by Maya Gold
“Do you work here?” a bearded man asks me.
I hesitate, but just for a split second. “Yes,” I tell him. “What can I help you with?”
“Do you sell dragon’s blood?” That isn’t an herbal name you can forget. I know exactly where it is.
“It’s next to the frankincense,” I tell the customer. “Right over there.”
He goes over and picks up three packets, bringing them back to the counter. My bubble of competence bursts as I realize I’ll need to ask for Dyami’s help. But she’s already rising to join me at the cash register. I watch as she rings up the purchase and slips the herbs into a bag with the receipt and a warm “Blessed be.”
The dragon’s blood guy heads for the door, and the palmistry customer gets up to pay for her reading. “That was so helpful,” she says to Dyami. “I feel like the sun just came out in my soul.”
That makes two of us.
After the customer leaves, there’s a bit of a lull. It seems like an ideal time to teach me the practical stuff, like using the cash register, but Dyami sends me to the bins full of crystals and polished stones, “to get to know them.”
Okay. If you say so.
I pore over the cards on each bin, trying to memorize which stone is supposed to have what healing properties, but it all seems preposterous. Why would a garnet boost energy, or a malachite attract money?
Dyami comes up behind me. “Don’t read about them,” she says. “Use your heart knowledge. You don’t even need your eyes. Let your hands guide you. The ones whose vibrations you feel have the magic you need.” She passes me a maroon velvet pouch and instructs me to pick out “whatever stones call to you.”
I don’t know whether it’s looks, feel, or instinct, but certain stones do seem to stick to my fingers. I choose about seven, dropping each one into my bag.
“Spread them out on my silk,” she says, and I do. She touches her pentacle necklace, then hovers her hand an inch or two over the group of stones. “Interesting,” she says, turning back to me with a satisfied smile. “All of your chakras are open. You’re ready.”
Ready for what? I wonder, but she answers before I can ask. “I’m doing a tarot reading at two. You’ll take over the cash register.”
“But I don’t know how —”
“Yes, you do,” she says briskly. And somehow she’s right. Just from watching her ring up the morning’s few customers, I seem to have learned all the register codes. Or maybe it’s part and parcel of discovering that I’m a witch: Things that used to be hard for me aren’t anymore. Is this how it feels to be confident?
The rest of the afternoon flies by, and as we’re getting ready to close up, I notice the velvet pouch and head over to put the stones back in the bins.
“What are you doing?” Dyami says. “Those are for you.”
“Really?”
She reaches for my right hand, turns it over, and studies my palm. Something she sees makes her eyebrows go up, but she doesn’t explain what it is. She just places the small maroon pouch on my palm and folds my fingers over it. “It’s good energy. Keep it close by. You’ll be needing it soon.”
A week ago I would have asked what she meant by that, but I don’t. Whatever it is, I believe her.
On Monday morning, I lay out the energy stones in a line at the base of my bedroom mirror. Their different shades make a rainbow of sorts, and the one in the middle, a vivid green malachite/azurite mix, reminds me a lot of Rem’s eyes. I remember the splatter of sauce on his earlobe and can’t stop from smiling as I work my brush through the unruly thatch of my straw-colored hair.
I’ve always been ashamed of my frizzy bed-head, and have spent countless hours trying to flatten it down with hot irons and all kinds of mousses. Invariably, I would give up and just pull it into a tight ponytail, hoping the back wouldn’t bush out too badly.
I’m reaching for one of my giant collection of hair ties and clips when I catch a look at myself in the mirror. The sun’s pouring in through the window and in its warm light, my wild tumble of frizzy curls looks almost … pretty.
Why not leave it loose for once? Who says that I can’t change my look if I feel like it?
I walk down the staircase and into the kitchen feeling self-conscious. But Dad barely glances away from his morning paper, and Matt’s playing some kind of video game between bites of cereal.
Hey, guys, good morning to you, too, I think as I pour myself grapefruit juice. If I set my hair on fire, maybe they’d notice it.
I’m driving my new car to school, so I don’t have to deal with the kids on the bus. I park next to Rachel’s navy blue Volvo, and am happy to see she’s still wrestling her cello case out of the back. I’ve missed talking to her.
I feel a little guilty — ever since that first weekend in Salem, I haven’t been spending as much time with her. I know Rachel’s a skeptic, and if I tried to tell her about Dyami’s energy stones — not to mention what happened the night I recited the spell — she’d look at me like I was out of my mind.
As soon as she straightens up, she notices that my hair’s loose.
“Hey, it looks great that way,” she says with a warm smile. “I wish my own hair had some shape to it.”
Funny, I’ve always envied her silky black hair. I guess whatever you don’t have yourself is what you think looks best.
Slinging her arm over Igor’s black case, Rachel asks me if I’m planning to come to the Honor Society meeting today after school. “We’re organizing that bake sale for next week,” she reminds me. “I’m hoping you’ll make some of your killer cupcakes. Or those mocha-cream tarts you made last time I came over for dinner, or your caramel brownies. Anything you feel like baking.”
“Of course,” I say. This is one topic that we can agree on.
Together, we walk through the school entrance doors. I touch a quick hand to my hair, still not used to feeling it loose. Rachel and I part ways and I head for history class.
Samson Hobby’s the first person to comment on my change of look. “Letting your freak flag fly, Abby?” he snarks. “Be afraid. Be very afraid.” His Goth friends all snicker, but one of the girls in the group gives me a sideways approving glance, as if I’ve turned secretly cool.
But the most satisfying reaction is Travis Brown’s. When I turn the hall corner, running into him and Megan, his head swivels around like a comedian’s double take. It’s as if he’s never seen me before in his life.
Well, maybe he hasn’t. I was a real pro at being invisible, back in the day.
“Hi, Abby,” he says with a goofy smile that makes my heart melt. “You look terrific.” My cheeks flame. Did he really say that?
“Thanks,” I say, fighting the urge to add, You, too. But I can’t fight the smile he’s brought to my face.
Megan tugs hard on his hand, looking very annoyed, which makes the moment feel even sweeter. I bounce past them and continue down the hall with a satisfied smirk. Life isn’t so bad, I think. I could get used to this kind of attention.
Never get smug. That’s the lesson, I guess. I’m enjoying my first day of visibility at Ipswich High School when I make a fatal mistake. During lunch, I go to the cafeteria monitor and get a hall pass for the girls’ room.
When I come out of the stall, they’re waiting for me. Megan and her henchwomen, Amber and Sloane.
Before I can react, Amber and Sloane approach me and stand so close that I can feel their breath. I’m basically cornered into the wall. I’m so freaked out by the suddenness of it that I can’t even move or push past them.
When Megan walks slowly up to me, setting her face a few inches from mine, I cringe and shrink back from her, terrified. You don’t lose years of reflex with one change of hairstyle.
“What makes you think you can flirt with my boyfriend?” Megan demands.
“I didn’t,” I say. Which is totally true. Travis said hi to me. He complimented me. I just said thank you.
Sloane reaches out and gives my arm a quick, vici
ous twist. “Shut up, loser.” The pain is as surprising as her touch — I’ve always known these girls could be cruel, but didn’t think they’d be capable of violence. I feel afraid in a new way.
“Freak!” Amber chimes in.
Megan’s manicured hand twines into the roots of my hair, twisting tighter with every phrase. “You don’t flirt with Travis, you don’t talk to Travis, you don’t look at Travis. He’s not into you. He’s not ever going to be into you. Got that?”
I nod. Megan lets go of me, tossing her lustrous dark hair as if she’s the star of her own private shampoo commercial. “Come on,” she says to her goon squad. “She is totally not worth our time.”
“Totes,” echoes Amber in her squeaky voice.
Sloane hisses, “Loser times ten.” Her sharp brown eyes glitter with hatred, as if she’s reluctant to leave me alone.
The three of them head for the bathroom door, and I feel a wave of relief. But then Megan turns back to look at me. “I just figured out who she looks like with her hair down.”
“Who?” says Amber eagerly, poised to crack up at whatever she says.
Megan pauses. “Big Bird.”
All three of them burst out laughing, and Amber says, “That’s perfect!” She shrieks with hysterical laughter as if Megan’s the star of her favorite sitcom. “Big Bird! Oh, you are so funny!”
As the door shuts behind them, I finally exhale. I’ve never been bullied like that before — nobody bothered to pick on me. This is the dark flip side to being visible.
I can feel my scalp burning and my eyes sting with tears. But more than that, I can feel heat in my veins, fueled by humiliation and tamped-down rage.
I could make something bad happen to you, I think. To all of you. I imagine Megan’s hair falling out, Sloane’s hands turning into claws, Amber losing her voice forever.
Then I stop myself and shudder. What if the things I’m imagining actually happened, the way Danielle’s sleeve caught on fire?
Even if I have magical powers, do I want to waste them on someone like Megan Keith? Or her cruel sidekicks?
You know what? I just might.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair’s even bushier now, like a clump of blonde Easter grass, but that’s not what grabs my attention. I lean in closer to look at my eyes. They’re a stormy gray-blue today, so the gold rims stand out more than usual. So does a yellowish, lightning-bolt streak near my left pupil that I’ve never noticed before. It looks really witchy.
I flash back to the velvet-wrapped spell book in my bedroom. I remember the yolk-splattered page I was reading when that thunderstorm started. I can vividly picture the spidery handwriting in my mind’s eye:
To Win Another’s Attention
The love potion. Would that work on Travis? It would be such sweet revenge to get him to start paying attention to me. Not to mention my own dream come true. And if Megan breaks up with him over it, so much the better. He doesn’t deserve a mean girlfriend, no matter how perfect her figure and glossy her hair. He’d be much better off with someone who’s been head over heels for him ever since he was tying her shoes.
Someone exactly like me.
Late that night, when I’m alone in my bedroom, I take the spell book out of my dresser and start flipping through it. Some of the spells for revenge are so nasty they make my blood run cold. No matter how horrible Megan and her friends might be, I would not want their fingers to actually blacken and rot and their nails to fall off. But winning Travis’s attention? Now, that would be heaven.
I close my eyes, concentrating, and open the book to a random page. If it’s the right spell, then I’ll try it, I think. I open my eyes, and it is.
I don’t even care how crazy this sounds anymore. My definition of sane has become very flexible.
I skim down the list of ingredients. I don’t have all the tinctures and herbs it requires, but the ones that I’m missing will be easy to pick up at Spiral Visions. Where I’m going to be in exactly five days.
I GO TO WORK EARLY ON SATURDAY MORNING with a list of ingredients tucked in my pocket. But Spiral Visions starts busy and stays busy all morning. The summer tourist season is gearing up, and I can see why Dyami wanted some help on the weekends.
Right before lunch, there’s a bit of a lull. Dyami is reading a customer’s palm, and there’s nobody else in the store. Could this be the moment to pick out my potion ingredients? I head to the bins by the window to look through the herbs. The church clock strikes noon, and I look outside and see something that makes my jaw drop.
Megan Keith is crossing the street, closely followed by Amber and Sloane. No. They’re heading right for Spiral Visions. But maybe they’re just walking in this direction, and then will turn and enter a different store?
No such luck. Any doubts I might have disappear when Amber checks an address on her iPhone and points to the awning, as all three dissolve into giggles.
Oh, where is a speeding black truck when you need one?
They step onto the sidewalk and come in through the open front door, parting the shimmering curtain of moon and star beads we just hung in the doorway.
“What an adorable shop!” exclaims Megan in arch, artificial tones. “Look, they sell incense!”
“Ooooh,” Amber and Sloane say in unison, making it clear they’ve rehearsed this.
“And ritual objects. I need me some new ritual objects. My old ones are just such a drag.” As usual, Amber and Sloane think she’s hilarious and crack up on cue.
“May I help you with something?” I say in my friendliest, most professional voice. I refuse to act scared, like I did back in the girls’ room at school. That might be their turf, but Salem is mine.
I remember a quotation from Eleanor Roosevelt that Mom once said to me: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” These wise words ring in my ears as I face the three girls. Megan can do what she likes; I’m not going to give her my consent.
“If it isn’t Big Bird. Do you work here?” says Megan. Her tone makes it perfectly clear that she knows that already, but can’t resist taking a poke at me. How did she find out that I had this job? Did she overhear me telling Rachel about Spiral Visions at school?
Dyami looks up from her palm reading. She’s wearing a rust-colored crushed velvet jacket, with a tie-dyed purple scarf knotted over her hennaed curls. With her usual kohl-ringed eyes and oversized earrings, she looks like a cross between Janis Joplin and Captain Jack Sparrow.
“Could you please keep your voices down?” she asks politely. “I’m giving a reading.”
“Oh, wow, I don’t mean to, like, ruin the vibe,” says Megan. I could slap her for being so rude and sarcastic. Keep your temper, I remind myself as she turns from Dyami toward me.
“Your website says that you sell crystal jewelry for all occasions. Is that correct?”
I nod, thin-lipped. Where is Megan heading with this?
“How about something to wear to the prom?” she asks. “With my boyfriend.”
The same boyfriend I’m about to cast a love spell on, I think, and I try to fight back the smile that steals over my face. Megan looks confused at the change in my expression, but I quickly rearrange my features so that they’re neutral once more.
“The jewelry is right over here,” I say evenly, leading her over to the glass case at the counter.
“Oh, sweet,” she says, making a big show of looking at all of the necklaces. “Wolves and yin-yang signs. My favorite!”
“The peace signs are groovy, too,” Amber says sarcastically.
“I’m digging the hex rings,” says Sloane.
“I’m thinking crystal,” says Megan. “What do you say, girls? The cut-crystal heart or the Herkimer diamonds? I think the heart.”
“Totally,” Sloane says, as Amber says, “Absolutely.”
“May I try it on?” Megan says. I nod curtly and hand her the heart-shaped pendant she’s pointing at, which hangs from a long silver chain.
; She twists her glossy brown hair into a loose knot on top of her head. “I’ll be wearing it up, of course.” With a satisfied smile, she fastens the clasp at the back of her neck and checks herself out in the mirror, turning from side to side to admire her reflection.
“What do you think?” she asks. “Would Travis like this?”
“Of course he would. You look totally hot,” says Amber.
“Slamming,” Sloane echoes.
“What about you, Abby? Do you think it’s a good choice for prom night?” Megan demands. Amber and Sloane are both looking at me.
“It’s a very nice crystal” is all I will say.
“I’m so glad we agree. It’ll look really great with my prom gown,” Megan says with a smirk, digging into her wallet. “I’ll take it.”
I turn over the box it was in. “It’s a hundred and twenty-nine dollars. The chain is real silver.”
Megan doesn’t blink as she hands me her platinum MasterCard. “Nothing’s too good for my Travis,” she purrs.
Even Eleanor Roosevelt would feel like choking her. As I run Megan’s card through the imprint machine, I remind myself about the spell. The love potion. If that works as well as the candles, she’s going to be sorry.
Dyami finishes her palm reading just as Megan finally sweeps out of the store with her giggling friends. Dyami comes to stand next to me, watching them go.
“Very young souls. Little jabbering monkeys.” She shakes her head with a jangle of earrings. “What that girl doesn’t know is that high school is the absolute peak of her life. She may be on top now, but the rest is a long, slow downhill. And the people she picks on are just getting started.”
Dyami turns toward me. Her eyes have the trancey expression she gets when she’s giving someone a reading. “But who is this — is his name Trevor?”