The station plays a double shot of AC/DC, some song about big balls, which reminds me that Juliana has satellite radio in the car, being that they couldn’t play this song on regular radio. I don’t recognize the singer’s voice on this one. He must be the first one who died. I remember his first name was Bon because it makes me think of French, but I haven’t a clue what his last name is.
Before the song is over every nerve in my body suddenly feels anxious. It’s like I’ve been zapped in the head with a taser. I start having a meltdown and feel myself arriving in that ballpark where the game is how long will it take Emma McGlinchey-Beaulieu to have a panique attaque? Of course, that’s the last thing I need right now. Please Lord and Lady, Gods and Goddesses, Laissez-moi rester calme. (Let me stay calm.)
Everyone’s talking away about the latest issue of Nylon and the upcoming Twin Peaks revival. Nylon is the only magazine Lia, Shar and I are all subscribed to and we all watched seasons one and two of Twin Peaks last summer, which gave me a girl crush on Sherilyn Fenn. In fact, I haven’t told anybody this, but I spent 40 bucks on ebay buying her issue of Playboy from a good 30 years ago. That would probably point toward my being bisexual, although I couldn’t see myself dating a woman. Plus, even if I’m a little bi – something I keep dwelling on – my heart belongs to Jim. Why am I thinking about all of this shit? Because my brain is on rapid fire right now, complete with beaucoup racing thoughts. Like how we could all get killed in a car accident any second. Lia and Shar have PTSD, too, but they’ve never said anything about cars making them uncomfortable. Me, I seem to have developed a car accident phobia. That’s why I’m pressing my feet into the floor of the car with all the strength in my legs. I guess I’m bracing myself. I bet that makes your legs get hurt even worse if you’re in a wreck, but my subconscious isn’t listening to me right now. I suppose this phobia is why I volunteered to sit in the back with Lia and Shar. Boy is that selfish of me, having poor January sit in the front, knowing you’re more likely to die in an accident if you’re sitting there. Of course, I don’t know if that’s an actual statistic so much as a theory I have.
I can be so fucking selfish sometimes. I hate that about myself. It was completely selfish and fucked up for me to ask Kat for help that day. Bien sûr, I didn’t ask her to show up at that putrid mountain with a sword and risk her life. Pas du tout. Still, if I never asked her for help, she’d still be alive right now. Unless it was fate for her to die last Saturday. But I don’t think I believe in fate anymore. I’m not sure I ever really did. Maybe on some level, but now that we know divine intervention to be a legit thing, it’s pretty hard to think about everything being such a done deal. If it was, that would basically make fate more powerful than the other Gods and Goddesses and there’s no way the Lord and the Lady created a God to write the story of our lives before it happens.
Shit. I just felt a chest pain. I’d better take an Ativan. I should’ve done that ten minutes ago when I started feeling the all too familiar waves of anxiety crashing against the shore in my brain. “Anyone have a drink on them? I just need a sip to take an Ativan because I feel like I’m about to have a panique attaque maintenant.”
“I have a water,” January says. She turns around and hands it to me.
“Thanks.” It’s either half empty or half full, depending on what type of person you are. But I think about January’s lips having touched the bottle as I drink just enough to down the Ativan and it sends a tingling sensation from my toes up through the top of my head. Weird, because usually I get sensations from my head down through my toes, not vice versa. The good thing is that my anxiety goes away for a few seconds. But then the tingling is gone and my anxiety is back. Lord and Lady, please help me. I’m going to George’s to do the most honorable thing I can think of in this situation and tell him what happened to Kat face to face. Please, give me the strength I need to do that.
I just realized we’re almost at the highway, which means we’re almost at January’s house. It’s the second right coming up. Damn, another chest pain and my left hand is going numb. Numb! Now, we’ve just missed January’s street. Nobody says anything, though.
“You coming with us, Jan?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “You didn’t hear us talking?”
“No,” I say. “Too lost in my head.”
My hand is growing more and more numb by the second. And I’m an idiot because I’m not hearing them talk and for not calling January by her full name. She hates being called Jan and I know that. And she knows I know it. I hope she doesn’t think I’m pissed at her now. Je suis stupide. Je sais. But I guess January is knowledgeable about panique attaques because she doesn’t correct me. She’s awfully sweet like that.
“I said I thought you’d feel better if she came with us,” Shar says. I want to ask her why but I can’t get my mouth to open. I’m clenching my jaw/teeth so fucking hard. Putain! J’en ai assez.
Motherfucker! It feels like my heart is being crushed by a fist. You’d think a malevolent ghost was squeezing it. The fucking ghost of J. Speaking of hearts, now I’m picturing that fucking boar’s heart falling out of the box on repeat. Like I’m wearing virtual reality glasses or some shit that Pete would be into. Anyway, I should probably make it my life’s mission to hunt witch hunters who hunt good witches. I kind of wish I could go back in time and kill J all over again. I wish we could have let her demons eat her alive. Let her feel the kind of pain she inflicted on all those she tortured. At least that scream that came out of her when I smashed the bottle of sea salt in her face was priceless. Does liking that make me evil? It’s probably the damn black magick in me. But, seriously, don’t I deserve to have one good thought about that whole ordeal?
Deep breaths, Emma. Take deep breaths. I try doing that, but now my heart feels even worse, like it’s being choked out, like when you see someone strangle someone on TV and it reaches the point of no return where the victim dies.. And I can hear Kat screaming as the snakes bite her, which is the worst sound in the world. Even worse than gunshots. It’s like I’m right back there, seeing her die all over again, now.
BANG! Did I just hear that? Really? I must have because we’re pulling over. On the highway. Fuck, this sucks. Because pulling over on the highway is a surefire way to get yourself killed. Even greater than speeding excessively in the third lane. Again, not an actual statistic, just another Emma McGlinchey-Beaulieu theory. Maybe if I didn’t have so many theories I wouldn’t get freaked out so often.
BANG! BANG! Screams and more screams. I need my mind to focus and calm down. Reste calme, reste calme, I tell myself.
Shit, I just thought of something. That time I had a panique attaque in my mother’s car and January touched me and it went away completely. That must be why I got a few seconds of relief when my lips were wrapped around her water bottle. Fairy magick!
“It would seem we’ve got a flat,” Juliana says.
“You have a spare, right?” Lia asks.
“Yeah. Can you and Shar help me change it?”
“We can try.”
Juliana, Shar and Lia get out of the car. Good. “January, can you please touch my head like you did that time you made my panique attaque go away in my mom’s car?” Why didn’t she think of this? Is she enjoying my suffering? Maybe she gets off on it? Maybe that’s why she tries to flirt with me sometimes. Because making me question my sexuality is fun for her. No, that’s crazy. Paranoid much, Emma?
“Of course,” she says. Then, poof, she’s in fairy mode, looking like a butterfly and ladybug hybrid. She flies over and lands on my head, pressing her little hands against it, which feel so warm and comforting, like a warm blanket on a frigid day.
“Is it helping any?” she asks.
“Absolument,” I say. “Why didn’t we think of this sooner?” The warmth spreads from her hands, filling my head up like a glass until it’s completely full then it suddenly goes down through my body and eventually it fills my feet and toes. And tears start pouring down my c
heeks. Why, I’m not sure. Because I’m experiencing such relief, maybe?
“I’m wicked sorry,” she says. “I should’ve thought of it. I’m supposed to help you guys, not hang out and talk about magazines.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it,” I admit, wiping the tears on my t-shirt sleeve. “Guess I had a brain fart when my thoughts were going 90 miles an hour. Or I thought the Ativan would do more than it did. Anyway, I think I’m back to normal now.” Looks like the tears, which I’m pretty sure were happy tears, are drying up already.
“Chic alors,” she says, knowing I always smile when people speak French to me, as she flies to the side of me and returns to human form.
“Ouais, chic alors,” I say.
“You think that’ll keep you sane for the afternoon?”
I bite my top lip. “Probably until we get there. Then I’m sure to freak out.”
“I’ll touch you when we get there,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s flirting.
“If only you could sit on my face,” I say and immediately blush as I realize it could be taken sexually. I guess now it sounds like I’m flirting. “Head. I meant to say head. Sit on my head like you were just doing.”
“I figured as much,” she says, giggling. “I also figure this George wouldn’t be surprised to see a fairy. But you know I can heal when I’m a full-size human, right?”
“Yeah.” I knew that. It just slipped my mind because, hello, panique attaque.
“So, let me hold your hand. That should curb your anxiety the whole time.” She reaches over and our fingers intertwine as we hold hands.
I bite my damn lip again. One of my go-to habits when I’m stressed. “I wonder if fairy magick will absolve me of my guilt.”
Her shoulders slouch and her brow crinkles up. “That, I doubt. Because I’m feeling pretty guilty myself.”
“What do you feel guilty about?” I’m surprised to hear her say this because she’s never struck me as the sort of person who’d beat themselves up like I do. She’s usually our Ms. Happy-Go-Lucky.
Her face turns red as she speaks. “Anything. Everything. I don’t know. I feel like shit for letting my parents talk me into putting my dog to sleep when he started peeing on the floor. Who knows how much longer she could’ve lived?”
“What was her name?” I ask as I squeeze her hand, hoping it’ll comfort her at least in some small way.
“Charlotte.”
“That’s the name of one of my favorite French chanteuses,” I say, my eyes lighting up like when old ladies win bingo.
“I keep meaning to ask you to make me a French mix CD,” she says, looking deep into my eyes. Does she want me to kiss her?
“C’est rien,” I say and break eye contact by looking down so I wouldn’t do something stupid.
“What does c’est mean?”
“It means it’s nothing.”
“Ah. I wish I knew French like you.”
“Well, you take Spanish, which is like the unofficial language of Lowell, So, at least it’s practical.”
The left passenger side door opens and Lia gets in.
Shar is about to open the right passenger door but sees me sitting there with January beside me. “Guess I’ll sit in front,” she says, sounding irritated.
I hear Juliana slam the trunk and I realize January and I are still holding hands. But if I pull away now I could have a major panique attaque. Unfortunately this holding hands business means that Lia and Shar will taunt me about my girl crush even more.
“What have we here?” Lia says.
I blush, but January blushes, too. Does that mean she’s crushing on me? In any case, I’d better explain this. “January’s holding my hand so I don’t have a panique attaque at George’s. Or in the meantime.”
“Good idea,” Shar says. “Too bad you didn’t think of that twenty minutes ago.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I say. Elementary is one of our favorite shows, hence the Sherlock mention.
“Guess we all flubbed it on that one,” Juliana says as she starts the car.
Now a question pops into my head. “Is the spare tire one of those temporary small ones or a regular one?”
“You can relax, Emma. It’s a normal tire.”
“I’m good,” I say. I did get nervous for two seconds there. Another Emma theory is that you’re more likely to get in an accident when you use one of those temporary tires. Pretty sure you don’t need to launch an investigation to verify that one. Obviously, driving with a mini-tire is going to throw off the alignment and make it easier to get in an accident. But even if it was a temporary tire I don’t think I’d be panicking with January holding my hand. It’s making my whole mind and body feel safe right now. I mean, I’m still concerned about how things will go at George’s, but I don’t feel like the world is going to end if it goes badly. Or like I’m going to have a heart attack before we even get there.
The sensation I’m getting from holding her hand is similar to the feeling I experience when I have sex with Jim. (Sex with Jim, that sounds weird. Like I’m cheating on Jim.) The difference is that this is magick and the way I feel with Jim is love and hormones. And because it’s love I am not thinking about kissing January right now. I am not. Je te jure.
CHAPTER NINE
EMMA
We arrive in Salem at 3:42, according to my phone, and park in the one main parking garage the city has downtown. George’s is but a five minute walk from here.
I’m still holding January’s hand and it feels like our palms are starting to sweat a little, but if it keeps me from having a panique attaque at George’s it’s totally worth it. I bet he’s going to scream at me then he and I will have a cry. All of us will. If he doesn’t kick us out of the store.
January lets go of my hand as we get out of the car. But she’s right behind me and I immediately grab her hand. Except instead of holding her right hand I hold her left hand to give the hands we were using for the past forty minutes a break.
“You’re gonna hold hands the whole way there?” Lia asks in a totally teasing manner.
I blush. My face fills up with so much blood it’s a wonder I don’t have a bloody nose. I look to see if January is blushing and she is. And she gets even redder when we make eye contact. It feels a little awkward for a second but then we all head out of the garage. Then Lia, Shar and January talk about how much easier Greenmont High seems compared to Noah’s Catholic with its multiple choice quizes and easy homework assignments. I don’t say anything, though. My mind is too busy rehearsing what I’m going to say to George, not that anything sounds like the right thing to say, mind you. I don’t know how cops can go around telling people their friends and family have died all the time. I guess you must get numb to it after a while.
As we head towards George’s, I use my free hand to reach under my shirt and pull my pentacle out from under it. To remind him we’re on the same team. Lia and Shar put their pentacles over their shirts, too. Even Juliana takes out her pentacle necklace. It’s weird how Juliana is a witch and she even helped slay the evil bitch with us but I still don’t picture her as a witch because I’ve known her since I was seven and had no clue that she was one until a few weeks ago. It’s almost as weird as it would be to find out my mother was a witch. Thank Goddess she’s not because it would be fucking strange doing magick with her. It’s already beyond awkward knowing that she knows I’m a witch. I hate that she worries about me so much now.
Sometimes when something really good happens I’ll get goosebumps and they’ll feel nice and tingly and that’s how I feel holding hands with January as we walk to George’s. Lia and Shar are holding hands because they’re a couple and that’s just something couples do. At least the romantic ones. January and I are holding hands so that je peux rester calme. (So that I can stay calm.) But what if that wasn’t why? Would I still want to hold her hand? Now I’ve got that song “I Want to Hold Your Hand” by The Beatles stuck in my head. Of course, I love The Beatles. I’m
just not sure I should be thinking that way about January. Especially right now.
I need to be going over my mental notes about what to tell George. At least, I’m trying to do that, but I can’t decide. Should I tell him how we stopped time or froze everything or whatever? I kind of want to ask him how to do it again and see if Lia, Shar and I can do it now that we have so much magick. I would think we could. I’m pretty sure we even share Kat’s magick, since J’s fucking trap – made with J’s magick – killed her and we killed J. Shit, now I feel guilty for that. Well, slightly guilty. If I wasn’t holding January’s hand I’d probably be freaking out about it. Guess I’ll have to do that later! Merde, merde, merde.
We reach George’s and stop outside and everyone looks at me. I wonder how George will feel if we all go in. He might feel overwhelmed if four witches and a fairy walk in. That would intimidate me. Especially if I could sense that the witches all possess black magick. “Guys, I think just January and I should go in first.”
Lia raises an eyebrow and glares at me. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously. You guys can come in after we tell him. I don’t want to go in like an army and make him all defensive.”
“That’s a good point,” Juliana says.
“But we were there and we want to apologize, too,” Shar says.
I put my free hand on her shoulder. “You can. Just after I deliver the initial shock and give him a minute to process it. OK? Please?”
A beat passes and Shar doesn’t say anything. Instead, she keeps looking around. Peering everywhere except at me. That said, everyone else is staring at me.
“If you guys really want to come in, I can’t stop you. I’m just trying to be considerate, knowing how upset I’d be if someone came and told me that one of you were killed.”
In Memoriam Page 9