A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  “No, we don’t have to do this.” With another evil eye to my stepbrother, I grab Moxie and retreat to my room.

  After a quick e-mail to Mia, I walk to my window and struggle until it lifts. Breathing in the fresh air, I smell the promise of rain. Wish it could wash away all my troubles here.

  Stepping across the roof, I take a seat on my favorite branch and let myself lean into its strength. With the sticky air around me and a giant half-moon above, I flip through the pages of my Bible, going straight to the topical index.

  And for some reason “hideous stepbrother” is nowhere to be found.

  chapter twenty-two

  I don’t know about this, Lindy. I’m so not in the mood for it.” She totally knows I have woes that are straight from a soap opera.

  “Come on. You’ll have fun. Seriously. And maybe some bonding time with God is exactly what you need.”

  I halt outside the school library door and watch other Truman students file into the Wednesday FCA meeting. They talk, they laugh, they high-five and hug. They know each other.

  And I only know three people on this campus. And one of them is Budge the cat-hater and doesn’t even count. I miss walking the halls of my school and knowing everyone. I miss Mia and my gang of girls. I miss seeing Hunter anytime I wanted. And God and I haven’t been so close lately either. It’s like when I moved, I left Him behind too.

  “Okay.” I pull open the wooden door. “Let’s do this.”

  Lindy leads me toward Matt, who’s surrounded by a group of friends. They laugh over some shared joke.

  “Hey, guys. I want to introduce you to my new friend.” Lindy’s voice issues a challenge, and I feel my cheeks tingle with pink.

  “This is Bella Kirkwood.”

  A tall African-American girl pins me with her dark eyes. “Former author of Ask Miss Hilliard? That was some interesting reading.”

  Jesus may wipe the sin slate clean, but these people sure don’t.

  “I’m Anna,” the girl continues, her face still impassive. “And I bet you’re really uncomfortable right now.”

  Why lie? “Praying for a distraction so I can slip out the door.”

  And then she laughs, revealing a mouthful of pink-banded braces. “It takes some guts to be here, Bella.” She slaps me on the back. “You’re in the right place. If you don’t find yourself treated right, you let me know. I’ll take care of them.”

  Like an idiot, I smile wordlessly at this Amazon of a girl. She must be close to six feet. “You must be one of Lindy’s friends from the basketball team.”

  She tosses her wavy hair and laughs. “I couldn’t hit a basket if it was the size of a pool. I’m the captain of the cheerleading squad.”

  If we were keeping points based on my ability to impress the good people of Truman, I would be at a negative five hundred.

  Lindy jabs Anna with her elbow, her voice hushed. “There’s Kelsey.” In a blaze of whispers, the group around me watches a blonde girl across the room. She sits in a chair, staring in a zombie–like fashion as her friends chatter on. This Kelsey seriously needs a cheeseburger. She makes Keira Knightley look like a sumo wrestler.

  Lindy quietly fills me in. “Kelsey Anderson hasn’t been back to school since the end of last year. Her boyfriend, Zach Epps, was a star football player, had a full ride to OU . . . Then he wrapped his car around a tree. He’s been on life-support ever since.”

  “Kelsey fell apart,” Matt adds. “They say she goes and sees him at the nursing home in town every day.” He shakes his brown head.

  “It was a really bad year for the team.”

  “Must’ve been hard for all the players.” I twirl all this information around in my head.

  Matt shakes his head. “Zach wasn’t our only loss. Last October we also had a teammate commit suicide.”

  Anna looks over our heads toward Kelsey. “It’s like the Tigers are cursed.”

  “Okay, guys. I’m glad to see everyone.” My English teacher, Mrs.

  Palmer, stands at the front of the room as we all quiet down.

  “She’s our advisor,” Lindy whispers in my ear as we take a seat on the carpeted floor beneath a display of Manga novels.

  “Today we have Grant Dawson from Truman Bible Church.”

  Matt leans in. “He’s our youth pastor.”

  Oh yes. At the Church of the Holy Cafeteria.

  Grant takes Mrs. Palmer’s place in the center. “Good morning, Truman Tigers!” The crowd cheers in reply, Anna being the loudest. “You know, it’s not even close to Christmas, but today I want to talk about Mary—the mother of Jesus. She led such a cool life, she’s worth talking about anytime of the year.” He opens up his Bible and reads a few passages.

  Beside me Lindy picks at her fingernail polish. I slap at her hand. “Stop that,” I whisper. “You’ll ruin your manicure.”

  “It’s driving me nuts. And so is this t-shirt. It’s too tight.”

  “It’s perfect. Shows off all your curves, and it screams ‘style.’”

  “It screams, ‘My chest is trapped and can’t get out.’”

  I roll my eyes and tune back in to the pastor.

  “Did you know Mary was just a teenager when she had Jesus?

  Can you imagine being handpicked to be the mother of God at your age?” Pastor Grant asks the room.

  I can’t even remember to floss at my age.

  “But see, guys, God uses teenagers—does it all the time. After an angel told Mary about her new future, what did she do?”

  Hyperventilate?

  He pauses and scans the crowd. “She rejoiced. She got excited. And then she not only obeyed God, but she went and praised God to others. Mary knew God was leading her on a totally different path. He was really taking her out of her comfort zone.”

  I can totally relate. Mary got a manger, and I got Truman.

  “But she knew God’s plans for her were huge and that it was totally possible the Lord wanted to use her.” Pastor Grant runs his fingers through his spiky, highlighted hair. His large eyes are intense, like he’s trying to send us a message with mind power alone. “What about you? Has God asked you to step out of your comfort zone? To be somewhere you don’t want to be for a bigger purpose?”

  Does a Dumpster count?

  “As you go about this semester, I want you to be praying about God’s purpose for you. Guys and girls alike—He might be calling you to a Mary moment. The question is . . . will you be like her—and tell Him yes?” Pastor Grant closes his NIV. “Let’s pray.”

  As I lower my head, I catch a glimpse of familiar black hair a few rows over.

  Luke Sullivan.

  He’s here? Like, he’s a Christian? Surely not. I would’ve sworn he was a minion of Beelzebub. Anybody who makes a girl climb into trash bags cannot be walking in a path of righteousness—can I get an amen? Maybe he’s just here for the paper.

  I ask him during second hour.

  His eyes darken. “What do you mean what was I doing there?”

  I spin a pencil in my hand. “Well, you’re not an athlete, and I have my doubts that you’re a believer.”

  “That’s funny”—he lifts a dark brow—“I would’ve said the same about you.”

  Oh, now I’m just offended. “Of course I’m a Christian.” How rude. He shrugs. “Couldn’t tell.”

  I make a strangled noise as my mouth drops. “Right back at you, Chief.

  ”

  “And for your information, Miss Kirkwood, I am an athlete.”

  “Sudoku is not a contact sport.”

  He huffs and walks away, his azure eyes piercing. Oh, he’ll have me investigating toilets for that one.

  At lunch I can’t seem to quit watching Kelsey Anderson. I know I shouldn’t. From the look on her face, she’s obviously struggling just to be at school, so I’m sure a cafeteria of people staring at her doesn’t help.

  “Here are your tickets for the party tomorrow night.” Matt passes out a purple piece of paper to me and Lin
dy.

  “We have to have tickets?” Lindy fidgets with the waistband of her skirt until she catches my frown.

  “It’s a private party. Very exclusive. This is the first year I’ve gotten an invite. And you can’t tell anyone you’re going.” Matt stuffs his own ticket in his pocket. “We’re to meet at the old graveyard on Knotts Hill. From there we’re picked up.”

  “Sounds kind of creepy to me.”

  “It’s going to be fun, Lindy. We’ll just go for a little bit, see what it’s about, then come home. No worries.” But even I’m wondering about meeting in a graveyard. Ick.

  “Let’s ride together. I’ll pick you girls up. Seven?”

  The bell rings for fifth hour. I grab my backpack. “Why don’t you pick me up last.” I send Lindy a secret smile. “I’ll need a little extra time to get ready.”

  I wave a final good-bye, turn around to find a trash can, and find myself nose to chest with Luke.

  “You are always in the most inconvenient places,” I say to his Abercrombie polo.

  “Have a little date tomorrow evening?”

  “No.” How long has he been standing there?

  Then he dismisses the topic like it’s already left his oversized brain. “One of our reporters is sick and is going to miss her deadline.”

  He honestly didn’t know I was a Christian. How sad is that? I mean, I don’t care what this guy thinks or anything, but I at least don’t want to be discounted as a potential believer. I mean, what is it about me that says, “Soooo not a Christian”?

  “So I’ll have it later, right?” Luke pats my shoulder and snaps me back to the present conversation. “Thanks for being a team player.”

  “Wait—what?”

  “Your article on recycling. I want it in my in-box by Thursday at 8:00 p.m.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  He parks his khaki-covered hip on a table as other students file past us. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t. I’ll work on it tonight, but I’m going to need at least the weekend. I’m busy Thursday.”

  “Busy meeting in the graveyard? Are you really so hard up for entertainment here that you’re going to go traipsing over people’s final resting places?”

  “Yes.” Duh. “And you were eavesdropping.”

  “I was merely waiting to get your attention and didn’t want to interrupt. We have to have the story, Bella.”

  “You can’t just give me a day’s notice.”

  He steps closer, and I instantly compare his slight stubble to Hunter’s always-smooth face. “This is a real working paper we run here. And it’s not just a class, but a job. So like a real paper, sometimes we have to pitch in at the last minute to make sure it gets done. If you can’t handle that—”

  “There’s a class called Tire Changing 101 with my name on it?” I poke his chest. Oddly enough, there’s muscle there. “Save your threats, Luke. I have gone above and beyond to be a team player.” And I totally pull out the quotey fingers here. In his face. “I’ve done everything— everything—you’ve asked. I’ve sat in moldy food. I ruined a pair of suede flats. I sunburned my face while digging around in decomposing refuse.” My voice rises, though we’re inches apart. My breath comes in ragged heaves, and I’m so focused on this one boy that the rest of the cafeteria has faded away. “I will stay up late Friday night and try to finish the piece, and that can either be good enough or you can send me to whatever class you want. In fact, I’d be glad to be rid of you.”

  “Would you, now?” His voice is as quiet as mine is loud.

  His eyes hold mine for seconds. Minutes.

  But I finally step away. “I have to go text my boyfriend before class starts.”

  “Don’t you think I hate the fact that our deadline depends on you, Bella?” His tone is like a low saxophone and tingles my skin.

  There’s no spite in his words, but I feel their prick all the same. “But irony of all ironies, you are our salvation here.”

  “You do whatever you have to do, Chief. But I’m done with threats and I’m done giving up all I’ve got for somebody else’s sake.” My mom, my dad, now this stupid paper.

  And I adjust my backpack and push past him. I rush to the bathroom and hole myself in a stall, punching in a text to Hunter.

  Why didn’t U return my call last nite? Need 2 talk.

  I shove the phone back into the pocket of my jeans, open the door, and give myself a final check in the mirror. My face is flushed like I’ve run the Boston Marathon.

  Another stall door opens as I’m blotting my cheeks with powder.

  “I think you dropped this.”

  I lower my compact and watch the person in the mirror.

  Kelsey Anderson.

  She holds up a purple ticket. “You’re going to need it for the Thursday party, right?”

  I take it from her pale hands. “Yeah, you must be going too?” I try to coax her with a smile.

  She shakes her head, her face as solemn as death. “No.”

  “Then how did you know about the ticket?”

  “My boyfriend had one.” Empty eyes meet mine. “The night he hit the tree.”

  chapter twenty-three

  I’m sorry, the cat’s not available.”

  This is the tenth person I’ve talked to this week and it’s only Thursday evening.

  “What do you mean not available?”

  “I’m going to be honest with you, sir.” I clench the phone to my ear. “You don’t want the cat. It has a massive shedding problem.”

  “That’s okay. I have other cats. I’m used to it.”

  “Oh, she can’t stand other cats. Last time Moxie was around another cat . . . she ate it.” Okay, she bit it. But one could interpret it as a sign of borderline cannibalism.

  “Well, I don’t know about that. Muffy and Mr. Whisker Britches are gentle souls. They won’t take kindly to someone coming in and taking over the herd.”

  “And take over Moxie will, sir. With her teeth, if you know what I mean. Your Muffy and Mr. Whiskery Bottoms—”

  “Whisker Britches—”

  “—will not fare well at all. If you value their lives, I would find yourself a different cat, I’m afraid.”

  “Bella?”

  I jump, dropping the phone. Jake.

  Hanging up, I square my shoulders and compose my most innocent expression. “Yes?”

  “Was that someone calling about the cat?”

  “Who, that?” I point to the phone. “Um . . . yes, but they called to say they’re no longer interested.”

  “We’ve had a lot of people back out on taking Moxie this week.”

  “Indeed we have.” This guy still makes me uncomfortable. I mean he pounds people into the ground for sport. And I want to be around him because . . . ?

  He pours a glass of orange juice then hands it to me. “Take a seat.”

  “Oh, thanks, but I really have to go. Don’t want to be late for the get-together tonight.”

  “Do you want to tell your mom about intercepting the phone calls for Moxie, or should I?”

  I toss back the juice and pull out a chair.

  “Bella, I’m really sorry the cat has to go. But I know you don’t want Budge sick.”

  “Budge isn’t sick. He’s totally faking it.”

  Jake’s look is patronizing at best. “He wouldn’t do that.” If he pats me on the head and calls me a silly little girl, I am so out of here.

  “I’m telling you, I seriously doubt your son is allergic to my cat. He just hates me, that’s all.”

  “Budge doesn’t hate you.” Jake steeples his fingers and inhales deeply. “This has been a tough transition for him too. But nobody wants to see you hurt over your cat. I am sorry. I know she means a lot to you.”

  Tears cloud my vision. “She’s totally my BFF.” Yes, that’s right,

  Bella Kirkwood is on the verge of crying here. I don’t think I’ve teared up since I was in diapers. No, I will hold it together. “I would do anyth
ing to keep her. Anything.”

  “It’s just not going to be possible.” His hand settles over mine.

  Actually, it covers it like a giant’s manacle. “I’m sorry. I want you to be happy here, and I know you’re not. I’ve really been praying about this, and—”

  “Then pray for me to keep Moxie.” I jerk my hand away and explode from the seat. “She’s all I have left.” And I storm out the kitchen and up to my room, wiping my eyes, my fingers black with melted mascara.

  At six forty-five, I check my reflection in the mirror, satisfied with my wavy hair, Fred Segal sundress, and trendy retro sandals. I search under the bed for Moxie to tell her good-bye, but she’s not there. Grabbing my purse, I head to the living room to wait for Matt and Lindy.

  Halfway down the stairs, I stop.

  “So I would make a great home for her. I love animals. The cat I just lost was with me almost twenty years.”

  I all but fall the rest of the way down. “What’s going on here?”

  A white-haired woman sits on the couch—Moxie in her queen-sized arms.

  Mom stands up. “Bella, this is Marjorie Bisby. She’s here to take Moxie.”

  My throat burns. Words slam-dance on my tongue, desperate for release. “No” is all I can manage.

  My mother’s arm slips around me. “We’ve found the best possible home, honey.”

  “But she’s mine.” There goes the mascara. Again. “You can’t take her away from me. You’ve taken everything else away from me.”

  Marjorie Bisby’s mouth forms an O. She scoots from the middle of the couch to the end—away from me.

  “I need her!” I run a hand across my dripping nose. “Does anybody ever stop and care what I need anymore? Nobody cares that I left my home. My boyfriend. My friends. My dad.”

  “Bella, I do care.” Mom tries to hug me to her, but I throw off her embrace. “I love you, but we have the whole family to consider now. I tried to include you in picking where Moxie would go, but you wouldn’t have it. It simply came to this.” Mom glances at our guest. “And I would never turn her over to someone I thought wouldn’t take the best care of her.” She stares at the floor. “I’m sorry, but this is it. Moxie will go home with Ms. Bisby. Say good-bye to her, sweetie.”