by Meg Cabot
Staring down at it, I asked, “What’s this for?” thinking she must want change back.
“Your allowance.” Aunt Evelyn passed Tory an identical bill. Teddy and Alice, whose financial needs were apparently deemed less dire, received a twenty and a ten, respectively.
“But…” I stared down at the bill. Fifty dollars? For scooping Mouche’s box and picking the kids up after school once a week? “I can’t take this. You’re already paying my tuition for school and letting me stay here and everything—”
I suspected the Gardiners had done more than this, even. I couldn’t be sure, but I gathered, from things I heard around school, that not just anyone was admitted to Chapman. There was a wait list, one that I had apparently jumped to the head of, due to a “donation” the Gardiners had made on my behalf. I didn’t know if my parents were aware of this, but I certainly was, and it made me more conscious than ever of just how much I owed the Gardiners. Especially since I’d brought the reason for my needing to transfer to Chapman on myself.
I did not deserve one more cent of their money.
But they apparently felt differently.
“Honestly, Jean,” Aunt Evelyn said, “I owe you at least as much for looking after Teddy and Alice every Wednesday. Any babysitter in Manhattan would have charged much more.”
“Yes, but…” I mean, I’d been looking after my own siblings, free of charge, for my entire life. “Really, I don’t think—”
“God, Jinx.” Tory shook her head at me in disbelief. “Are you crazy? Just take it.”
“I agree,” Aunt Evelyn said. “Take the money, Jean. I’m sure this weekend you’ll want to go to the movies or something with some of your new friends from school. Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”
I didn’t exactly point out that I had no new friends from school. Oh, there were the kids from orchestra, who liked me well enough, once they got over an outsider scoring second chair violin her first day. If you can play an instrument, you’ll always fit in with the orchestra crowd.
And there was Chanelle, whom I sat next to at lunch. But she was Tory’s friend, really—although she took no part in Tory and Gretchen and Lindsey’s “coven” talk, and seemed to be there, really, just because that’s where her boyfriend, Robert, sat with Shawn. Tory let me sit there, too, but never without giving the impression that by allowing me to do so, she was granting me this humongous favor. I knew she’d have preferred for me to sit with the orchestra crowd, instead. I would have preferred to sit with them, too.
But I couldn’t figure out a way to do it that wouldn’t cause Tory to make some sarcastic comment. Because even though I knew she didn’t want me there, I knew she’d like it even less if I deserted her. She hadn’t exactly been Ms. Friendly since the whole Branwen conversation.
Still, ill-gotten as I felt it was, I found a use for my sudden financial windfall the first day I changed out the litter in Mouche’s box.
The Gardiners favored clumping cat litter, which is easy to clean, since all you have to do is sift through it with a little slotted shovel.
But either the litter was inferior, or Tory hadn’t changed it in a very long time, because no matter how thoroughly I scooped it, it still smelled…a lot. The ammonia-like odor of cat urine literally filled the utility room in which the box sat. I felt sorry for Marta, who had to use the utility room every time she did the laundry.
So I found an unopened container of litter, and decided to give Mouche a fresh new supply, after dumping out the old.
I didn’t understand what I was looking at, at first. I thought it had to be a mistake. Then I saw the tape, and realized it wasn’t a mistake. I dropped the empty litter box like it had caught on fire.
Because even though I’d dumped out all the old litter, the box wasn’t empty. Not completely. Taped to the bottom of it, previously hidden under several inches of old, smelly cat litter, was a photograph. A photograph that I could see, in spite of the fact that it was scratched up and considerably faded, was of Petra.
I couldn’t believe it. I really couldn’t believe it. Because I knew who had put that photo there.
I also knew why.
I just couldn’t believe anyone—anyone—would be so mean.
Maybe, I thought, as I carefully peeled the photo up from the bottom of the box, Tory hadn’t known what she was doing. She couldn’t have known. No one who knew what something like that could do to someone would ever try it…not even on her worst enemy—
Oh, right. Who was I kidding? Tory had known exactly what she was doing.
Which was why I knew I had no choice but to try to stop her…by whatever means necessary.
Even if it meant breaking my word.
And okay, it had only been a promise to myself.
But sometimes, those are the hardest ones to break.
I found what I needed online…a store—an actual store—that carried what I was looking for. Such a store, in Hancock, would surely have been shut down by outraged citizens.
In New York, however, that was apparently not a concern.
The store, which was in the East Village, closed at seven. I had two hours to figure out how to get down there.
The subway was the most logical choice, but since I’d never ridden on the New York subway, the thought of doing so filled me with terror.
The problem was, what might happen if I didn’t make the trip filled me with even more terror…just for different reasons.
So I fished a subway map out of a drawer in the kitchen, where I knew Aunt Evelyn kept such things, and left the house, studying the map carefully as I walked.
I had gone approximately three steps before someone reached out and crumpled the map up in front of me. My heart thumping, I looked up…
…and nearly crumpled up myself when I saw it was Zach Rosen.
“Do not,” he said, “walk down the streets of New York City with your head buried in a subway map. People will know you’re from out of town, and will try to take advantage of you.”
After having spent every fifth period of that entire week shirking the Presidential Fitness Test with him, and instead exploring the delicacies offered by what Zach calls the Umbrella Cafés of Central Park, including the mysterious—and delicious—souvlaki, I felt comfortable enough to wail, “I have to go to the East Village. Do you know which subway I should take?”
Zach, who’d slung off his backpack and was obviously just returning from somewhere, nevertheless shouldered it again and said, “Let’s go.”
Okay, THAT was not an answer I’d anticipated.
“No,” I said, appalled. Because he was the last person I wanted to know where I was going. Not because I was still crushing on him…I was, of course, even though I knew it was completely futile. Just yesterday, in fact, I had gotten Zach to admit he was in love with Petra. The conversation—which had taken place in the Gardiners’ kitchen after school, where I had found him recovering from a game of catch he and Teddy had been having in front of the brownstone—had gone like this:
Me (summoning all my courage, after Petra had finally left the room with Teddy, in order to supervise the washing of his exceptionally grubby hands before letting him sample cookies from a batch she’d just made): “So is it true you’re in love with Petra?”
Zach (choking on a cookie): “What makes you think that?”
Me: “Because Robert said that day I first met you that that’s the only reason you hang around here.”
Zach: “And Robert, as we know, is a consummate authority on all things, having such keen perception that is in no way compromised by mind-altering substances.”
Me (heartstrings twanging): “So you’re saying Robert is wrong? You never liked Petra?”
Zach: “I will admit there was a time when I found Petra quite fetching.”
Me (not even jealous because Petra really is fetching, plus kindhearted and a great cook): “But she has a boyfriend.”
Zach: “I know. I’ve met him. Willem. He’s very cool.”
Me: “But you still keep hanging around.”
Zach (gets up): “Does my hanging around bother you? Because I can leave.”
Me (panicking): “No! I just…you know. I just wonder why you still hang around. If you know she has a boyfriend.”
Zach (holding up a cookie): “Aren’t the plentiful baked goods around here excuse enough?”
Me: “Admit it. You still think you have a chance with her.”
Zach: “Is there someone in this house with whom you think I’d have a better chance?”
Me (thinking of Tory, with whom he’d definitely have a better chance, but whom he should definitely steer clear of, considering that doll): “I guess not.”
Zach (looking amused): “Well, then.”
The thing is, I didn’t even mind about his loving Petra. Because for one thing, it gave us plenty to talk about—not that we ever seemed to fall short in that capacity, since we seemed to share the same opinion on a lot of things, such as politics, food, music (although Zach wasn’t actually all that familiar with classical), a hatred for organized sports of any kind, and the deplorable state into which the show 7th Heaven had sunk ever since Jessica Biel left it as a full-time cast member.
But on the rare occasions when there was a lull in conversation, I could always mention something Petrarelated—that maybe if Zach took German lessons, he could surprise her by asking her how she was doing in her native language, or something like that. Personally, I think he really appreciated my help in his pursuit of her.
And I, in turn, really appreciated that I didn’t have to worry about how I looked or acted around him. It didn’t matter that my Chapman School shorts were so ugly, or that I walked into the paths of Rollerbladers almost daily and had to be pulled to safety by him. Because he wasn’t interested in me that way. We were just friends. When I was with Zach, I could forget all the horrible things I was running away from, and just relax. My stomach didn’t even hurt when I was with him…well, unless I happened to find my mind straying, and wondering what might happen if Petra somehow disappeared from the picture, and Zach—miracle of miracles—ever did happen to think of me as more than a friend.
That’s when my stomach would seize up. Because, of course, he’d made it clear how he felt about witches and witchcraft, and there was…
Well. My past.
And then there was Tory.
But I tried to talk about her to him as little as possible. I still didn’t know if he knew how much she liked him—or if, witch thing aside, he could ever like her back. I couldn’t see how, actually, any guy wouldn’t be flattered to learn that a girl as pretty as Tory liked him.
Still, while it was true that Zach and I were friends, we weren’t good enough friends for us to discuss Tory’s crush on him—and definitely not good enough friends to let him know where I was headed on the subway that day.
“No, you don’t have to come with me,” I said hastily. “Can you just tell me how I would get to Ninth Street between Second and First Avenues?”
But he just shook his head. “Nuh-uh. You’re not going all the way down there alone. People call you Jinx for a reason, right? God only knows what kind of disasters you might walk into.”
“But—”
“If you think I’m letting you go to the East Village by yourself, you’re nuts.” He took hold of my arm, and swung me around. “For one thing, I still owe you eternal servitude for saving my life, remember? And for another, the subway station’s that way, stupid. Let’s go.”
There isn’t anything in the least romantic about being called stupid. Really. Especially since I knew there was no way Zach would ever be interested in a red-haired, violin-playing preacher’s daughter when there was the remotest chance he could have gorgeous, physical-therapist-in-training Petra.
So why did I feel so ridiculously happy, all the way downtown? I had forgotten all about my anger at Tory—and my disgust with myself, for going back on my word, as I knew I was about to do. I hardly noticed the rush-hour hordes into which we threw ourselves as we boarded the train, and didn’t pay the least bit of attention to the men who begged for quarters in the car, or the signs warning passengers to watch their wallets, or the cops on the platforms with their bomb-sniffing dogs…all of which might have terrified me—if I hadn’t been with Zach.
Oh, let’s face it. Sure, he liked another girl. But I was gone anyway. He’d had me at I like seals.
But when we finally reached East Ninth Street between Second and First Avenues, I realized that Zach really was going to think I was stupid—or at least seriously deranged—when he saw the kind of store into which I was headed.
I slowed my pace as we approached it. I could see the sign, cut into the shape of a crescent moon, hanging above a black awning. ENCHANTMENTS, it said. What was I going to say when he asked—as he undoubtedly would—why I was going to a store that specialized in…well…witch paraphernalia?
Zach was telling me about a documentary he’d seen the night before about a team of plastic surgeons who go to Third World countries to perform free corrective surgery on kids with cleft palates and stuff. Zach is very into documentaries. He wants to study film when he gets to NYU, and make documentaries about arctic wildlife, such as seals, and how we are destroying their habitats. He’d even taken me to see his seals—the ones at the Central Park Zoo. He knows all of their names, too, and can tell them apart.
I listened to his summary about the documentary with only half an ear. I was trying to tell myself that Zach wasn’t going to care about the store I was going into. Really, I was blowing the whole thing out of proportion. We’re friends. Friends don’t care what kind of books their friends read. Right?
But, just as I’d suspected would happen, Zach dried up when I stopped in front of the store. It didn’t help any that there were crystals and tarot cards in the display window, arranged on a bunch of black velvet. Nor did it help that, as we stood there, the door opened, and two women dressed all in black, their hair dyed the same way Tory’s was, came out, carrying paper bags and chattering cheerfully.
“This is where you wanted to go?” Zach asked, his dark eyebrows raised. Disapprovingly, just as I’d suspected.
“I…” I had spent most of the walk down Ninth Street concocting a story I hoped would sound convincing. “I have to get something for my little sister—”
“Courtney?” he asked. “Or Sarabeth?”
“Courtney,” I said, trying to ignore a rush of pleasure that he’d remembered my sister’s name. Both my sisters’ names! I’d only told him a million stories about them. I couldn’t believe he’d actually been listening. “Her birthday is coming up, and I thought she’d like this, plus I don’t think you can find a book like it in Iowa.”
Wait. Did that sound as lame to him as it did to me?
But all Zach said was, “Ever heard of Barnes and Noble? There’s one only a couple blocks away from where we live,” in an amused voice. “We didn’t have to come all the way down here, you know.”
“Blessed be,” said the pretty, dark-haired woman behind the counter, as we came into the store.
“Um,” I said, blushing. Because of what Zach must be thinking—that she was a New Age, crunchy-granola type. “Thanks.”
I hurried past the counter, heading blindly for the back, where I’d glimpsed some bookshelves. Still, I couldn’t help noticing that the store was crammed with herbs and candles, amulets and lunar calendars. A black cat lay across one shelf, her tail twitching slowly back and forth as she watched me approach. Around her neck was a turquoise collar with a pentacle hanging from it where a bell might have been on a normal, non-witch cat.
I reached for the book I was looking for—not one of the big, glossy-covered ones, filled with photos and chapters called “Love Spells,” which were the kind Tory and her friends might have picked up, but a small, pictureless, paper-bound thing—not available at any chain bookstore—and flipped to the back, scanning the index. Zach, meanwhile, was wandering a
round, picking things up and examining them curiously. When he got to the cat, he stopped and scratched it under the chin. The cat began to purr, so loudly that I could hear it halfway across the store.
So he liked cats, too. Au pairs, 7th Heaven, seals, kids…and cats. Could this guy possibly get any cuter?
A bell tinkled, and two girls strolled into the store. Two girls wearing Chapman School uniforms. Two girls I, unfortunately, recognized.
The knot in my stomach, which had been visiting less and less lately, suddenly made its presence known.
The pretty saleslady behind the counter said, “Blessed be,” to her two new customers.
And Gretchen and Lindsey said, “Blessed be,” back to her, Lindsey giggling the whole time.
“How old is Courtney turning, anyway?” Zach, appearing from behind a rack of herbs, wanted to know. “Twelve?”
I jumped, and said automatically, “Fourteen.”
I’d stopped scanning the book’s index. I’d found what I was looking for.
But how was I going to buy it without Gretchen and Lindsey noticing me and reporting back to Tory that they’d seen me in Enchantments? Tory was never going to believe I’d just strolled into that particular store by accident.
Or…would she?
“Oh my God,” Lindsey cried, when I deliberately stepped out from behind the herb rack, directly into her path. “Jinx? Is that you?”
“Oh,” I said, pretending to be noticing them for the first time. “Hey, you guys.”
“Look, Gretch,” Lindsey said. “It’s Jinx!”
Gretchen, always the more serious of the pair, didn’t look exactly overjoyed to see me. In fact, her heavily made-up eyes narrowed, and she said, “What are you doing here?” And then the gaze flicked toward something—or someone—behind me, and Gretchen’s eyelids narrowed even more. “With him?”
“Oh, hey,” Zach said, as he turned from the rack of calendars he’d been looking at.
“Hey,” Lindsey said. She, unlike Gretchen, didn’t seem to find it suspicious that she was running into Zach and me in a witch supply store approximately sixty blocks from where we both lived. “Is Tor here, too? I thought she said she had to go to the dentist or something this afternoon….”