In Memoriam

by Michael Beaulieu

  “Yeah. Right,” Emma says. “It’s not exactly our business, but she is our girl so I’ll ask her about it.”

  “Maybe she’s on the pill?” I wonder aloud.

  “Yeah, but that’s not foolproof,” Shar says.

  I laugh for a second. “I am so glad we don’t have to worry about accidental pregnancies.”

  “What about you, Em?” Shar asks.

  Emma looks at Shar with her jaw dropped. “You know I’m on the pill.” Then she pauses for a second and smirks. “But we use condoms, too.”

  “Good girl,” my mother says and pets her on the head.

  After Shar tells Emma about hypnotizing her sister, we lament about the ridiculous allergies Pete has given us the rest of the way to school. We end up laughing and teasing each other about it, so I guess I won’t give him a black eye. But I was planning to when I first read that shit.

  “Hey, you have a nightmare last night?” Shar asks Emma as we’re standing on the sidewalk, having just gotten out of the car.

  “Why, did you?”

  Shar nods. Tells Emma about the dream. Sure enough, she had it, too.

  “What the fuck could it mean?” Emma asks.

  I have a thought. “Maybe it’s supposed to show us that we won’t always have magick and need to prepare to deal with shit without it.”

  “Makes sense,” Emma and Shar say at the same time.

  I smile proudly.

  Jim, Pete and January come over to us. We all say hey then I have to say, “Pete. What the fuck is up with those allergies?”

  “Blame her.” He motions to January.

  Everyone turns to January, who says, “We kind of made them up together last night when we were chatting. The Vagisil was his idea, though!”

  Emma punches Pete in the arm. I’d like to say affectionately, but it’s hard enough that he winces and takes a couple steps back. “That fucking hurt!”

  She raises her fist like she might hit him again. “Yeah, well, imagine how we’ll feel if the whole school finds out about this.”

  “We were taking the piss,” Pete says.

  “Taking the piss,” I say, teasing. “Now that’s a phrase.”

  Pete rubs his arm, occasionally wincing for a second or two. “It’s big in England.”

  “It also begs the question, are you two into golden showers?” Jim asks January and Pete and laughs.

  January gags. “Gross.” She kisses Pete on the cheek. “My boy’s too pretty to piss on.”

  We all laugh. Then the first bell rings. Time to head to homeroom. This should be interesting since we’re all in the same homeroom. I guess it doesn’t look too suspicious since January and Pete started here a week before us and the school probably doesn’t know we’re all friends. A clique unto ourselves.

  Heading down the hall in the history wing, we pass Melinda, the jerks who thought rape was funny, and some other faces that are already becoming familiar. Although I don’t have names to put to most of them yet. It’s too bad Emma doesn’t have a photographic memory anymore or she’d have that shit memorized down pat already.

  “So, you have candy now,” Emma says to Pete as we’re walking.

  He grins from ear to ear. It looks kind of creepy. Shar actually flinches, not liking his expression either.

  “Heard you turned on the waterworks,” I say to him.

  “Right on,” he says.

  Emma and Jim exchange a weird look, like they have a secret the rest of us aren’t privy to. And that’s fine. I want them to share secrets. It’s what healthy couples do. Shar and I included.

  We walk into homeroom and this girl with long black hair and big, circular glasses suddenly appears in front of us, like she was waiting for us.

  “Hi,” she says. “I’m Wendy. I’m, like, your biggest fan. I have every magazine and newspaper you’ve ever been in. Even some foreign periodicals. You’re my heroes.”

  My jaw drops. I knew there were people who thought we were heroes on Facebook, but I guess I never thought we’d meet one.

  Emma reaches out and shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you, Wendy.”

  “You, too,” the girl says.

  “Well, you already know who we are,” Shar says.

  Wendy turns her bug eyes towards Emma. “Can I interview you for the school paper?”

  “I don’t know,” Emma says. “I was thinking of seeing if they need writers.”

  “That’s so cool,” Wendy says. “But I could still interview you. Just, like, an issue before you start writing for us.”

  The second bell rings and we walk past the girl and go sit down. Fortunately, she goes in the opposite direction. So, she’s not stalking us. Not yet.

  There are only two seats side by side in the back row so Shar and I insist that Emma and Jim take them. January sits in front of Pete a couple of seats up. Which leaves Shar and I... two seats in the front row. They’re side-by-side, which is cool, but, still, the front row? That’s reserved for teacher’s pets. You sit in the front row and you’re almost certain to be bullied. I do not like this at all.

  “I hope this isn’t a bad omen,” Shar says as we sit down.

  The teacher walks in. It’s Mr. Rankin, who we have for world history. He tells the students to call him Paul unless another teacher is in the room. He looks all of 24. Cute, though. Almost looks like that actor on Mister Robot, the one who plays Eliot, the dude with the bug eyes. Rami Malek, I think his name is.

  “Good morning,” Mr. Rankin says as he sets his coffee travel mug and bag on his desk. That’s when I start feeling tired. So tired I might fall asleep in class. It’s pretty fucked up, considering that I only missed half an hour of sleep. Although I guess I was up for a bit after the nightmare. I got up and went in the kitchen and took a couple swigs from a wine bottle my mother had opened and surprisingly didn’t finish last night. Usually, she does the whole bottle. But not every night. Maybe three times a week. But everyone needs vices, right? It’s not like she’s getting any. She’s always at home. Although there is that one friend who always brings the Krispy Kreme donuts from the casino in Connecticut. But if they were having sex, I’d know it. I think I’d see it in my mother’s eyes the next morning. And so my mind goes in circles as Paul talks about World War I. Or maybe it’s II. That’s how little I’m paying attention.

  Eventually, I do nod off. Shar immediately jabs me in the arm, startling me awake. But Paul saw me fall asleep.

  “It’s Lia, right?” he asks me.

  I wrap my hair around my finger and tug, as I often do when stressed. “Yes. Sorry.”

  Paul smiles. “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to the rest of the class, who are staying awake in spite of the fact that we all have to get up ridiculously early.”

  I just look at him, waiting for him to say something else, but then I realize he’s serious. After another beat, during which I feel everyone looking at me from behind, I get up and turn to the class. “Sorry everyone. Rough night. I’m sure you can relate.” And I half-smile and sit back down.

  Paul rubs his chin. “I should give you detention. But I’ll be nice and just mark you down absent for today’s class.”

  I wonder if that means I’m going to get in trouble for cutting class. Then again, if I did that, I’d get detention. And he’s trying to spare me from that. Supposedly. So, it’s probably just for his own records. I bet he’ll just take a couple points off my grade for the semester.

  Just as Paul starts writing on the chalk board, some dude coughs and says, “dyke.”

  Paul turns to the class, looking angry.

  I feel my face reddening. I curl my hands into fists. I envision whoever said it coming down with a migraine.

  “Who said that?” Paul demands.

  Nobody says anything. But I hear some guy go “aaaaah” like he was just struck with serious pain. Of course, I smile. A bit too widely though. It’s clear by the look Shar gives me that she knows I did something.

  Paul’s face grows redder by
the second. “I repeat. Who said that? Tell me or the whole class gets detention. You know I’m not kidding.”

  “Aaaagh,” the asshole goes again. “It was me. Sorry. Can I go to the nurse?”

  “You may not, Mr. Shure,” Paul says.

  “C’mon, my head feels like someone’s driving nails into it.” I turn and see that it’s Brian Shure, who got detention yesterday in study.

  “You can go. But you’ve got detention for the week,” Paul says, crossing his arms in front of himself.

  The dude gets up and bolts for the door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EMMA

  My photographic memory still can’t decide if it wants to come back or not, but I am able to follow the history lesson while thinking about several things. Mostly about the nightmare and what Lia said it could mean. That we might not always have magick. That disturbs me more than the fact that it was a J dream, even if we only heard her hideous voice. I’ve only had magick for a couple of months, but I’ve grown so accustomed to it. Especially, for the little things. Like how I walk in my room and wave my hand and command the candles to light. And they do. All 14 that I have left right now. I had more, but some have burned down completely since lighting them became so easy, which reminds me that I bought some at George’s yesterday that I haven’t set up yet. En tout cas, lighting them is almost like using telepathy. Except you’re pushing the thought on something, not a person. I just have to believe it will happen and it does. It’s like that with lots of things now. Like turning on the lights or TV. Or adjusting the water in the shower. Doing these things with magick feels so natural now that it feels weird if I use a switch or turn a button.

  Some asshole just went running to the nurse after he shouted out “dyke” when Lia finished apologizing to the class. It was like he said it and a second later he was grabbing his head. Then a couple of seconds later he was begging to go to the nurse. I sure hope not, but I can’t help but wonder if Lia – or maybe even Shar – gave the guy that headache. Lia was out of control yesterday and it will be really bad if she continues doing these things. I don’t really care if people find out we’re witches because most people believe witches are largely harmless. But we certainly wouldn’t want to be known as witches who are a threat. Even if we are.

  You think Lia did that? Jim asks me telepathically.

  I don’t know. Maybe. It’s bad if she did, right? I mean, fuck, I’d like to give that creep a migraine, too. But I didn’t.

  Well, don’t stress too much. Even if she did it, it’s not like anyone saw her do it. And there’s no proof. I’d talk to her, but try not to seem pissed.

  The bell rings and world history is finally over. I thought it was never going to end. Pete, January and Jim say ciao to us before they head for Spanish. We have to go to the language wing for French now, but Spanish is further down the hall and they need to hustle not to be late.

  You already know how much j’adore French. French and art. If only there was a school for Wiccans where I could study French, art and magick and nothing else, that would rule.

  Just when Lia, Shar and I are almost at the door, that girl Wendy comes rushing over, getting between us and the doorway. “Did you think about it?” She’s looking at me. With puppy dog eyes.

  “Yeah, I’ll sign up after school. Hopefully they don’t already have enough writers.”

  “Oh, we don’t,” she says. “Corey Feldman – not the actor – was fired for writing some crap about transgender bathrooms threatening his sexuality or something. Ms. Rose, the teacher who runs the paper, won’t put up with hate speech. But you guys are all about lesbianism and stuff, right?”

  “Well, I do have a boyfriend,” I say. What I don’t say is that I also seem to have a crush on my friend January.

  “You do?” Wendy asks.

  I nod. “I do. He just left for Spanish.”

  “I didn’t know that. I thought you were single since Tim died.” She looks really troubled by the fact that she didn’t know this.

  “Well, I met a super nice guy. His name is James. But I can’t talk now. French beckons us.” I say James because I don’t want to hear her rhyme Tim with Jim.

  “Beckons, that’s such a wonderful word, isn’t it? Oh, and I was asking if you thought about doing the interview, not signing up for the paper.”

  I shake my head. “That, I still need to think about.”

  “Please. I know you guys haven’t done interviews yet, but this would just be a low key high school paper.”

  “Again, still need to think about it,” I say. “And I might have to check with my attorney.”

  Great. Now Wendy looks like she might cry.

  “Our parents might be suing Noah’s Catholic,” Lia says.

  “So there could be legal issues?” Wendy asks.

  I nod. “Yeah. I’m not sure.”

  “Well, try to find out. And come by and apply.” She looks perky again now. I shake my head as she heads out into the hall. Thankfully, she’s going in the opposite direction. I’ve had about all I can take of her already. Well, I guess she’s not that bad. It’s just weird having someone look at you like you’re a celebrity, like you’re Selena Gomez or Rihanna or something.

  As for suing Noah’s Catholic, yeah, our parents thought we should. They all met without us “kids” and discussed it. I think they might’ve even made an appointment with an attorney. But we told our parents we’d refuse to testify, so they eventually said, fine, we won’t sue. It’s not like any of our families needed the money anyway, so why should we subject ourselves to getting interrogated in court for weeks?

  The French teacher’s name is Mr. Boisvert. Translated into English, that’s Mr. Greenwood. I love how so many French names actually mean something when you translate them into English. Like how I’m a Beaulieu, which, I’m sure you recall me saying, means beautiful place. So, I’m Ms. Emma McGlinchey-Beautifulplace. I might drop the McGlinchey from my name when I go away to college. I know much more about my French side than the Irish side. Plus, I’ve heard my two last names in the news almost daily since the shooting and I’m so sick of it. I just want to have one last name like normal people. And, obviously, I would want to keep Beaulieu, not McGlinchey, given my French thing. But I won’t change it legally, less it hurt my father. I’ll just tell people I’m Emma Beaulieu. I do that sometimes already anyway.

  Mr. Boisvert has 40 pounds on Mr. Desjardins, our French teacher at Noah’s Catholic, but that’s the only difference I can see so far. Mr. Boisvert seems just as nice and laid back. Plus, they’re both actually French from France. (Or was Mr. Desjardins from Canada? Gah, my memory fails me again.) And both teach their classes entirely in French, the difference there being that Mr. Boisvert talks slower and uses simpler vocabulary. But I really can’t complain. With him, I haven’t had to figure out a single mot (word) out of context. Also, in Mr. Boisvert’s class we’re working on l’imparfait and in Mr. Desjardin’s class we were already up to le futur tense. So, perhaps les publiques schools aren’t as with it as Noah’s Catholic, but I can breathe a little easier ici since I already know everything he’s teaching. Plus, if you want to be literal, I’m breathing easier because I’m in my own clothes. [I hated those stupid fucking Catholic uniforms. Lia, Shar and I should burn ours. January could light ‘em the fuck up.] Today I’m wearing a pink Care Bears t-shirt I bought at Savers. It has several Care Bears on it, but I don’t know any of their names. I know they’re from the ‘80s, however, and I love the ‘80s. In any case, Lia and I are both rocking thrift shop shirts aujourd’hui.

  We’re down to the last five minutes when a student pokes me in the back with a pen. The tip, not the cap, too. I turn and see that it’s Miles Manning, the other dude who got detention for talking during study yesterday. Brian Shure is sitting behind him; guess his headache is gone now.

  “I just wanted to know – is that shirt gay triangle pink?” Miles asks.

  Now I am fucking pissed. I turn and look him in the e
yes. “J’en doute. Mais si votre stylo a fait une marque sur mon T-shirt je vais kick you in the balls as hard as I can. And you will fall down and get laughed at by your friends. If not the whole school.” [Then I’ll slice off your testicles and feed them to you.]

  Lia and Shar, who are sitting next to me with Lia in front, both look shocked. But I don’t care. That fucker is lucky I didn’t ask the Lord and Lady for super strength again and punch him in the face. Yeah, that would give the bastard a fucking headache. Maybe even a broken jaw. [And if they had to wire it shut for three months, I couldn’t care less.] I will not put up with assholes. I told you, I refuse to be anyone’s victim again, I say to Lia and Shar telepathically.

  Are you trying to start a fight? Lia asks, twirling her blonde locks around her right index finger.

  My forehead wrinkles. No, but I’m not going to be harassed at another fucking school either. Nor will I let either of you be harassed. Half these people want to think of us as murders already so why not put the fear of Goddess into them?

  You shouldn’t give them any reason to escalate things further, Shar says.

  Did he leave a mark on my shirt? I ask her, since she’s the only one who can see.

  A tiny one. It’ll probably wash out.

  Fuck. I am going to kill him. It’s hard not to imagine something violent happening to him, but I don’t want to lose control like Lia. But I can’t just let him get away with it now that I’ve threatened him. I suppose I’ll have to kick him in the gonads. Although if I embarrass him in front of his friends then he’ll probably do something else to me and then the vicious circle will continue. [But if he suddenly had a heart attaque then he wouldn’t be able to do shit and his fucking friends wouldn’t even attribute it to me. Not unless it happens right after I knock him on his ass.] What the hell am I thinking? Geez, Emma, get a grip. I hope Lia and Shar weren’t reading my mind just then. I’m sure they wouldn’t do that. We promised each other we wouldn’t do that to each other. Not that we would’ve done it if we hadn’t promised, but it’s nice to have their word. January, Pete and Jim promised, too. It was a text convo but it still counts, right? It does in my book.