by David Estes
“Exactly,” Beth says. “It’s still early on, but I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Correction. You’ll let the whole school know what you find out,” I say.
“No. The whole world!” Xave says, laughing. I try to disguise my own laugh as a cough, but Beth hits me anyway. Although Beth’s articles are only published in print in the school newspaper, she also shares them with the respectable following she’s managed to amass on her collection of favorite social networking sites.
“Laugh all you want, boys, but when I’m running a real paper you’ll learn the true power of the press.” I don’t doubt her words, not for one second.
I rub my shoulder even though her whack was the equivalent of getting hit by a raindrop. “So what do you think they’re holding back?” I ask. “Everyone already knows the witches aren’t really witches.”
“How do you know?” Beth says, firing me a frown. “You read books about witches all the time, and yet you don’t even think they could be real?”
“That’s fiction,” I say.
“Seems like half of what’s in old science fiction books has been coming true for years.”
“Yeah, but that’s grounded in reality. In science. Now we’re talking fantasy. Magic. Not. Real.” We make another turn, which seems to prove my point. More nondescript cookie-cutter houses line another cookie-cutter street in suburbia. One of a million such neighborhoods across the country that have many things in common—including no real witches.
“Anyway,” Beth says, “it doesn’t matter whether they’re real witches or not, they’re being murdered for nothing other than existing. It’s not right.”
“Now that I agree with,” I say. “I can’t wait to read everything you find out.”
My comment draws a smile from my girlfriend, which I much prefer to the glares she’s been giving me for the last few minutes. She wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into her side.
“Well, I know one thing,” Xave says, “if I ever come across a male witch, I won’t turn him in—I’ll ask for his number. Witches are hot.”
“There’s no such thing as male witches,” I say.
“Always gotta be a know-it-all,” Xave says. “I meant warlocks, or wizards, or whatever Harry Potter is.”
“You’ve got a crush on Harry Potter?” Beth says, raising her eyebrows.
“Not Harry specifically, although when he fires a curse it definitely gets my heart pumping. More like Draco Malfoy. Now he’s a stud.”
“You always preferred the bad boys,” I note.
Beth chuckles, and Xave says, “True. At least I’d know what to do if I came face to face with a witch. You two would be hopeless. Beth would probably ask for an interview, and Rhett here would either freeze up or run away screaming.”
Ever since I met Xavier in the foster system when we were five, he’s been like a brother to me. And, like a brother, he knows me all too well. He’s fought for me at least a dozen times, while it’s always been my preference to use words—rather than fists—as my weapon of choice. I owe him more than I can ever repay.
So I don’t even mind the insult, not when I can feel the warmth of Beth’s body seeping through our clothes. The school comes into view and I let out a silent groan. I squeeze Beth one more time and then head toward the opposite end of campus, to the athletic locker rooms. I have to stow my football gear before I make my way to class.
“See you guys later,” I say, still thinking about what Beth said about witches being real.
~~~
Football practice. Although I don’t mind sports, I’d rather be hanging with Xave and Beth than smashing into sweaty guys. However, according to my foster father, my height, build, and athletic abilities make football my best shot at a college scholarship. I’m taller than most guys on the team, and when I wear contacts Beth says I almost look like a football player. But I know she prefers me with glasses—we’re two nerds in a pod. Xave says we’re a cute couple because we’re opposites in so many ways. Her brown eyes are light; mine are dark. She’s petite; I’m, well, not. Her nose is small, like a button; according to Xave, mine is too big, although Beth says it’s cute.
So here I am, on the sidelines, waiting for Coach to arrive, thankful that my dark skin isn’t particularly sensitive to the hot Georgia sun.
“Jacob’s search for true love is something every teenage boy can relate to,” a voice says from behind. I sigh, hating the way my own written words sound so pathetic and stupid when spoken by the human gorilla.
I finish tying my cleats and turn around to find Todd Logue and three of his football buddies laughing at me. “Do you need something?” I say, unwilling to rise to the bait.
“Me?” Todd says, feigning surprise. “All I need are more of your blog posts. They touch me in ways I never knew were possible.” He makes a vigorous and exceptionally lewd gesture with his hand. His goons laugh louder.
Knowing that people like him are able to read my posts almost make me want to give up book blogging. Almost.
“I’m so glad,” I say, offering the fakest, broadest smile I can muster. I grab my helmet and head left toward the field.
The foursome move in tandem, blocking my path. Determined to avoid them, I turn toward the right. Again, they block my escape.
“We’ll let you by if you recite something from your last blog post,” Todd says. “You know, the one I printed two hundred copies of and posted around the school.”
He didn’t. I want to believe myself, but I know it’s exactly the kind of thing he would do. A crowd starts to gather as some of the students who were there to watch the football practice realize something’s about to go down.
“Screw you,” I say, moving back to the left to try to get past. I refuse to let him goad me into a fight. One of his goons pushes me back.
Someone in the crowd yells, “Fight!”
“Leave him the hell alone,” a familiar voice says. Crap. I glance over where Xavier has just emerged to stand beside me. His pudgy face is pulled into a frown.
“Xave, I’m fine,” I hiss. “Get out of here.” When he looks up at me with those fiercely loyal brown eyes of his, I know he’s not going anywhere. When did he get so much smaller than me? While I’ve grown up, he’s grown out, his plump belly making him as big a target of bullies as me.
“Oooh, has your fat boyfriend come to save you?” Todd taunts.
Although a few chuckles dance through the crowd, I see plenty of kids shaking their heads, not amused by Todd in the least. And yet none of them step forward to help. I don’t blame them. Why make yourself a target when staying under the radar is so much easier?
Xave doesn’t understand the meaning of “flying under the radar.”
“At least Rhett’s ancestors didn’t swing from trees,” Xave says, not backing down. He rummages through his bag and finds a banana, which he tosses over Todd’s head. “Fetch!”
There are a lot of laughs from the crowd, which only seems to infuriate Todd, his eyebrows pinching together. “You’ll pay for that, homo,” he says, stepping forward.
He swings at Xave’s head, but I step in front of him, taking the punch in the chest. It hurts like hell, but I stand my ground, ushering Xave, who’s trying to get around me, further back. The next punch catches me in the face and twists my head around, blood exploding from my nose.
The four huge guys surround us, all smiles and wisecracks.
“Bring it, losers,” Xave says as they close in. Sometimes I wish my best friend was a little more scared of pain.
I tense up, ready to take the worst beating I’ve had since my second foster father, Big Hank, used to regularly use Xave and me as punching bags, when a flat, hard voice says, “I’d stop while you’re ahead, Todd.”
Todd stops mid-punch, whirling to glare at the girl who would dare threaten him. Soft brown skin. Intriguing brown eyes, flashing with anger. Glasses that give her a trendy, intelligent look. Her hands are on her hips, a look of utter cont
empt screwing up her otherwise pretty features.
Not again, I think. Beth. She wasn’t supposed to make it to watch practice today, her duties as editor of the school newspaper consuming her afternoon.
“I won’t hit a girl,” Todd says.
“How chivalrous,” Beth says.
“But you’re awfully tempting,” Todd says.
“Like a guppy to a shark.”
“So why don’t you get out of here so we can finish with these two?” Todd says.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Beth says, a somewhat vicious smile forming on her pink lips. “Why don’t you go back to what you do best—throwing a ball—and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
Silence. I can tell Todd’s confused, his face switching between laughing and frowning. Evidently he doesn’t know what to make of the spitfire standing before him. I’m equally dumbfounded, wondering how the hell Beth is planning to get Todd to back down. But there’s one thing I know about Beth: She always has a plan.
“And why should I do that?” Todd asks.
Beth motions for him to come closer. He stands stock-still, then shrugs and saunters over to her. The kids in the crowd are whispering to each other, their hands over their mouths. Our little scene is better entertainment than reality TV.
When Todd gets close to her, she motions him even closer, toward her mouth. The tall quarterback has to bend to get to her level. She whispers something in his ear and he stiffens, pulling back. His eyes are wide and white for a moment, and then he sneers, “C’mon, boys. These losers aren’t even worth our time.”
Although the other players don’t look like they want to leave, one by one they follow their leader as he jogs back onto the field.
“Break it up! There’s nothing to see here!” Beth shouts, motioning for the audience to go back to whatever they were doing before.
“Wow!” Xave says, watching the crowd dissipate. “That was incredible. I didn’t even have to get all bloody and bruised, like I usually do when I defend Rhett.”
I cringe, hating how I always feel when my friends have to come to my rescue.
Like a big wimp.
“Those idiots deserve more than a free pass,” Beth mutters, but flashes a real smile. “A swift kick in the groin would’ve been more satisfying.”
“Ooh,” Xave groans. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“Sorry,” I say, feeling about half my six-foot, four-inch height.
“About what?” Beth says, wrapping an arm around my waist.
“Involving you guys in my problems yet again.”
“We involved ourselves,” Xave says, beaming. “It’s part of our job description. Personally it’s not my favorite part of the job, but I’m pretty used to it by now. Like, remember when Big Hank came home drunk and decided you needed ‘toughening up’?”
“Not this story again,” I say, wishing Xave had a shorter memory.
“Oh, have I told this one before?” Xave says, raising his eyebrows theatrically. “Let’s just say that I took the licks for you. It’s the only time I’ve had two black eyes and a bloody nose all at the same time.”
I chew my lip, remembering that night. After all, it was only eight short years earlier that Xave and I met when we were both sent to live with Big Hank and his wife, Cindi. For almost a year it was a nightly ritual for him to come home drunk, driving a beat-up pickup proudly flying a Confederate flag, unleashing a barrage of obscenities at Cindi, who would spew all sorts of vile threats right back.
Big Hank would stomp up the steps and, with his alcohol-breath hitting us in a nauseating blast, he’d pick one of us and then proceed to “beat the black out of us,” as he liked to say. On more than one occasion, Xave, who was bigger than me back then, would volunteer to take the beating for me. I cried most of those nights, listening to Xave’s screams.
Two days after the final beating Xave took from Big Hank, Cindi shot and killed her husband when he tried to touch her.
Xave, who was still recovering in the hospital from his “bad bike accident,” and I were split up and moved to different foster homes.
Neither of them was as bad as staying with Big Hank and Cindi. But neither of them was much better either.
“Ooh, wait, I’ve got one,” Beth says, raising a finger in the air.
“Not you, too,” I say. “You know, you two would make really good bullies. You’ve mastered the art of ganging up.”
Ignoring me, Beth says, “Remember how we met?” Ugh. Why can’t we be a normal couple with a cute story of how we got together? Like someone knocks her books out of her arms and I pick them up. Or she sees me catch a game-winning touchdown pass and interviews me for a school article. No such luck.
“No,” I lie.
“Then let me remind you. Much like today, you and Xave were surrounded by thugs.”
“I was throwing punches like a tornado,” Xave says, chiming in.
“None of them connecting,” I mutter.
“And Rhett was just standing there letting his face get tenderized,” Xave continues.
“I shouted, ‘Cops!’ and the bullies and crowd took off running,” Beth concludes.
“See,” I say, “if not for my knack for attracting attention, we might not even know each other.”
“I still don’t get why you don’t stand up for yourself,” Beth says.
“Rhett wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Xave says. “It’s just not in him.”
“What should we do after practice?” I say, changing the subject.
“You’re a freaking giant, Rhett,” Beth says, continuing on as if I hadn’t spoken.
“A real Big Foot…” Xave adds.
“I barely come up to your waist,” Beth says.
“…with fists the size of meat cleavers,” Xave says.
I throw my hands up. “Okay, okay, I get it. I should be doing the hitting, not getting hit. I should be book blogger turned Superman, right? Defender of the weak, protector of the bullied. Look, I just don’t like violence. The thought of hitting someone’s”—I make a face—“nose or chin or cheek grosses me out.” Even talking about violence is making me queasy. I can’t help it—I’ve always been this way. When the other boys were wrestling and playing “Cops and Robbers” I was more interested in books, happy to get lost in someone else’s adventure.
“Then aim for their stomachs,” Beth says.
“Or their kidneys,” Xave says, waggling his eyebrows encouragingly. “Or if you want to act like a little girl, a good shot to the nuts will drop ’em like the sacks of feces that they are.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. None of those options are any more appealing to me. “Pass,” I say.
“You’re hopeless,” Beth says, but from her smile and the way she squeezes my waist, I can tell she won’t hold it against me. “Well, I’d love to stay and talk strategies for inflicting pain on jerks like Todd Logue, but I’ve got to run. Our issue spotlighting the inequality of Salem’s Return won’t get written and edited by itself.”
She gives me a quick peck on the lips and skates away, adjusting her glasses when they slip down her nose.
“Hey, Beth!” I say, stopping her.
“Yeah?”
“What did you say to Todd?”
Smiling, she strolls back over and stands on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear. “I told him I had a source that told me he used to wet the bed, and that I’d run the story in next week’s newspaper if he didn’t leave you alone.”
I snort out a laugh. “Whoever told you that about Todd has a death wish,” I say.
“I made it up,” she says.
“But…how’d you know it would work?”
She offers a sly grin. “Because bullies like Todd are always overcompensating for their own insecurities,” she says.
Shaking my head, I grab my helmet off the ground, reacting to Coach Bronson’s whistle. After kissing Beth on the cheek, I run onto the field.
“What? No smooch for me?” Xave c
alls after me. He has a knack for embarrassing me in front of my teammates, as if they need any more reason to make fun of me.
Beth hoots and hollers and claps. “Superstar!” she shouts.
My face warming, I turn and look at the bleachers so I won’t have to see the rest of the players—whose stares I can feel on the back of my neck—but Beth and Xavier are already huddled over his tablet, immersed in homework or a funny video or my latest blog, which they never fail to give me a hard time about.
A burst of energy plumes in my chest as I watch them. My embarrassment vanishes like a ship in the Bermuda Triangle. Beth and Xave and me. Inseparable.
Chapter Two
“How’s the Salem’s Return issue coming?” I say to Beth when she and Xave meet me to walk home.
Beth frowns. “The more research we do, the more the whole thing stinks,” she says.
“Like Rhett’s football cleats?” Xave says.
“Worse,” she says. “Do you know how it all started?”
Of course. Everyone does. A woman who could breathe fire. A circus performer. But not just her—there were three of them. Sisters, calling themselves The Pyros. Only it wasn’t just that they could breathe fire, but that they could seemingly create it from thin air. Snap their fingers and a flame would appear. Of course, it was all just an illusion. Magic isn’t real. However, the Pyros were so good that people started to think they were real witches. A couple of religious groups accused them of being devil-worshippers. Of course, it didn’t help that a national media organization had a slow news week and grabbed onto the story, broadcasting snippets from the sermons condemning the witches. Like every other snowball that gets a big push down a hill, the story got bigger and bigger, until the story became an issue, and the issue became a problem.
Enter the politicians, who only made things worse. Because of the potential for panic, a law was signed preventing “real” magic from being performed—whatever that meant. The media coined it Salem’s Return. I can still remember the first trial. My mom was obsessed with it. She said it would redefine the type of country we’d be for the next century, that it was the most important event since the Civil War. When the Pyros were sentenced to burn, she wouldn’t leave the house for three days. Said we’d become monsters.