I closed my laptop and gave Marcus a helpless look. Yes, it was true this was probably over my head, but I'd been living in a protective bubble all my life and I had no idea why. I was devoted to my craft and I worked my butt off learning how to control my magic, but every time something happened in the real world where I could make a difference, Mom would shoot me down. Maybe if I did a bit of reconnaissance, she'd learn to finally start letting go.
"I don't expect you to completely understand, Marcus. I mean, Mom's just a tad protective of me and it drives me nuts because I can take care of myself."
He nodded. "There's only one Julie Richardson in the world and your Mom is a widow; it makes sense that she worries about you."
"Yeah but I'm responsible – hell, I'm a thousand times more responsible than anyone at school. I don't do drugs or party. I stay out of trouble and I get awesome grades for crying out loud… except for calculus which I suck at."
"I know, but still. She's protective for a reason; you're all she's got."
"But I'm not a little girl anymore," I said, exhaling in frustration. "This whole thing is a chance for Mom to see that I can take care of myself. She needs to know that I can do this. Look, if there's a warlock running around town I have an obligation to gather as much information as I can so whoever it is can be dealt with. I'm not saying we're going to force a confrontation – I'm not completely nuts. But you know what? That little old lady is a victim in all this, and you are too. We'll just poke around and report our findings to my mother, okay?"
He gave me a worried look. "She's gonna flip out if she finds out that you've gotten in too deep."
"And your job is to make sure I don't drown," I said in a sugary, sweet voice. "Anyway, we're not going into combat or anything. Look, if anything even smells of danger, we'll hightail it out of there and report back to her, okay?"
"Uh-huh," Marcus groaned.
"You're safe, Marcus," I said, putting my arm around him again. "Butt-kicking witch with supernatural powers at your disposal; I've got your back."
"That's what I'm afraid of," he said.
Chapter 7
So we fired off an anonymous email to the Beltline guy's YouTube account just to see what kind of response we'd get. We also needed a believable excuse for Mom and Marcus' parents about why we'd be late from school the next day. It was decided that we'd tell our parents about a fictitious social studies project and that we needed to take pictures of houses and apartment buildings from the Fifties. Yeah, we were being dishonest, but whatever caused the poltergeist at Mrs Gilbert's attacked both Marcus and my mom, so you'll forgive me if I take some things personally. The only way I could get Marcus to agree to participate was by promising up and down that I wouldn't engage in any witchcraft unless something took a swipe at us. Understand, of course, this wasn't because Marcus was focused on self-preservation, far from it, actually. Good ol' Marcus just didn't want me to get into any trouble with my mom.
Did I mention that he's awesome?
And of course, there was that… whatever it was in the basement of my house.
I'd chewed on that almost-moment at bedtime and it actually kept me awake because for the life of me, I don't always understand why Marcus sticks around. I'm the poster girl for inexplicable phenomenon. I possess a set of skills that, while not even in the same universe as someone like my mom, can still kick ass when circumstances warrant.
But what the hell was that? I needed some female insight, so I grabbed my cell phone and texted my girlfriend Marla Lavik. She's a Goth; very dark and terrible, but she can read people better than I can read a book. She texted me back less than thirty seconds later and told me to call her immediately, so I hit the speed dial and the phone rang just once before she picked it up.
"Hey," she said. "This better be good because it's like 11.30 at night."
"It is," I replied. "Marcus… He… Damn it, I don't know what to make of it."
"Make of what? I can't decipher boys unless you actually give me some information."
I exhaled heavily. "Okay, well we were just hanging in the basement. Mom was out and we were studying. Anyway, Marcus told me that I was beautiful. Marla, I am going to kill you if you put him up to this."
The line went silent for a moment. "He said you were beautiful? That's totally not him. I thought the only thing about women that interested Marcus was their genetic code."
"Please tell me you put him up to this because I really think that I hurt his feelings with the way I reacted."
Marla snorted. "I didn't put Marcus up to anything. Jules, if he thinks you're all that, you need to put a stop to it right now because one thing I know is that he deserves better than to be strung along."
"I'm not stringing him along!" I almost shouted in the phone. "He just blurted it out. God, if he had put the moves on me I don't know what I would have done."
The line went silent again and then Marla said, "Well, are you into him?"
There it was; the unanswerable question.
It's not like I have guys tripping over each other to ask me out. I mean, I know that I'm not drop dead gorgeous, but I am pretty. Boys just hadn't been a priority for me and it's entirely possible that I give off a vibe that says as much. For all I know, that alone could be the reason nobody has ever actively pursued me. I'd just always assumed that Marcus was content to remain in the friend zone because as a rule, he scoffs at all the drama associated with dating and first kisses and ugly break-ups. It's not like he's unattractive, either. Marcus has soft green eyes and he doesn't have a dorky voice. He's skinny but he wears it well – or he would wear it well if he updated his wardrobe. But was I into Marcus? To be honest, I'd never once put a moment of thought into the prospect of our becoming an item.
But Marcus is good.
He doesn't have an agenda that involves playing head games with girls or anyone for that matter. He's honest to a fault and he genuinely wants to do the right thing – his moral compass is always bang-on. He doesn't wear pants that hang down past his ass and he doesn't try to mimic the style and fashion of a rapper or pop star to get a girl's attention because he's comfortable in his own skin. Hell, he's probably the most self-confident person I know and he's done right by me since the day I met him.
And if he was genuinely expressing a romantic motive when we were down in the basement, I badly misread it and probably humiliated him in the process.
Oh, Marcus, I really, really suck.
I gripped my cell phone tightly and banged it into my forehead.
"Jules? Are you still there?" asked Marla.
"Yes," I said, sounding wholly contrite.
"So… are you into Marcus Guffman?"
I let out a huge sigh and finally said, "I don't know… maybe?"
I didn't get much sleep and like most people, when I'm tired, I get cranky and pissed off at the smallest of things. And some things not so small, like jerks at Crescent Ridge High School who daily spot the invisible target on my nerdy best friend's forehead and make his life a living hell. That's how my Monday started, actually. I'd just closed my locker door when I heard a loud metallic clang along with a pathetic sounding groan coming from down the crowded hall. I pushed through the throng of students until I spotted a Crescent Ridge Eagles football jacket on a very large and very involved looking jock whose IQ is in the single digits. Oh, and Marcus was in there somewhere because I spotted his skinny legs sticking out of a trash can like a pair of denim-covered chopsticks. His backpack had been ripped open and his homework was spread out all over the floor along with his textbooks.
The culprit? Why, it was none other than Mike Olsen, Crescent Ridge's star defensive back. At six foot two, with perfectly manicured black hair framing a chiselled face with sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes that can glamour most females better than any vampire, Mike is a physical specimen best suited for steroid advertisements. He's also a class-A jerk who started picking on Marcus in grade five and hasn't let up ever since.
Okay, I
might have actually had something to do with Mike's hate-on for Marcus when I slipped the goon a potion that basically gave him a mild form of dysentery, this after he humiliated Marcus at the school convocation last year. Marcus was called up onto the stage to accept an award for academic achievement and Mike Olsen felt that it was important to cough out the world 'loser' loud enough for everyone to hear. This led to most of the students joining in and Marcus was laughed off the stage.
That and I kind of stood outside Mike Olsen's bedroom two nights later to watch him screaming hysterically after I guided a harmless chaos spirit through his window. Mike has his suspicions about me but he'd never dare admit them in a thousand years because to do so would be insane for someone so popular. So yeah, the guy bugs the hell out of me and I hate that Marcus can't stand up for himself because he'd get his skinny ass handed to him if he were ever to try.
"You don't look like you've had a healthy breakfast today, Guffman," Mike taunted, as he opened a small carton of milk. "Maybe a shot of two percent will help those brittle bones of yours along."
"Jerk," I muttered as I made sure nobody was looking. I gathered my magic and whispered a tiny spell. "Hexus."
The small carton of two percent burst open in Mike Olsen's hand sending a bone white spray of milk up into his eyes and all over the front of his coveted Crescent Ridge Eagles jacket.
"Son of a…" Mike snarled, baring his teeth. "What the hell?"
A crowd of twenty or so students stepped back as Mike spun around and glared at me.
"You!" he hissed.
I pointed my index finger into my chest and mouthed the words, "Who me?"
Mike's eyes narrowed as the milk dribbled down his cheeks and onto his t-shirt. "There's something not right about you and Guffman, freak! It's the worstkept secret at school."
I clenched my jaw as I glanced at Marcus who was struggling to climb out of the trash can and then flashed a menacing look at Mike.
"You know, Mike," I said taking a threatening step forward. "Freaks can be very dangerous people when provoked."
The air crackled with static electricity and the hallway lights flickered for a moment. Magical energy surged through my body and I could feel my pulse throbbing in my temples as Mike stepped back against a wall of Pepto Bismol-coloured lockers. It was everything I could do to stop myself from lashing out at the goon and a large part of me wanted to say the hell with it and just nail him with a hex that would blow him out of his sneakers.
The corner of his mouth twitched and he took a nervous look around at the growing crowd of spectators. Marcus calmly collected all of the loose leaf paper that was scattered around the trash can and stuffed it in his backpack.
The giant football player's lips curled up into a thin smile as he squared his shoulders and flashed me a contemptuous glare.
"Oh… now I get it," he said in a mocking tone. "You're totally into Guffman. Now everything makes perfect sense."
I stomped up to Mike and dug my index finger in his chest. "This is getting boring, Mikey… what is it now, the eighth time in the last month that you've either stuffed Marcus in a garbage can or locked him in a girl's bathroom? Talk about stalkerrific."
Mike nervously looked around at the crowd who were whispering amongst themselves and clearly waiting for a face-saving comeback. He huffed a few times and all he could manage was a benign sounding "What?"
"Listen, Mike… it's totally cool if you're into Marcus, okay? I mean, it's gotta be the reason for why he's always on your radar. I guess you stuffed him in the trash because Marcus doesn't feel the same way? Look, nobody is going to judge you – we're all about being supportive of alternative lifestyles here at Crescent Ridge."
Mike was speechless. His face had turned near crimson and he clenched his fists together so hard that his knuckles turned white. Had it been a guy who'd pushed his buttons about Marcus, there would have been an all-out bone-shattering scrap of epic proportions, but I'm a five-foot-two redhead with a short temper. He wasn't about to take a swing at me, and both he and I knew it.
"Get away from me, freak!" he roared, as he brushed my hand aside and pushed through the crowd of onlookers.
I unclenched my fists and was just about to help Marcus collect his textbooks from the floor when I saw that I'd been beaten to it by Marla.
What can I say about Marla Lavik? Well, being a Goth, she makes it well known that she has a pretty depressing take on life. I don't entirely understand the Goth culture or the need to dress like a vampire, but I do know one thing about her: Marla has a body that basically every girl at school would kill for. Sometimes I think that's why she dresses the way she does – to get the boys looking and to get their girlfriends fuming.
Today Marla was clad in a tight-fitting, long-sleeve black latex top with laces in the front, and around her neck she wore a spiked choker. There was a thin silver chain that stretched from the piercing in her left nostril to the black stud in her right earlobe and she had bitch boots that came up to her knees complete with six inch spiked heels. She calmly piled the textbooks in her arms and handed them to Marcus.
"Thanks, Marla," he said quietly.
"Don't sweat it," she said, adjusting a bat-shaped comb in her inky black hair. "You know, I totally get what it feels like to be the target of harassment. I mean, at least I used to. I took some steps to keep it from happening in the future and after today, I think that you should too."
"Hey, Marla," I said, purposefully butting in on their conversation. "Nice outfit?"
I felt the tiniest twinge of her spirit flickering to life as she cocked her head and threw me a thin smile.
"Jules," she purred, eyeballing me from head to toe. She reached over and snagged a single strand of my hair from my blouse, examined it and then rolled her eyes. "You know, we really should hit up the mall sometime… there's nothing wrong with a little shock and awe in your choice of hairdos, not to mention your wardrobe. Did you um… address that thing we talked about?"
I threw Marcus a nervous look and then I turned my eyes to Marla's killer boots. "I'm still working it out. Where the hell did you get those?"
She waved a hand. "The boots? I used the power of parental guilt on my dad. They cost like five hundred bucks. Having divorced parents who hate each other can do wonders for a girl's walk-in closet."
"I can't afford to even look in your closet," I said sourly. "So, you used to have close encounters with morons like Mike Olsen?"
"Once upon a time I did," she said, with a slight edge in her voice. "But I learned how to manage the assholes of the world. Marcus, you really should learn to take matters into your own hands, otherwise idiots like Mike Olsen are going to keep pushing you."
He stuffed his textbooks into his backpack. "I'll take that under advisement, Marla. I think the safest bet for me is to sharpen my efforts at remaining an anonymous entity at school."
She scribbled into a notepad with a black paisley cover and tore out a tiny sheet of paper. "Well," she said as she casually stuffed the note into Marcus' breast pocket. "Anytime you want a little insight into how to keep it from happening in the future, text me. Jules, what we talked about? You really should do the right thing."
Marcus blinked. "What thing?"
"It's nothing!" I blurted out. "Girl stuff that has to do with clothes and makeup and hair and–"
Marla glanced at her watch. "And I have precisely three minutes to make it to chemistry. Marcus, text me, okay? Jules, TTYL okay? Ta!"
"Ta-ta," I said, burying a sudden pang of jealousy. What the hell was Marla doing giving Marcus her phone number? The pang of jealousy suddenly morphed into a form of mild panic. What if he texted her and she spilled the beans about our talk last night? What if Marcus discovered that I was trying to sort out my feelings? I already felt like the biggest ass in the universe having embarrassed my best friend, the last thing I needed was for that same friend to learn from my girlfriend what I couldn't tell him myself! What would he think of me then?
Marcus heaved his bulky backpack off the floor and I grabbed the shoulder straps as he slipped it onto his shoulders.
"I gotta learn to keep a lower profile," he said quietly.
"Marla gave you her number. What was that about?" I asked, mildly annoyed.
"Beats me," he said, examining her note. "She probably wants me to help her study for midterms."
"Or she's into you," I said, surprised by my reaction.
"Me and Marla?" he chuckled. "Well, I'll admit that she's what the higher mortals describe as smoking hot, but Marla is a bit on the extreme side for me. I mean she has a tattoo of a scorpion on the back of her neck for crying out loud!"
I allowed myself a moment to exhale in relief.
"You know," I said, glad that Marcus wasn't attracted to Marla, "maybe she wants to give you a Goth makeover as payment for helping her with midterms – though I'm pretty sure it'll kill your mom when she sees you've turned to the dark side."
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