me and guided me out of the room, but I turned around. I was already in trouble, but I had to ask.
“Principal Casey, who emailed you the video, if you can say?”
“Not that it changes things much, but it was anonymous, Miss Connor,” was Principal Casey’s curt reply, which confirmed my suspicions: we were set up. My eyes met Anthony’s as I continued walking out with Christine—and the words he mouthed at me would have made a porn star blush. I didn’t dare cast another glance Anthony’s way—but I didn’t have to. I heard him hiss several choice words at me as I left the room.
Aunt Christine and I sat on one side of the large waiting room, Brendan and his mother on the other side. Gray Lady Gary must have been at lunch, because the only sign of her was a heather-gray cardigan slung over the back of her chair.
After casting a glance at the Salingers—and noticing that Brendan’s mother was too wrapped up in scolding her son to pay attention to us—I began apologizing. “Aunt Christine, I’m so sorry, I wish—” I began. She shushed me.
“I had been hoping you would come and talk to me about this situation, Emma,” she said, her voice stern but kind. “You don’t have to handle everything yourself.”
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